Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  He winked. “Are you accusing me of marrying you under false pretenses?”

  She shook her head. “I had secrets too, as you know.”

  He pulled her against his shoulder. “I know how difficult it was for you to share them with me, my darling. But it gave me hope that you were beginning to overcome the shame that’s followed you for so long.”

  She began to cry into his waistcoat. He led her to a settee and hugged her with one arm while he clasped her hand with the other.

  “Have you begun to overcome the shame, my dear?”

  She took a deep breath and straightened. “I think so. I hope so. Preston, I want to tell you what happened at the Foundling Hospital today.”

  * * *

  Cornelia held back tears as she concluded her tale about Miss Smith and Eliza. “She was heartbroken to leave her child, but she could not see any other way. She wants the babe to have a better life than she had.” Cornelia swallowed. “Oh Preston, I do not think I could ever be so unselfish.”

  His eyes widened. “Does this mean…?”

  Her heart hammered against her chest. “I want a baby. I want your baby. The child will be beautiful because we will love it to distraction. That is all that matters, isn’t it?”

  The heat in his eyes sent a wave of pleasure through her.

  He rose and picked her up in his arms as though she were lightweight.

  “Preston? What are you doing? You will injure yourself.”

  Ignoring her, he carried her to his bedchamber door.

  “I suppose you want me to open it?” she asked.

  He grunted.

  Her head whirled. Good gracious! How did the room get so hot? She opened the door.

  He crossed to the bed and deposited her onto the mattress.

  “Preston?”

  She watched in fascinated interest as he untied his cravat and tossed it on the floor. Next, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, then his shirt, and began tugging at the fall of his pants. Her pulse skipped a beat. He is beautiful.

  “Preston, what are you doing?”

  Don’t be silly—you know what he’s doing!

  She couldn’t concentrate on anything but him. He was magnificent. Cornelia gazed at his muscled chest with its scattering of dark hairs, his narrow hips, and—oh my! Was that…?

  “Uh, Preston—” she said shakily.

  He dropped onto the bed beside her. “It’s time to stop talking.” He eyed her lips hungrily. “This is our honeymoon. The real one. Do you not think it’s about time?”

  She did.

  ###

  Author’s Note

  While the characters in this story are fictional and products of the author’s imagination, the character of Admiral Cornelius Hardcastle is loosely based on Captain Benjamin Hallowell Carew, whose ship, the Leviathan, was one of three who evacuated allied troops and French royalist refugees from the harbor in 1793, although the timing has been adjusted for the sake of the story. The rest of Admiral Hardcastle’s life is solely the invention of the author.

  The Maid of Inverness

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Twenty-One

  Flowers of Scotland

  Rose Fairbanks

  Chapter One

  “Who are ye?” Malcolm Russell, the owner and proprietor of Inverness’s premier public house, The Melrose, mumbled to himself. Hunched over yellowing, various sized papers stacked on the polished wood table in what passed for a quiet corner of the busy watering hole, he shuffled through handwritten copies of two-hundred-year-old marriage licenses and baptismal records. His eyes grew weary as sunlight streaming through the windows dimmed by the minute. Night fell fast this far north in the Scottish Highlands. He pulled the lamp closer.

  Through the doors, more and more patrons entered and, with single-minded determination, Malcolm rallied his senses and tuned out the rising din of neighbors’ greetings and stories of the day. Around him, the barmaids circled tables, offering refills and female company—something he couldn’t discourage no matter his countless efforts. Customers wanted what they wanted.

  From the corner of his eye, Malcolm spotted a man grab two tankards of ale from the bar and start on unsteady feet toward the table behind Malcolm's. The man reached Malcolm and belted a loud laugh as he listed right and bumped Malcolm’s chair. Malcolm stiffened when ale sloshed over the top of one tankard and onto his lap. The cool liquid soaked a potato-sized spot on his breeches. Malcolm glanced at his lap. A hazard of the business, to be sure, but at least the man hadn’t spoiled his papers. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the liquid staining his breeches.

  “Malcolm,” the barmaid, Catriona, called over the crowd. “We need ye to bring up another barrel of ale.”

  He waved her off. “Have Colin do it—or Harry.” He would not leave. This work held him enthralled. He stared down at the papers. Soon, he would finish his list.

  Malcolm scanned the records in his journal, then cross-referenced them with dates in his well-worn and beloved copy of a biography of Robert the Bruce’s life.

  Nearly every Scotsman admired their long-ago king who fought the English and united the clans. For Malcolm, the Bruce was an obsession. Legend claimed his heart was buried in Melrose Abbey near the English border. Fascination with the man inspired Malcolm’s choice for the name of his establishment.

  Affection warmed him upon recollection of those nights before the hearth when his father recounted stories of their family lineage. Malcolm could claim a distant relationship to the revered monarch. The passage of centuries and the unification with England one hundred years ago, all meant the Russells had fallen from their loftier title. Still, their ingrained pride survived. He might now be a publican, but he ran his business with fairness and integrity. Malcolm had seen too many wallow in despair of what they believed an insignificant place in the world. Without pride or motivation, their circumstances always grew dire. The Russells’ pride had saved them from such destruction.

  As he grew, his love of the family stories turned into an obsession to find proof of his genealogical ties. Along the way, he began to wonder about the less fortunate of the Bruce’s children. The ones born on the wrong side of the marital blanket. Whatever became of them? The English often bestowed titles on their bastards. Robert provided for his illegitimate offspring, but, sadly, Malcolm could find no proof that the great king had given titles to his bastard children.

  Many women—too many to account for—claimed a child fathered by Robert. With care, Malcolm traced a finger across the four names on the sheet of paper before him. His chest expanded, as it did every time he realized the depth of his discovery. These four ladies were daughters of Scottish peers who were Robert’s supporters. Malcolm’s attention had snagged when he noticed that each woman had hastily married gentlemen of little prestige.

  The pattern continued when the children’s birth dates proved too early to have been conceived after the weddings. He found no records of the husbands knowing the wives until a few weeks before the ceremonies. Nor did he find any evidence that the couples had lived in the same area preceding marriage. Years of tedious research and countless days and nights with little rest yielded the most interesting fact of all: the Bruce had visited each lady’s family while she was in residence. The dates aligned perfectly for a conception.

  Malcolm hadn’t stopped there. How could he? He traced the lineages of these ladies. Their children never received the recognition they deserved as descendants of the King of Scotland. Instead, each generation brought the descendants lower and lower. Of the three lines he’d found, each ended in a single daughter of reduced means. He would find the fourth, though Malcolm feared that line would be no better preserved than the others.

  “Who are ye?” he mumbled again.

  A voice interrupted his musings.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Russell.”

  Malcolm looked up into familiar eyes. “Sir Stirling, what can I do for you?”

  For the average customer,
Malcolm wouldn’t allow his work to be interrupted, but Sir Stirling James had recently married the Duke of Roxburgh’s eldest daughter and would one day inherit the title. The proprietor of a tavern did not ignore a future duke.

  Sir Stirling smiled. “I wanted to apologize for my friend who ah...shall we say, baptized you earlier.”

  Malcolm considered Sir Stirling’s earnest eyes, surprised by his sincerity. “Think nothing of it. Happens all the time.”

  “Sinclair is a good man, but a bit of a lightweight when it comes to your fine offerings.” Sir Stirling glanced at the table. “Speaking of baptisms, I find myself curious what you are doing over here with all of these.” He tapped a stack of baptism records.

  Malcolm shook his head. “It is of no real consequence. A strange fascination of mine, and coming to a sad end, I must say.”

  “Is that so?” Sir Stirling lowered himself into the chair opposite him.

  Malcolm scowled. People usually found his obsession odd. “You do not have to humor me,” he said with a bit of warning in his voice.

  “If you wish for solitude, I will leave you to your work. However, I asked out of genuine curiosity.”

  Malcolm sighed and rubbed his temples. Of course, Sir Stirling meant no offense. Malcolm didn’t know the man well, but he had always behaved cordially. “Forgive me. This feels like my life’s work, and it is ending on a sour note. Add in weeks of too little sleep and…” He shrugged.

  Stirling offered an encouraging smile. “A burden shared is a burden halved. Tell me how I may assist you.”

  Malcolm hesitated, then launched into his tale. Soon they were both tracking the whereabouts of the fourth line, the descendant of Margaret de la Hay and Robert the Bruce.

  “Here.” Malcolm waved a document. “Mary de la Hay married Laird David Kincaid in 1744.” He passed the paper to Sir Stirling, then consulted his journal. “David Kincaid fled to the colony of Virginia after the rising in ‘45.”

  “Bad luck that,” Sir Stirling muttered.

  Malcolm nodded. “I am at a dead end. The descendants must be living in America—God knows where.”

  Stirling’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Who is the laird of the Kincaid clan now?”

  Consulting his list, Malcolm ran a finger down the page to…“Nicholas Kincaid. I know I have seen that name.” He rummaged through the stack of baptism records. “Aye, he is the grandson of… Of David Kincaid? How can that be?”

  Sir Stirling also looked over the document. His brow drew down in confusion. “Might his father have been born in an earlier union? And remained in Scotland when David left?”

  Malcolm searched through another stack of papers. “Yes...yes, it seems possible. Here is a copy from a book which recorded a marriage for David Kincaid and Marie Hannay.”

  He shook his head at the women’s names. His papers came from a variety of sources. He had duplicated a few from original sources, others he obtained as copies provided by clerks of various parishes, and many came from ancestral records. Looking at the smeared and faded ink, the names appeared very similar, but being accustomed to reading such documents and comparing them next to each other, Malcolm easily discerned the differences. The marriages took place twenty years apart and in different parishes. He now felt confident David Kincaid indeed had two wives.

  “I have no documents of Nicholas Kincaid’s parents, however,” Malcolm mumbled. How curious…and frustrating. There was a clear discrepancy between the ancestral record researched by another and the documentation Malcolm had in hand.

  “What’s this?” Sir Stirling pulled one of the baptism records from the papers and passed it to Malcolm.

  “A record for the baptism of Marigold Kincaid in 1791, daughter of Mary Burns and Angus Kincaid. I do not have a baptism or marriage record for them. It is as though they sprouted from nowhere.”

  “When did Laird Nicholas marry?” Sir Stirling asked.

  “I believe I just saw it. Allow me a moment, please.” Malcolm shifted papers around again. He truly needed to find a better organizational system. “He married Priscilla Hunter in…”—a grin spread across his face as he spotted the marriage certificate—“in 1791.” Malcolm clapped his hands. “Do you think it is possible Angus could be a child of David Kincaid and Mary de la Hay? Perhaps he returned to Scotland for his nephew’s wedding.”

  Sir Stirling smiled. “Aye, quite possible.”

  “This Marigold might be the missing descendant of Robert the Bruce.”

  Sir Stirling had begun making neater piles, and his smile slipped. As did Malcolm’s, after Stirling handed him the death records of Angus and Mary Kincaid in 1794.

  “What became of her?” Malcolm muttered. “I must speak with Laird Nicholas as soon as possible. I’ll need to find out where he lives.”

  A man at the table to Malcolm’s left faced them. “Pardon me for eavesdropping. The name Kincaid caught my ear. He lives here in town, but you have nae chance of meeting him. He is too full of pride to grant an audience to the likes of you.”

  Malcolm’s face heated. Usually, a Scottish laird would not be impossibly outside his circle of acquaintances.

  “Do you know the man?” Sir Stirling asked the stranger.

  “Aye. The miser owes me ten thousand pounds. His butler once made the mistake of trying to throw me out.”

  The gentleman winked, and Malcolm scanned his bulk. Only a fool would try to manhandle him. He imagined the butler came out all the worse for the attempt.

  “He says ‘my kind’ is unwelcome.” He raised his tankard in toast, a glint in his eye that almost made Malcolm laugh.

  “Do you know anything about his family?” Sir Stirling asked.

  “He has a bulldog of a wife and two daughters that are her spitting image.” The man shuddered, and this time Malcolm had to bite back a laugh. The man had a flair for drama.

  “Might he be the guardian of a young lady?” Sir Stirling asked.

  Stirling’s eyes flitted to Malcolm’s, and he understood. If they were lucky, Miss Marigold had not gone to her American family, but resided in Scotland.

  The man nodded. “Rumor has it she is his by-blow, and that’s why he and the Missus mistreat her. I heard that from a maid I was trying to sweet talk.” A corner of his mouth ticked up in amusement. “I dinnae know if it is true.”

  “They abuse her?” Malcolm demanded.

  The stranger peered into his now empty tankard and frowned. Malcolm signaled a barmaid, who hurried over and refilled the mug. “With my compliments,” Malcolm said. “Sir, what is your name?”

  “Douglas Randolph.” He raised the now full mug. “To your health.”

  Something flashed in Sir Stirling’s eyes. Recognition, Malcolm realized, but he had no time to question the reaction before Stirling said, “The young lady?” and Malcolm waited, heart pounding.

  Randolph set the tankard on the table. His mouth thinned. “Becky said the miss does all the work of a house maid with none of a servant’s meager pay.”

  Anger twisted through Malcolm. “A daughter of the Bruce reduced to such.” He pounded a fist on the table. “And I can do nothing.”

  He looked at his list again. Each lady in the bloom of her life, like a delicate flower, and all their potential squandered away. Although strangers, he felt these women were as near as he could come to the sisters he never had.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Stirling’s voice drew Malcolm’s attention, “there is something we can do.” His lips twitched upward ever so slightly.

  As an eccentric publican nearing his thirtieth year, Malcolm doubted there was anything he could do for the ladies...but the heir to a dukedom? “What?” he asked.

  “I have a talent…considered unusual for a gentleman of my position. For any man, really,” Sir Stirling conceded.

  Malcolm tensed in anticipation.

  “What they did not receive from family, they might find in marriage.” Sir Stirling’s eyes twinkled. “I can find the four lasses husbands. Successful, p
erhaps even wealthy men—and certainly, honorable men.”

  Malcolm stared. “Wealthy husbands? Forgive me, they deserve the best, but life is not so kind. Their stations are lowly.”

  Randolph laughed. “Aye, he is right. I wager you cannae find one man deuced enough in the head to marry a pauper lass, let alone four.”

  Stirling met his gaze. “I will meet your bet. What are your terms?”

  Randolph scowled. “I have learned my lesson on expecting so-called gentlemen to honor their debts,”

  “We will not wager money then,” Sir Stirling held up his hands, palms out.

  “Verra well.” A wicked gleam entered Randolph’s eyes. “The loser has to serve as a bar maid in this tavern.” He looked Sir Stirling over. “In a gown.”

  Stirling and Malcolm looked at each other, then broke into laughter. “Do you think they make a gown big enough to fit Mr. Randolph?” Stirling asked Malcolm.

  “Dinnae know,” Malcolm said with a laugh. “One of my hands says his mother-in-law is as large as a house. Maybe she has a gown that would fit.” He laughed again as the image of the brawny man before him dressed as a woman and serving customers flitted through his mind.

  “And what would you gain, should you win?” Sir Stirling asked with a grin. Lines crinkled around his eyes.

  Randolph studied him. “Perhaps I fancy seeing what a bonnie lass you could be,” Randolph laughed as Stirling flushed. He shook his head and answered soberly. “I need a business partner in a new enterprise. Should I win, your name and reputation will lend necessary respectability. Now, name your stake.”

  “Beware,” Malcolm spoke up. “Rarely have I seen a man best Sir Stirling Ja—”

  Sir Stirling interrupted. “This is no game of cards. There is no luck in this. I will win by sheer determination.”

  Randolph cocked his head. “You think well of yourself.”