by Tarah Scott
Nick lifted a brow.
Adam shrugged. “Mrs. Latimer complained of bells. She said nothing about pistols.”
Nicholas’s upper lip quivered in the vain attempt to prevent a smile.
Feet pounded on the stairs—from both above and below—and seconds later, someone banged on the door.
“Open the door, will you?” Adam asked as he shoved the pistol back in his saddlebag.
Nicholas unlatched the door. A maid bobbed nervously on the threshold as a bitter shrew of a woman loomed angrily behind her.
“The pistol shot?” the maid asked.
“’Tis naught but a simple signal for shaving water, and I thank you very much,” Adam replied. As she darted away, he locked gazes with his neighbor from above. “Good morning, Mrs. Latimer. I only seek to accommodate your requests of the bell. I presume you find the pistol more palatable?”
“I’ll throttle you in your sleep,” the woman growled. “I will see you tossed out on the streets. We are too fine a folk for the likes of you here.” She turned more quickly than he would have thought a woman of her size could and hurried away.
Nick kicked the door shut.
“Such an unpleasant soul. I fear for the man who finds comfort in her embrace.” Adam grimaced. “Is such a thing possible?”
Nicholas lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Finding comfort in a good woman’s embrace will remove you from this place.”
Adam shot him frown. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Marriage,” Nick replied.
“I called things off with Lena long ago, as you well know.”
Adam tried to ignore the tightening of his gut at having spoken the name of the woman who was responsible for him losing his family fortune—not to mention his soul. Then there was his father’s death. Nae. Lena was to blame for a great deal, but he couldn’t blame her for his father shooting his brains out. The old marquess had chosen that cowardly path all of his own volition.
“You are better off without her,” Nicholas said. “I am talking about a respectable woman—”
“Good God, don’t say it.” Adam grimaced again. “I may have sold what remained of my family estate, but I will not sell my soul. I have some pride left.” Or so he told himself. “Is marriage the business you wish to discuss?”
“What do you care?” Nicholas asked. “I’m going to feed you.”
Adam was saved from having to reply when the maid returned with the shaving water.
Nicholas made no attempt to hide his amusement. “I shall await you downstairs,” he said, then left with the maid.
Adam poured water—tepid water—into the basin, squinted into the grimy glass of the mirror, then began to scrape his chin with a razor. His dark hair nearly brushed his shoulders. He would have to have it trimmed. After a few expert swipes, he inspected his square jaw bare of stubble. Good enough. He wiped his face, then surveyed his appearance as he tied his cravat. He was far too well dressed for a penniless marquess. He grabbed his coat from the bed and swung it on as he walked to the door. It was time to set Nicholas straight—after lunch, of course. Adam jogged down the common stair and nearly bowled over Mrs. Latimer on the bottom step.
“Where might you be going?” The woman eyed him up and down.
He gave a low bow. “Mrs. Latimer, I have no candles for you to scavenge from my room, so there’s no need to pick the lock. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
She shouted after him, but he deliberately slammed the door to drown out her words. Nick waited on the street, and they set off in the crisp morning air. They soon turned down a narrow-cobbled lane where the large, ambling tavern The Poker Club sat in the middle of the block.
The proprietor, a jolly man with apple cheeks and bright blue eyes, met them at the door and ushered them to a private room that smelled of spice and cigar smoke.
Nicholas ordered pigeon pie, ham, half a dozen vegetables, and sweetmeats. “And wine right away,” he added.
Adam felt certain the lavish meal was intended to remind him of the niceties he had lost as a result of paying his father’s debts. The proprietor bowed, clearly pleased with the order, and left them to settle into tufted leather chairs that faced the crackling fire.
The door barely clicked closed behind the man when Nicholas said, “I am a man of my word, Adam, and while I will facilitate the sale of what remains of your estate, I must beg a favor.”
Adam stared into the fire. “So long as the favor does not involve a wealthy heiress.”
“Her wealth is not why I’m here, and the fact she has money is merely a happy coincidence to your circumstances.”
Adam scarcely heard him. His attention had snagged on “your circumstances”.
His circumstances.
His father had all but destroyed everything they owned with his addiction to drink, gambling, and loose women. It had taken Adam some time to let go of the raw anger his father’s actions had unleashed. Not that he couldn’t forgive his father his foibles. Quite the contrary. In truth, Adam saw in his father an older version of himself. No, the anger had stemmed from the fact that he’d frittered away too much of his youth. Perhaps if he’d began to invest in his horses ten years ago instead of five, he might not have been forced to sell all he owned. Except Merlyn. The Friesian was his future.
“Adam?” Nick’s voice pierced his thoughts.
Adam took a deep breath and looked his friend in the eye. “I narrowly escaped one cold-hearted, title-hungry woman. Why should I want another?”
For the money that might save the estate in Inverness, the only home he had left, the place he planned to raise his horses and forget the world?
The door opened and a maid entered, a tray with a decanter and two glasses in hand. She set the tray on the table, filled each glass with wine, then bobbed a curtsey and left.
Nicholas sipped his wine. “Do you know Liam Shaw?”
Adam frowned. “The owner of Dalquhern Dyeworks?”
Nick nodded.
“I know of him.”
“He is interested in marrying his daughter to a good family.”
“He is interested in a title, you mean.” Adam gulped half his glass of wine.
“Do not judge the man before meeting him,” Nick said. “He loves his daughter. He will not marry her to just anyone.”
Adam lifted a brow. “He has standards, eh?”
“In fact, he does.” A small smile touched Nicholas’s mouth. “When you have a daughter, you will understand.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“But nothing, Adam. Meet the woman. She is quite lovely.” Nick paused, then sighed. “You will have a difficult time raising your Friesians without capital. Do you really want to see Brewhold crumble?”
Adam finished his wine, then refilled his glass. “Perhaps it is better that way. I can return to university and learn a useful profession. I always thought I would make a fine solicitor.”
Nicholas snorted. “No, you wouldn’t. You would hate the long hours poring over paperwork, the business deals, and the noblemen who would like nothing better than to have a marquess as their solicitor—and don’t think they would ever let you forget that they are now above you. Nae, you need to be outdoors with your horses. Imagine having enough money to set Brewhold straight, horses and all.”
“You make it sound so easy.” Adam lifted the wine glass to his lips, but the wine suddenly smelled sour, and he set the glass back on the table.
“She will attend Lady Seafield’s ball. Surely, you can at least meet her.”
Adam sighed. “I will meet her. But be warned, whatever mad scheme you have planned is doomed to fail. What is her name?” Adam suddenly wondered if lunch were worth the trouble of this discussion.
“Sophia Shaw.” Nick grinned. “You will never guess who her relatives are.”
Adam thought for a moment. “Not the Shaws on Lacy Street?”
“One and the same.” Nicholas gave a single nod. “Number ninety-one.�
��
“Not Madeline Forsyth?” The spry, fifty-five-year-old woman was the life of Edinburgh’s oyster cellars.
“I seem to recall you telling me that if she were twenty years younger, you would have pursued her.” Nicholas said. “Maddie is Miss Shaw’s aunt.”
Adam grunted. “I agree to attend Lady Seafield’s ball and dance with the lass her two dances. But do not get your hopes up.”
Nick’s expression sobered. “Give the matter serious thought, Adam. Not every woman is like Lena.”
After lunch, Nicholas left with a promise to return the night of the ball, and Adam headed for the stables that housed his last possession. He’d sunk his last penny into stabling the superbly high-spirited Frisian stallion of unequaled speed and beauty. The animal represented his future. He had a winner and, with it, he would take not only the races at Musselburgh, but he would breed other fine racehorses, as well.
He’d chosen the best stables in Edinburgh, a small establishment near the end of Cowgate. He arrived to find the stable master exercising his stallion in the yard.
“He’s a beauty, my lord.” Jack halted, bridle in hand, and dipped his head in greeting. “I have yet to see a finer animal.”
“He is unmatched.” Adam ran a hand along the horse’s muscled neck. “I would like to ride him. Would you fetch me a saddle, please?”
Jack beamed. “Aye, sir.” He hurried away.
Adam grabbed a brush hanging from the fence then began brushing the horse’s back. A shadow fell across the ground beside Adam. He looked up. A tall, fair-haired man took the last two steps to where Adam stood and stopped. Adam returned his attention to his horse and openly ignored the man.
“Fine horse,” Kenrich Balfour said.
“What do you want, Balfour?”
“I thought perhaps we could discuss business.”
“I have no intention of selling Merlyn.” Adam continued to brush the animal’s back.
“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but we both know you need the money to finish paying your father’s debts.”
“You are mistaken,” Adam said. “I have paid all debts.”
“Indeed? I suppose I should say congratulations. Few men would be so honorable. You do still need money to run your estate. I am willing to double my price.”
Adam looked up in surprise. “Five thousand pounds?”
Balfour smiled in obvious satisfaction. “Five thousand pounds. I can have the money in your account today.”
Adam gave a low laugh. “You must feel confident he will produce a winner.”
“Just as you do.”
Adam ran his hand along the horse’s back. “I told you, he’s not for sale.”
“You cannot make a single shilling on him for two more years,” Balfour said. “Even then, studding him out will not make you enough money to run your estate. You will not survive long enough to race him—or any of his progeny.”
“How long I survive is none of your concern,” Adam replied with more calm than he felt. People like Kenrich Balfour were predators who attacked with a ruthless accuracy that usually brought down their prey—which made Adam want to drive his fist into the man’s nose. Merlyn tossed his head, as if in agreement.
If not for the bargain he’d made with Lord Wilmingly, Adam very well might plant a facer on Balfour’s jaw. But the five thousand pounds he would receive upon learning where Balfour had hidden the gold he’d stolen from the Crown while in the navy, would sustain Adam’s estate for two years, though he wouldn’t be able to purchase anymore horses. Should the gold turn out to be worth more than a fifty thousand pounds—and Adam knew that was likely the case—he would receive ten percent of the find.
“I suggest you go home, Balfour,” he said. “I tire of your company.”
As expected, the man’s expression tensed, then he relaxed. “I would not wait too long.”
Adam understood a threat when he heard one. Balfour wanted Merlyn. He wasn’t the first man to become obsessed with a fine piece of horseflesh, and Merlyn was one of the finest. But a man’s desire to own a horse wasn’t enough of a reason to account for the fury Adam felt certain lurked beneath Kenrich Balfour’s relaxed façade. What Adam believed accounted for Balfour’s attitude were the rumors that Balfour was connected to a smuggling operation owned and run by his uncle. A fine extension to his piracy. Adam wasn’t one to engage in gossip, but this was one bit of on dit he counted on having more truth than lies.
“I will keep that in mind.” Adam returned his attention to the horse.
Balfour turned and Adam cursed. He’d overplayed his hand. He racked his brain for a way to bring the man’s interest back to him but came up empty. Anything too direct would put Balfour on notice.
The man halted and faced him. “Are you willing to make a wager?”
Adam kept his expression neutral. “I’m not a gambling man.”
“Even when the gain is great?”
Adam gave a mirthless laugh. “What would you know of great gain?”
“Enough to know that you could finance your love of horses for the rest of your life.”
Adam paused his hand for the barest of moments, then continued brushing Merlyn. The animal’s swished his tail.
“I find it interesting that a man of your…reputation paid his father’s debts,” Balfour said.
This was the one snag in his plan. How did a man who paid his dead father’s debts prove he was a pirate?
“I’m in no mood to indulge your curiosity,” Adam said.
“But I ask that you do.” Balfour stepped up to Merlyn and ran a flattened palm down the animal’s back. The horse nickered in satisfaction. “Why not tell the creditors to go to the devil? You would have had enough money to survive for at least five years.”
Adam hesitated. “Because I knew it would anger him, even beyond the grave.”
Balfour’s brows shot up. Then he smiled. “Fathers can be…difficult. My father was difficult”—a distant look entered his eyes—“until I reached sixteen.” His expression cleared and he smiled. “But that is a story for another time. I propose a bargain…a wager. I need a man like you.”
“A man like me?” Adam repeated.
“Indeed. A man with experience making money.”
“Stealing money, you mean,” Adam said.
Balfour slowly nodded. “That, too. However, we now need to make our money appear legitimate.”
“You mean invest your ill-gotten gains?” Adam asked.
“I understand your desire to have the last say with your father,” Balfour said. “But it’s a shame that desire took your last shilling. I am surprised you do not have a…reserve.”
“If you are referring to the rumor that I turned pirate and stole from our king, those rumors are untrue.”
Balfour flashed a smile. “Of course they are, just as the rumors about my piracy are untrue. Shouldn’t two men who society has decided aren’t worthy work together?”
“I thought you said you had a wager.”
“Merlyn against the five thousand pounds I offered—”
“I will not sell Merlyn,” Adam cut in.
Balfour shook his head. “Not sell. A wager. This is about gold guineas headed to England.”
“And you want to rob it.” Adam barely managed to keep the shock out of his voice.
“Then we must melt the gold,” Balfour said.
Wilmingly hadn’t said anything about a shipment of gold coins. Then again, he wouldn’t. Like most noblemen, he thought himself superior to those beneath him, so it probably never occurred to him that a man like Balfour would make such a bold move. It would serve the Crown right if Balfour robbed them. A thought struck. What if that had been Wilmingly’s plan all along? What if he was smarter than Adam was giving him credit for? Adam mentally grimaced. Was he as arrogant as Wilmingly in underestimating Balfour?
“I wager we can take the gold with a dozen men,” Balfour said.
Adam frowned. “Take a frigate wit
h a dozen men? Impossible.”
“I plan to take the gold without firing a single shot, at least not at the ship.”
Jack emerged from the stables, carrying a saddle. He stopped, stared for a heartbeat, then turned and hurried back out the door.
“What do you mean ‘at least not at the ship’?” Adam demanded of Balfour.
“When the ship docks in London and is unloaded for transportation, we will take the gold on route to King George.”
Adam looked up from brushing Merlyn. “Rob the transport? That is suicide. At least two dozen soldiers will be guarding the gold.”
“Hardly,” Balfour replied. “The ship’s hold isn’t laden with gold. This is but one chest. George believes he has kept secret the transport.”
“Who’s to say someone else does not know?” Adam asked.
“Who’s to say anyone does know?” Balfour countered.
Twenty minutes later, Adam left the busy streets of Edinburgh behind for the open countryside. The exceptionally warm autumn day made him want to ride all the way to Inverness. He left the road and cut through a deserted orchard. When he reached the stretch of grassland beyond, he gave the horse his head. The horse’s massive hooves pounded out the most beautiful rhythm Adam had ever heard. He let the animal run until the land turned more densely forested, and Stirling Castle, high on its hill, appeared little more than a speck. Adam slowed. The horse tossed his head, as if to say, “It’s about time,” and Adam swayed in tempo with the brute’s gait.
A rider came into view beyond the open countryside on the road. The rider, a lad, hunched low over the horse’s neck as they flew down the road. Adam watched in appreciation. The lad could ride, but it was the horse that captured Adam’s attention—a chestnut mare with beautiful lines and a smooth gait.
A carriage rattled and Adam looked down the road about half a mile behind the rider where a magnificent coach-and-six traveled at a sedate speed. The lad on the mare pulled rein at the top of the rise and waited until the carriage reached him minutes later. Adam could discern no crest emblazoned on the side and nothing to hint at the identity of the passengers within. The six horses were fine creatures, but still, the lad’s mare outshone them all. As the coach rolled past, the rider took off again, and in minutes, they vanished along the road toward Edinburgh.
