The Whiskey Laird's Bed
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The Whisky Laird’s Bed
Donna MacMeans
InterMix Books, New York
INTERMIX BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY THE PENGUIN GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE WHISKY LAIRD’S BED
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / July 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Donna MacMeans.
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Cover design by George Long.
Whisky bottle and glasses © Valery Bareta/Shutterstock.
Tartan kilt © Stephen Robertson/Shutterstock.
Vintage bedroom © Unholy Vault Designs.
Wooden table © Atiketta Sangasaeng/Shutterstock.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14587-0
INTERMIX
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
London, 1891
Alcoholic fumes and the painful memories they evoked nearly unnerved Claire Starke as she entered the masculine domain of the Bull and Beast.
Steeling her resolve, she pushed forward into the first of nineteen pubs that lined a short stretch of Oxford Street. Nineteen pubs, each filled with men who thought nothing of drinking away their day’s wages, to the detriment of their wives and children. Had these men no conscience? No more productive way to spend their time?
“Think of your hungry children,” she whispered to one man deep in his cups. She placed a pamphlet by his hand.
“Free worker’s lunch at the Sober Society,” she murmured to another, who was nursing a glass of Old Tom gin. He grunted, and she quietly moved on.
“The needs of the household are greater than your need for drink,” she said to the well-dressed man sipping from a glass of amber liquid. An open bottle of Scotch whisky, that most foul of liquors, sat near his elbow.
“What?” Vacuous eyes lifted to her face, trying to focus. “What do you know of my needs?”
“You!” the burly barkeep shouted, pointing a finger at her. “Are you one of those Sober Society troublemakers?”
A group of men slurring their way through the lyrics of a bawdy drinking song stilled. A few tankards of ale smacked wooden tables with loud thuds. Reddened, runny eyes turned her way, while an unnatural silence descended.
Claire slowly straightened, smoothing her hand over her simple black skirt. Defiantly, she shifted her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I believe in temperance. Yes.”
Jeers and whistles rose in response. She raised her voice to a near-shout. “These men need to understand that drinking their wages leads to poverty and malnutrition. Their wives and children—”
“Your face would drive me to drink!” one man yelled. Laughter and cheers encouraged others to join his verbal assault.
“Her nose looks like a beak! She must be a crow,” mocked another.
A chant began. “Crow, crow, crow . . .”
Even though she knew the men very likely couldn’t see her clearly, the insult stung. She knew she was no beauty, and didn’t require the reminder. The taunt about her nose was a familiar one, though, which sadly suggested it was true.
“You can’t distribute that trash in here,” the barkeep snarled. “Leave now before I throw you out.”
It wasn’t an idle threat. She’d learned that from experience, and so kept a knife tucked in her boot. A woman physically ejected from a tavern held a strange attraction to those prowling outside. After one such frightening episode, she’d determined never to be so vulnerable again.
But if she could avoid being placed in such jeopardy, she would. She turned, then peaceably walked toward the door, tossing pamphlets on the tables as she passed. Her pace quickened when she sensed the barkeep behind her. She burst onto Oxford Street a moment before he could catch her.
She paused to catch her breath and clear the stink of pub vapors from her throat. But the scent of rubbish in the street wasn’t much better.
“One down.” She sighed. “Eighteen more to go.”
A tug on her skirt startled her. Looking down, she met the pleading glance of a young boy, perhaps seven, peeking out from a filthy cap. Worn, dirty clothes hung from his thin frame. Beside him, a small black-and-white terrier cocked his head. The two sets of eyes tugged at her heart.
“Please, ma’am. Did you see my pa inside?” The boy glanced to the door of the Bull and Beast. “My ma said to bring ’im ’ome before he drinks the rent. But I’m scared . . .”
It may have been a ploy for money—begging had given rise to talents worthy of Drury Lane—but something about this lad spoke true. Not so long ago, she’d been the one checking the pubs, hoping to find her drunken father.
> Sadly, the recent sale of her father’s prized pocket watch had netted less money than she’d anticipated, but she had great expectations of winning the fat prize purse offered by the Sober Society. Thus, she felt she could be generous with the young lad.
“Here, boy.” She placed some coins in his hand. “Take this home to your mother, and don’t tell your pa, or he’ll drink that away as well.”
The boy’s eyes brightened as if lit by one of those newfangled electric lightbulbs. He tipped his filthy cap. “God save you, miss. Thank you so much. Thank you.” Then he turned and disappeared down the street.
She glanced down, noting that the dog had remained.
“Go on,” she prodded. “Off with you.”
The dog didn’t move. She sighed. Another stray. What was it about her that called to all the stray children and animals of the world? Sometimes she suspected that they recognized her as one of their own.
“Come along, then. We’ll see about getting you a bone. Looks like we’ve enough time to be evicted from a few more establishments.”
***
Two hours later, Claire pushed through the door of the Crescent Coffee Palace while her canine companion continued down the street with a new bone locked firmly in his jowls. That was the way with strays. They stayed for a meal or two before independence pulled them away.
The Crescent Coffee Palace had been a gin parlor before the Women for a Sober Society transformed the building into a respectable and popular meeting place for refined ladies. Claire had served on several of the Society’s committees, helping to advance the temperance cause. She hoped her efforts would be remembered when the Sober Society chose their prize recipient. Heaven knew she could use the money. While the sale of her father’s photographic equipment had netted a tidy sum, financial resources were dwindling, with sparse hope of replacement.
“There she is,” a familiar voice called. Sarah, the oldest member of the Rake Patrol, waved her handkerchief. “Over here.”
Four women had originally formed the Rake Patrol to warn and rescue innocent women duped by fraudulent and misleading personal ads placed in the Mayfair Messenger. One of the women, Sarah, worked at the paper and offered unique insight into those placing an advertisement. While Claire was the only one involved in the temperance movement, she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed this noble and rewarding venture even more. She was convinced they had saved numerous women from destroying their lives. In the process, she’d found her dearest, best friends.
Claire sharpened her focus. Something was amiss. Their ranks had been reduced by one, as Edwina Hargrove had recently wed Mr. Ashton Trewelyn and was now enjoying a honeymoon cruise floating down the Nile. Thus, there should be only one other person at the table with Sarah. Yet now there were two.
“Claire, I’m so glad you’re here,” Sarah said. “Perhaps you can convince these two of the foolishness of their plan to—”
“Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Patricia Townsend,” Faith interrupted, with an anguished glance toward Sarah. “Patricia wishes our advice after the receipt of some recent correspondence.”
“Correspondence?” Claire asked, her eyes narrowed.
The mousy woman to her right looked to have one foot in the grave and yet had already laid claim to Faith’s friendship. Suspicious of the newcomer’s intent, Claire looked to Sarah. “Have we moved beyond personal ads? We now consider correspondence?”
“I replied to a personal ad last week,” Miss Townsend explained. “Perhaps you recall this?” She reached into her reticule, then handed Faith a tightly folded scrap of newsprint. Faith spread the paper on the table, then read it aloud.
“‘A Gentleman Desirous of Marriage.
‘A prosperous, handsome gentleman, 29 years of age and of a healthful constitution, is desirous of marriage to a suitable woman of elegance and grace, who would willingly serve as hostess and companion. Ability to withstand the northern climes essential. Reply to Box 23, Mayfair Messenger.’”
Claire stifled a shudder. Even in London, she was always cold. A legacy from her childhood, when a penny was too precious to waste on coal. The thought that someone would voluntarily withstand a colder climate seemed downright nonsensical.
“I remember the man who placed that ad. He had an ugly scar.” Sarah’s finger sliced a path across her face from her temple to the corner of her lip. “I always thought it misleading that he advertised himself as handsome.”
“A scar itself would not render the advertisement false,” Faith interceded. “There are more attributes assigned to ‘handsome’ than the features of one’s face. He might have a lovely disposition or handsome manners or—”
“That may be true,” Claire said, interrupting Faith’s lecture. Those gifted with beauty, as Faith was, often overlooked the advantages of their appearance. However, Claire understood the reality of life without those gifts and it wasn’t all sugar and sunshine. She turned toward Miss Townsend. “I believe you mentioned something about correspondence?”
The woman smiled. “My response to this initial advertisement generated an invitation to interview the gentleman at his home. While I was assured that a chaperone would be present at all times, I’m leery of making such a trip alone.”
“As well you should be,” Claire agreed with a sharp nod. “Refuse him.”
Pleased that her guidance had saved yet another innocent from the clutches of some unscrupulous cad, Claire prepared for a different discussion. While she was proud to be part of The Rake Patrol, she’d hoped to talk about new members and perhaps solicit her friends’ thoughts about that Sober Society contest.
“Only the lowest sort of gentleman would insist that you interview at his home as if you were a servant,” Sarah interjected. “That advertisement has run on several occasions, if I recall. The next time that scar-faced man appears, I’ll tell him—”
“He lives in Scotland,” Miss Townsend said. “That concerns me more than the interview.”
“Scotland!” Claire couldn’t repress her shudder. It would take more than a coal fire to warm her in that desolate place.
Faith’s delicate brows knit together. “If he has come to London on several occasions to place an advertisement in the Messenger . . .” She hesitated before twisting her head toward Miss Townsend. “Why would he insist you travel to Scotland? He could just as easily interview you here.”
“I’m surprised he lives in Scotland,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “The scar-faced man has an English accent, not Scottish.”
“Refuse him,” Claire insisted again, with her Sober Society committee voice. Unsure why they were continuing to discuss this obviously unsuitable ad, she glanced at Sarah. “While I understand you can not decline to run this ad in the future, perhaps the Messenger should demand some sort of disclosure about the trip to Scotland. That alone should discourage unsuspecting innocents from placing themselves in jeopardy.”
“I want to go,” Miss Townsend said quietly.
Claire stared in disbelief. Did the woman not understand the danger of traveling alone so far from home? While she admired the woman’s determination, that was not sufficient reason for such a foolhardy decision.
“I’m not as young as I once was,” Miss Townsend explained. “My opportunities for marriage are diminishing. If there’s a possibility of an amenable future in Scotland, then I don’t want to dismiss it without meeting my potential husband.” She glanced around the table. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and my mind is made up. I’ve a cousin in Edinburgh, though I’ve never been to Scotland to meet her, and I’m curious . . . but I’m not so foolish as to go alone. I was hoping one of you might accompany me . . .”
“One of us?” Sarah’s mouth gaped. “We can’t very well pack up and go to Scotland at the drop of a hat.”
“I think you misunderstand the nature of the Rake Patrol,” Claire patiently explained w
ith a pointed lift of the brow. “We investigate the men who place personal ads to see if they are worthy of the women they seek. If they are not, we work to discourage women from blindly falling into their clutches. It seems to me that this Scotland fellow is the latter, and you have been duly warned.”
Sensing that her words had little impact on the pouting Miss Townsend, Claire narrowed her eyes. “Do you not recall ‘The Maiden Tribute,’ which ran in the Pall Mall Gazette?”
“W. T. Stead’s series on white slavery.” Sarah’s head lifted. She turned toward Miss Townsend. “He wrote about women being lured to London with promises of well-paying positions, only to be forced into brothels.” She scowled a moment and then glanced at Claire. “Of course, Stead was drawn into scandal over that piece.”
“Yet no one has denied that white slavery exists,” Claire stated with authority. If London’s wickedness could support nineteen drinking establishments on Oxford Street, then it could support brothels filled with innocents as well. “Stead’s downfall was his showmanship, not his accuracy.”
“But I’m already in London,” Miss Townsend protested. “And the offer is for marriage, not employment.”
“It’s the same ruse.” Claire shook her head. “If men live in Scotland, I imagine brothels exist there, just as they do here.” She looked around the circle. “I propose we move on to other business. Our group has been diminished by Edwina’s absence. I don’t know if we’ll ever find another who could break codes as easily as Edwina, but we should consider finding someone with her investigative resources.”
“I miss Edwina,” Faith said with a sigh.
“I do, too,” Sarah added. “Reading the personal column is just not the same without her explaining what the coded ads really said.” She looked over at Faith. “Have you heard from her recently?”
“Indeed, I have! I received a letter just as I left.” She fished in her reticule. “I’d quite forgotten it in the discussion surrounding Miss Townsend’s dilemma. Here it is!”
Claire settled back in her seat, accepting that no further business would be enacted at this meeting. They would all listen to Edwina’s latest exploits and then disperse due to the advancing hour. She missed Edwina as well but realized she was living her dream, honeymooning with the unquestionably handsome Ashton Trewelyn. Some people were fortunate to find a life companion. Others, like herself, had to accept that theirs was to be a lonely lot in life.