“Do you have proof that the woman you met was Mary Burns and not an imposter?”
Helen nodded. “Eleanor wrote to me about her child. She loved her baby so very much. Mary had very particular markings on her arm and shoulder. They are captured in this portrait of Mary Burns, done by an artist in Inverness.”
Helen passed around a miniature of Marigold’s mother dressed as a Roman goddess in a white, sleeveless, loose muslin gown. A birthmark was visible from her shoulder to several inches above her elbow.
“That is your brother-in-law’s wife, is it not?” Mr. Russell asked.
“You may have kept Marigold a secret from much of the town,” Sir Stirling said, “but some people still remember the beautiful Mary Kincaid.”
“What does this mean?” Edith asked, shocking the room.
“It means your cousin owns this house,” Douglas said.
All eyes swung to Marigold. She could hardly believe her ears. A house and ten thousand pounds? Oh, she would never have to work again.
“I also know none of this was unknown to you, Sir Nicholas,” Mr. Russell said and withdrew another packet of papers. “It is stated plainly in Angus Kincaid’s last will and testament. He gave you guardianship of his daughter until she came of age. You had leave to live in the house but not to touch her money. I assume you did not.”
Marigold glanced at her cousin who had turned red. “How was I to support her or my family without her income?”
“Perhaps in the way you did before gaining custody of the child?” Sir Stirling asked. “As a card counter?”
“Oh ho!” Douglas laughed. “The pot calling the kettle black?”
“We can’t all roll over and turn up dukes!” Sir Nicholas gnashed his teeth.
“There is more,” Russell said, withdrawing additional papers. “I could not ignore the strangeness regarding the marriage record between David Kincaid and Marie Hannay. The record in the ancestral account was falsified. I went to the church to see the original license but there is no Church of All Souls in Dumfries and never was. Sir Nicholas’s father was never the rightful laird of the Kincaid clan—he must have bribed someone to record it wrongly. Marigold’s father was the heir. She was the Maid of Inverness, and is now Lady Marigold Kincaid of Inverness.”
Nicholas turned red and Priscilla sobbed hysterically.
“You falsified her age, as well.” Mr. Russell laid down a final sheet of paper. “The lass is already one and twenty.”
Marigold blinked through tears as she read her name on a baptism record. She might have been free of Nicholas and Priscilla half a year ago.
“Will we be homeless?” Edith asked and began to cry.
Priscilla screamed.
“Hush.” Marigold rushed to Edith’s side. “So long as you want, you and Augusta may live with me.”
“But Mother and Father?” Edith hiccoughed.
“That is for Miss Marigold to decide,” Sir Stirling said. “According to the records we found, she has been of age for six months.”
“Why?” Marigold turned to her cousins. “Why did you lie about all this? Why did you treat me as the poor relation who should be grateful for your notice?”
“Jealousy, I would guess,” Douglas said.
“Why should you have all this?” Nicholas bellowed. “You are not even Scottish. You’re American. My grandfather abandoned my father and his country. Not to mention, your mother came from a whore.”
“And where did your father come from?” Marigold asked. Her voice trembled in anger.
“David Kincaid took no other wife while she lived. Surely it was all an error. In those days you could marry anywhere in Scotland. Who cares if it was not a church?” He shrugged.
“Alas, there must be record of it,” Mr. Russell said. “Angus’s will address the lairdship. He mentions his father raised him knowing he would one day be laird. That is not the talk of a man who had a legal heir in Scotland. If he had one, why should he leave the country alone?”
Nicholas had no reply and Sir Stirling stroked his jaw.
“It occurs to me, Nicholas’s knighthood might not be legal. The King was under the impression he was Laird Kincaid. Should we notify the magistrate?”
Marigold chewed her bottom lip. “No...no. I have only desired freedom from want. I do not seek retribution. Nicholas’s grandparents might not have legally wed but he is legitimate.”
“My darling cousin.” Priscilla threw herself at Marigold’s feet. “Have we not treated you kindly all these years? Have we not loved you?”
Shaking her head and throwing her shoulders back, Marigold peered down into Priscilla’s eyes. “No, you have not. You will stay this night at an inn and pack your belongings tomorrow. You will not reside here another moment.”
“Where is your compassion?” Priscilla shrieked and launched from the floor toward Marigold’s face, ready to slap.
“That is enough, madam,” Douglas shouted over her screech and caught Priscilla’s arm. “Stirling, Russell, get them out of here.”
Mr. Russell led her out the door. Stirling followed with a tight grip on Nicholas’s arm.
“I can’t believe it,” Marigold said and sagged in relief. “Do I really have ten thousand pounds?”
“Yes and no,” Helen said. “Your grandfather left ten thousand pounds which has been accruing interest, so it was far more. However, we have every reason to believe your cousin spent it all. To see it recovered, you will have to prosecute.”
“Oh.” Marigold’s heart sank.
“There is no need to decide this now,” Douglas said and gathered her hand in his. “I hope that you still wish to marry me.”
“I do.” She met his eyes, smiling. “Perhaps now no one will think I am unsuitable. Even if I am not rich, I have a pedigree.”
“Grandmama, how is it that you are here and how did you know to collect her for the ball in the first place? If you knew of her, why did you not protect her?”
Helen looked at her hands. “Just as my husband would not allow his brother to marry where he wished, he did not allow me to look after Marigold. Legally, she went to Sir Nicholas. Beyond sending servants as spies to the house, I could do nothing. But I sat and waited and hoped. I am so happy to hear you will make her your bride. My two regrets come together!”
“Two?” Douglas asked.
“I did not reject you, Douglas,” she said with tears in her eyes. “When your father—my son—died, I wanted you and your mother to move back to the house. I wanted us to be a family. My husband refused to admit your mother and called her every foul name imaginable. He did want you, but I am convinced it was as much to wound my daughter-in-law as it was for the noble cause of educating you. Rather than give you up, Esther fled. We had no notion of where you were or how you fared.”
Marigold threw her arms around Helen. “You poor woman! Your heart breaking year after year living with such cold-hearted men.”
“But no longer,” Helen sniffed. “Douglas is such a sweet man. I know you will be very happy.”
“We will,” Marigold said as she lowered her arms and met Douglas’s eyes.
“Forgive me,” Douglas said as he came to his grandmother’s side. “I have held you responsible for the actions of others. I have imagined some cruel scheme against me when it seems many did as they thought best. My mother erred in keeping me from family, and you were powerless to stop your husband.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” Helen embraced her grandson, dwarfed by his large frame.
***
Three weeks later, Douglas entered The Melrose in a rush and slammed the door shut behind him. If this was what women felt every time there was a draft, then he would bundle Marigold and Grandmama up in furs and not let them leave until winter thawed. He had learned that a woman’s gown trapped icy blasts, and his smalls were thin protection against the cold.
Malcolm approached the bar and asked after Russell. The maid, at first, was taken aback by his costume, and then g
ave him a knowing look. As she marched him through the drinking hall, men called after them, then shuddered in disgust upon seeing his visage. Losing to Stirling was a sweet loss, indeed.
A man called out an offer to take Catriona—dear lord, he hoped the man did not refer to him—upstairs, and the image brought to mind the delights he experienced with Marigold. She was not shy in the least, even for her first time.
“Becky and Ruth have told me,” she said before launching herself into his arms and tugging at his cravat.
However much she had been told, it was quite another thing entirely to do it, and he had to stay her hand before she either strangled him or prematurely unmanned him. Fortunately, whispering in her ear and then sucking that sensitive appendage allowed him to regain control of the situation. Marigold became pliable in his arms as his kisses spread down her neck and across her collarbone. He carried her to their bed. Then, stripping off her clothing layer by layer, he allowed his eyes to feast on her body before returning to her green orbs.
“I love your eyes,” she said. “So clear and so intense.” She sighed then scanned his body. “You are overdressed.”
“Allow me to rectify that.”
He had told himself to go slow but found himself unclothed faster than ever in his life. Marigold held her arms open, and he fell into them. She ran her hands up and down his back while he worshiped her body with kisses and then with his tongue. Only after she had found bliss did he climb back up her. Kissing her deeply, with her taste on his mouth, he entered her. Fully joined, they had experienced new heights of passion.
Douglas shook his head to dispel the memory. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to go back outside in the cold air. Catriona brought him to a table where Russell and Sir Stirling chatted. They had discovered the other three descendants of Robert the Bruce. Upon seeing him in a gown of delicate muslin, they burst into laughter. After several minutes and having to wipe away tears and clutching sore bellies, they sobered.
“Since you are such a good fellow,” Stirling said, “I’ll lend my name to your enterprise anyway.”
“You will?”
“I have wanted to diversify,” he said. “Tell me more about your steamship interests.”
Douglas grinned, but Russell held up a hand. “I am sorry, but our maid here must get to work. If you wish to have a long conversation with him, then perhaps you can purchase his time after his shift ends.” Russell winked.
“Russell,” Douglas said in a warning tone, although he knew the man teased.
“I will not delay you,” Stirling said, laughing again.
“Come along, Doug-ella,” Russell said, and Stirling roared with laughter again.
Hours passed as Douglas served drinks and greasy food then wiped down tables. Propositioned and accosted several times, his nerves were frayed by the end of the shift. Of course, it was not all bad. He had spent enough time on the street and trying to make his way in the world to find some piece of joy in everything—even being a duke.
The night’s highlight came from seeing Sir Nicholas drunk and losing round after round of cards while loudly crowing about his horse-faced wife who held his purse strings. Marigold might not desire justice, but Douglas had never claimed to be as compassionate as she. The man had spent all of Marigold’s money, but if Stirling would support the steamships, then Douglas had no doubt in his ability to earn a fortune for his wife. Augusta had married just days after he and Marigold. Edith resided with her sister. They sold the house, giving them enough to make the initial investment in ships. Of course, the household staff joined them at Randolph Fields, and Jack had become unexpectedly reliable as a house steward.
As Douglas rubbed his aching back after mopping the filthy floor, he could only think in awe of the woman who waited for him at home. Her strength and grace continued to amaze him. Despite a lifetime of thankless tasks, she still cared for others. She would soon open a school for the poor children of Inverness and a public library, as well. “Everyone deserves adventures,” she had said. “And until they can go on their own, they should read them.”
The clock chimed four in the morning when Douglas climbed into bed and curled against his wife. He had spent his life wandering and afraid of his duty. With her, he had found a reason to stay and face his fears. He had reconciled with his grandmother, and finally knew the security of love and belonging. Life with Marigold would be his greatest adventure yet.
###
Worth of a Lady
The Marriage Maker
Book One
USA Today and Bestselling Authors
Tarah Scott & Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Dedication
To all the innocent girls who tamed a rogue.
Gledstone Hall
Inverness, Scotland 1811
Chapter One
Chastity resisted the urge to fling her morning tea at her father as he paced the floor at the head of the breakfast table. Her three sisters—Jessica especially, who seldom sat more than five minutes without causing some small havoc—managed to keep neutral expressions when he bemoaned his advanced age.
Chastity bit back a laugh when Jessica silently mouthed his words as he said, "I have no male heir; therefore, it is your responsibility to marry and give me an heir to carry on my title." Three years ago, Chastity would have interrupted the speech. Now, however, she waited as he added, "I am old. Don't I deserve to go to my grave knowing the title doesn't end with me?”
“Papa, please,” Lucy, the youngest, interjected as she always did, “we cannot bear to hear you talk as if you will die tomorrow.”
“For all we know, I may,” the duke replied with his usual dramatic flair. He turned his stare onto Chastity. “You will marry.”
In the past, Chastity had answered with a dozen different arguments. 'I am young and carry your title. I have plenty of time to find a suitable husband.' Or, 'Would you doom me to a life shackled to a fortune hunter?' Today, she said, “What will become of my sisters if my husband doesn't care for them as we do?”
Lucy smiled affectionately at him. “You cannot blame Chastity for wanting to find a man as kind as you.”
Lucy, only seventeen, was by far the wisest, for she understood the power of flattery on a man. This time, however, even her shrewd maneuverings failed to move their sire.
He stared down at Chastity, eyes bright with an intelligence untouched by his fifty-five years. "Ye have put me off for five years, Daughter. No more. You will marry within two months."
"Two months?" Olivia blurted. "It cannot be done."
He ignored Olivia. “You are twenty-four years old, Chastity, and well on the shelf."
This argument was familiar, but she couldn't halt the retort. "Even were I grayed with a grizzled chin, I would still have suitors. Few men care about age or beauty when a title is included. I will always have my pick of marriageable men."
His eyes blazed. "Then pick one—or I will."
He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a document, and tossed it onto the table. It slid a few inches, then halted against a plate of eggs. Chastity caught sight of the header Robert Campbell Esquire, her father’s solicitor—and the words ‘Marriage License’ below his name.
She snapped her gaze onto the duke. "You wouldn't dare."
Olivia picked up the document and unfolded it. Her eye caught on the word ‘Bride’ and— She looked up. “Oh dear, that is your name.”
Olivia turned the document toward her. Chastity’s gaze shifted to Olivia’s place-keeping fingertip where her name was written. Olivia scanned ahead to the groom’s name. Blank. Maybe their father wasn’t serious, after all, but only meant to frighten Chastity.
She looked up. “At least the groom’s name isn’t recorded.”
Chastity shot to her feet, heedless of the napkin that dropped from her lap. "You would marry me to some stranger?"
The duke shrugged. "Not a stranger. Lord Hathaway comes to mind. As you well know, he expressed an interest in marrying you this la
st year."
“Eww.” Jessica shuddered. “He’s old.”
Chastity curled her fingers into fists. "Not to mention despicable."
“He is a very decent man, and he would take good care of ye."
"No doubt,” she muttered. “He is twenty-five years my senior, and would enjoy a young wife in his bed.”
"A man expects to enjoy his wife’s charms."
She started to reply, but he cut her off. "Marry, or I will sign these papers."
He didn't mean it. He couldn't. But the glint in his eyes revealed a determination she'd never before seen.
"Would you really see me wed Lord Hathaway?"
"He is a good man. I have no qualms with him."
Chastity leaned on the table for support. "And it matters not that I do not want him?"
"You do not want anyone," he said with an effort at calm.
“How could I want any of the men you have paraded before me these past years? They are greedy, stupid, weak-kneed idiots. That is the sort of man you want to sire your grandchildren?”
Jessica shoved aside a lock of red hair that had escaped her chignon. “There was Lord Everson. He was not weak or stupid.”
“Jessica.” Olivia cast a quick look at their father, but his expression revealed nothing of his memory of the fortune hunter who had tried to elope with Chastity four years ago.
"I would rather see the title die than marry—” Chastity broke off at the thunderous look in her father’s eyes.
“Rather than marry…” he repeated in a quiet voice.
She swallowed against a dry throat. “I will not marry Hathaway."
"If you haven't married another within two months, you will.”
“Two months?” Chastity blurted. Her head whirled.
Even Lucy blanched at the decree. “What of Lord Blakely?” she quickly asked. “He is preferable to a relic—er, gentleman—such as Lord Hathaway. He is only three years older than you.”
Chastity snorted. “He is an arrogant fop. His mother governs him.” The thought of his long white fingers touching her intimately soured her stomach.
Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 63
