Suffering The Scot (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 1)

by Nichole Van

  His friend didn’t have to say more. “I would never ask you to solicit his help on my behalf.” Rafe’s father would exact stiff payment from his son for such a favor. “The Writ of Summons will sort itself out eventually. I will win. Chancery and Lords simply want to make their point first.”

  Rafe grimaced and then nodded. “Agreed. Besides, there is also this.” He plucked the second letter off the counterpane and handed it to Andrew. Andrew glanced at the brief address, instantly noting the familiar handwriting.

  Rafe began, “It arrived special delivery less than fifteen minutes ago—”

  “—from Kieran,” Andrew finished.

  “Aye.”

  Andrew ripped into the letter. Words jumped out at him.

  . . . found Madsen . . .

  . . . arrested for robbery and theft and sentenced to gaol . . .

  . . . hard labor on the prison hulk, Bellerophon, in the harbor at Sheerness . . .

  . . . in haste to meet there tomorrow afternoon . . .

  Andrew let out a long gust of air and then tilted the letter so Rafe could read it.

  “We found him,” Rafe breathed. “Hallelujah.”

  “Amen,” Andrew agreed, heart racing at the news.

  At long last! Justice for Jamie and all the others whose lives were lost due to Madsen’s treachery.

  And, perhaps, a measure of comfort, an easing of the guilt that plagued them.

  Andrew continued, “I don’t know if it’s good or bad that Madsen has already been tried on separate charges.”

  “Aye. He’s in custody now. Always surrounded by guards.”

  Andrew nodded. Their grievance with Madsen would likely never be brought before a magistrate, for a number of reasons. And Madsen being in prison meant they couldn’t administer their own form of justice.

  The searing pain of a cudgel to his jaw, endless floating in a fevered haze.

  Hands frantically pulling him into a boat, waves lapping, agony rattling his bones.

  Kieran’s voice. “Stay with me, Andrew. I willnae let them have ye.”

  “Aye,” Jamie’s voice piping in. “I’ll butcher the lot of them first—”

  Andrew shook off the memory.

  Madsen deserved whatever horrors awaited him. Andrew took savage comfort in the fact that prison hulks were miserable places to be incarcerated.

  The prison ships were a way for the Crown to alleviate overcrowding in its land-based prisons, like Newgate. Many of the older ships-of-the-line—the enormous flagships of the British Navy—were re-purposed during the final years of their lives and outfitted for use as floating prisons. The ships were then anchored in a harbor, the prisoners being rowed to shore every day to labor repairing dockyards and sea walls.

  “We are tae meet Kieran at the harbor in Sheerness tomorrow afternoon,” Andrew said. “He’s going tae need our help to convince the wardens tae let us speak with Madsen aboard the Bellerophon.”

  Unspoken was the knowledge that a Peer of the Realm and the son of a powerful duke should be able to brazen their way onto the ship.

  “That’s that, then. We’ll depart tomorrow before noon.”

  “I’ll leave letters tae be dispatched to Alex and Ewan at first light, keeping them apprised of the situation. They will want to have their say.”

  “Aye. But first—” Rafe stepped forward, lifting the parcel off the bed. “—one last item for the ball this evening.”

  Rafe unwrapped the package, revealing two lengths of Jamie’s tartan. Andrew’s manager had finished having the fabric woven.

  Emotion pricked the back of Andrew’s throat. How appropriate for it to arrive on today, of all days. Now that they were closer to reaching answers and (perhaps, maybe) justice for Jamie.

  Andrew took hold of the fabric, the lambswool butter-soft in his fingers.

  Black for their grief and guilt.

  Vibrant red for blood spilled and their anger over being betrayed.

  Mossy green and gold yellow emphasizing hope and a wish for growth.

  White for the purity of their hearts and intentions.

  Jamie would have approved.

  Rafe helped Andrew into his superfine clawhammer coat, and then each of them wrapped a length of Jamie’s tartan across their bodies, a baldric sash secured with a large brooch.

  Andrew studied them side-by-side in his bedroom mirror, their formal aristocratic attire and the traditional, Scottish plaid.

  “We’ll do, aye?” he said.

  Rafe slapped his back. “Aye. That we will.”

  18

  Andrew and Rafe took a separate carriage to Chestlehurst, Lord and Lady Whitcomb’s estate. Peter, Lady Hadley, and Lady Jane rode in the family barouche.

  Andrew had caught a glimpse of Jane’s finery as he helped the ladies into their carriage. Her dress was ice-blue satin with an over-skirt of silver netting which caused the fabric to glimmer and shine with every step. But it was the wan, hesitant smile she gave him as their hands touched that had his eyebrows drawing into a frown.

  She had donned the mask of Prim Jane for the evening, every last emotion withdrawn and snuffed out. Why?

  He would have expected Jane to be sunnier over the prospect of attending a ball. Even her mother could hardly find fault with Jane having a sparkle in her eye and a spring in her step.

  Instead, Jane had the air of one heading toward the guillotine rather than a country party. Even Rafe commented on her low spirits.

  Had something gone amiss?

  Andrew was pondering this same question an hour later, as they waited in line to greet their hosts. Lady Hadley had insisted Jane take Lord Rafe’s arm, before taking Peter’s herself, leaving Andrew alone.

  Andrew knew it was a cutting breach of etiquette, even if Rafe’s surprised eyebrows hadn’t communicated as much. As the higher-ranking peer, Andrew should have been escorting Lady Hadley. By refusing his escort, she was loudly proclaiming to her neighbors that she considered Andrew unfit for his station.

  Worse, Lady Hadley likely assumed that he was too unaware of the rules of precedence to understand what she had done. Over the past few weeks, she had been circumspect in her criticism of Andrew. Apparently tonight she wished to take a bolder stance.

  Andrew drew his lips into a straight line, trying to decide if he cared enough to take her to task over it.

  Lord and Lady Whitcomb smiled politely when they finally reached the front of the line.

  “Lord Hadley.” Lady Whitcomb bobbed an elegant curtsy, her eyes straying to take in the length of tartan wrapped around his chest. “’Tis a pleasure to see you this evening.”

  Andrew bowed in return. Lady Whitcomb turned to the older gentleman standing at her side.

  “Lord Wanleigh, may I present Lord Hadley?” she asked the man.

  “Lord Wanleigh,” Andrew bowed.

  Ah, all the small social rules of the English. He wanted to shake his head.

  Lady Whitcomb’s manner of introduction meant that Lord Wanleigh must be a marquess, as she had presented Hadley to him, not the other way around. This meant that Wanleigh outranked his own title of earl, and as he hadn’t been introduced as a duke . . .

  Andrew smiled politely at the man. Wanleigh dripped arrogance and condescension, a visual embodiment of the scorn Andrew had already felt at the hands of the peerage and Parliament. Privilege and wealth clung to him, from the haughty inclination of his head to the glittering rings on his fingers to the gold thread of his waistcoat straining across his rounded belly. Andrew took petty comfort in his balding, gray hair, and obviously powdered head.

  But it was Wanleigh’s reaction to being introduced to Lady Jane that truly set Andrew’s teeth on edge.

  “Lady Jane.” Wanleigh bowed low over Jane’s hand, his eyes lighting with almost lurid interest. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He pressed a kiss to her hand, a decidedly old-fashioned gesture.

  Jane’s expression didn’t change during the exchange. Her face remained
passive; her eyes remote.

  Lady Hadley was looking back and forth between her daughter and Wanleigh, as if she had expectations in that direction.

  Were there expectations there?

  The very thought made Andrew’s stomach churn.

  “May I solicit your hand for the supper waltz, Lady Jane?” Wanleigh asked.

  Andrew bristled. The supper waltz was the most prized dance of the evening, as the gentleman then got to accompany the lady into supper and spend even more time at her side.

  He had thought to ask Jane to bestow the dance on him.

  But if Jane had any similar thoughts, she didn’t show them. She briefly met Andrew’s gaze with a cool one of her own before turning her head back to Wanleigh.

  “It would be an honor, my lord,” she said.

  Wanleigh smiled wider, his eyes skimming Jane as if assessing a prize filly. Lady Hadley positively beamed with approval.

  Andrew walked with Rafe into the main ballroom, his eyes following Jane, who had moved off to greet some friends.

  “Surely I misunderstood what just happened in the entrance hall?” Andrew murmured to his friend, voice low.

  Rafe took one last look at Jane before shaking his head. “I fear not. Is Wanleigh courting her?”

  “I have no idea. I suppose Wanleigh courting her isn’t a surprise. Jane is a bonnie lass—”

  Rafe raised his eyebrow, a smirk hovering.

  Andrew rolled his eyes.

  “Regardless of Wanleigh’s intentions,” he continued, “why would Jane act as if she must entertain his suit?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Her family has always made it clear that they expect her to marry well.”

  “But forcing her tae marry a man old enough tae be her grandfather? And a supercilious windbag, tae boot?”

  “You’re not wrong about Wanleigh,” Rafe snorted. “But he is powerful and well-connected, not to mention wealthy. He’s one of the few peers to escape the disastrous Caribbean Affair. If Lady Jane’s family brings pressure for her to marry Wanleigh, I’m not sure she will be able to extricate herself.”

  Rafe’s words caused the knot in Andrew’s stomach to cinch tighter.

  Unfortunately, their fears proved founded as the evening wore on. Wanleigh attached himself to Jane’s side, talking at her—not with her, that would have required Jane to respond beyond a word or two—and monopolizing her entirely.

  Andrew tried to lose himself in dancing with several young women local to the area, but the harder he avoided staring at Jane, the more difficult it became.

  Why would Jane not look at him? Why did he feel like she was avoiding him? He had thought they were friends, at the very least, given their interactions over the past two weeks. But Jane’s cool distance belied even that.

  The supper waltz was particularly troublesome.

  Jane twirled with Wanleigh, her face studiously averted. Andrew felt forgotten and abandoned.

  For his part, Andrew was partnered with a chatty young miss whose father had earned a knighthood during the Napoleonic conflict. He learned that wee bit between her questions about Scotland and outrageous flirting.

  He had never been one to discourage the attentions of a pretty lass.

  He might have flirted back.

  He also may have laughed heartily.

  And, he very possibly may have said, “A man cannae help but appreciate a fresh-faced lass,” a little too loudly.

  Even Wanleigh turned his head in Andrew’s direction at that.

  But Jane looked steadfastly away, not acknowledging his existence.

  Finally, he could take it no longer.

  He approached Jane after supper. She stood primly with her mother on one side, still talking with Lord Wanleigh on the other. Or rather being talked at by Wanleigh. Jane’s lips weren’t moving.

  Wanleigh scowled as Andrew stopped before them.

  Andrew bowed. “Lady Jane, may I solicit the honor of your hand for this next set?”

  Wanleigh harrumphed from his position at Jane’s elbow.

  Jane gave the man a quick glance. Wanleigh pursed his mouth and then gave a subtle nod of his head.

  Wait—had the man honestly just given Jane permission to dance?

  Jane smiled faintly, not misunderstanding Andrew’s abruptly thunderous expression. “I would be honored, Lord Hadley.”

  Hadley’s arm was tense under Jane’s gloved hand. Despite the multiple layers of fabric between them, Jane could feel the muscles stiff and unyielding underneath.

  He was an intelligent man, Jane would give him that. He clearly understood that Lord Wanleigh was a feted suitor for her hand.

  His opinion of that fact was also blatantly obvious.

  What Jane hadn’t expected was the rise of her own temper.

  How dare Hadley stomp around as if he had a say in her life! Her decisions were her own. If she wished to marry an elderly lord, well, that was her choice to make.

  He wasn’t her brother or uncle or guardian.

  He had not declared himself to be her suitor.

  He was a friend and little more.

  They took their places for the next set, arm-in-arm, waiting for their turn to chassé down the line.

  “Ye seem tae be enjoying yourself tonight, my lady,” he began, bite in his tone.

  “I am,” Jane replied in an equally tense voice.

  “Are ye?” Hadley glanced tellingly at Wanleigh staring at them from across the ballroom. “I didnae know ye fancied a man in his dotage.”

  A shiver of surprise slid down Jane’s spine. She suspected that Lord Hadley’s accent slipped when he felt strong emotions. Was he truly so upset over Wanleigh? Why did he believe her decisions were any of his concern?

  How had they reached this point again? Her . . . the icy princess. Him . . . the oafish buffoon.

  “I have not sought your opinion on this matter, my lord,” she replied, keeping her tone low and even.

  “I’m trying tae be a friend, Lady Jane—”

  “A friend would be significantly kinder.”

  “—and merely pointing out that ye have more options. Yer too spirited a lass tae be hobbled like this—”

  “Too spirited?!” Jane managed to hiss the words without breaking the mask of her expression.

  The bloody man had no idea precisely how spirited she could be.

  “Aye,” Hadley muttered, “Ye deserve tae be free—”

  “Enough. I will not discuss this,” Jane replied and then turned away from him, allowing the forms of the reel to move her to another partner.

  Hadley did not understand her situation. He claimed friendship, but he didn’t know her. Not entirely.

  And whose fault is that? A soft voice whispered in her mind.

  She ground her teeth.

  The remainder of the dance passed in silence, as no other opportunity for private conversation presented itself.

  Hadley continued to send pointed glances her way throughout the rest of the evening. Jane hated how attuned her body was to his, that she could feel the weight of his gaze drilling her between the shoulder blades from thirty paces away.

  His judgment only underscored her own frustration. She detested feeling helpless. She disliked Wanleigh’s possessive glances.

  But most of all, she hated that Hadley was right.

  She was too spirited a lass to be hobbled like this.

  But she struggled to see another solution. Throwing her problem at Hadley’s feet would do nothing to solve it. He couldn’t take on Montacute, and he hadn’t the finances to marry her without her dowry.

  By the time the carriages rolled to the front of Hadley Park, her nerves were a frayed mess.

  It didn’t help that Peter had emerged from the gaming room three sheets to the wind. He had sung every verse to ‘What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?’ at least four times on the drive home.

  Jane was quite sure, “Weigh ho and up she rises,” would linger in her ears for the next week.

&n
bsp; Her brother stumbled out of the carriage first, leaning on a footman, regaling him with tales of his evening.

  Her mother followed with pursed lips.

  Lord Rafe and Hadley greeted them in the entrance hall. Hadley shot her mother a thunderous look, clearly holding Lady Hadley somewhat responsible for the evening’s machinations. Her mother, not misreading Hadley’s expression, kissed Jane’s cheek in the hallway.

  “I am utterly shattered,” she said, voice prim. “I’m for bed. Goodnight, all.” And she made her escape upstairs.

  Lord Rafe shook his head and waved goodnight as well, taking the stairs two at a time.

  This left Jane with Hadley and a happily humming Peter in the entrance hall.

  Jane turned to follow her mother up the stairs, but a firm hand on her elbow held her back.

  “Yes, Lord Hadley?” Jane asked, turning back around.

  “A word, if I may, Lady Jane.” His tone was not a question.

  His expression all-too-clearly stated what his word would be.

  Peter relaxed against the wall behind Hadley, singing softly, “What shall we do with a drunken sailor eeeeearly in the mornin’.”

  Lovely.

  She did not want to have this conversation at the moment.

  Or, really . . . ever.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, tugging her arm free and turning again for the stairs.

  “Ye need to discuss this,” he hissed. “You’re more than this reserved person. Ye have fire in you, Jane. It’s your future you’re throwing away.”

  That got her attention.

  Reserved person?

  Fire?

  Hadley wanted fire?

  Oh, she was ready to give him that. Would that send him running for the hills? Would he abandon her like others had? Finally scorn her for simply being her truest self?

  Turning around, Jane stomped back to Hadley.

  She did what she had longed to do for hours now: planted her hands on her hips, tapped her foot, and prepared to give him the set-down of the century.

  “Chuck him in the long-boat ’til he’s shhhhhober . . .” Peter sang.

  “How dare you question me! My future.” She tapped her breastbone. “Mine. You”—she jabbed a finger into his irritatingly attractive chest—“do not get any say in that.”