Read Once Upon a Highland Summer Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
He cringed as she played another wrong note. She was still his daughter in the eyes of the law, his to dispose of as he wished. Elizabeth expected him to marry the girl to royalty, did she? He’d do the opposite. He’d marry the girl off quickly and quietly, to the most minor lord he could find—anyone who’d take her, so long as he took her far, far away.
T
he butler who opened the door of Westlake House was crisply dressed and wide-awake, as if it were noon instead of barely dawn. If he was surprised to see Alec on the doorstep, he gave not the slightest indication. He simply stepped back and let him enter the cavernous hall, assuming that Alec had been summoned, and had come at once, the hour notwithstanding.
“Good morning, Northcott,” Alec said, stepping over the threshold into the Earl of Westlake’s home, and handing Northcott his hat as he did so.
“Good morning, sir. I’ll see if His Lordship is in, if you’ll be so kind as to wait.”
Alec waited, though he knew that the Earl of Westlake was not only in, he’d probably been working for hours, delving into the secrets and sins of society, raking through the lives of his fellow peers with a fine comb, scrutinizing private correspondence, examining wicked billets-doux, and analyzing wills, dinner menus, laundry lists, and dry documents of sale for hidden meanings. Alec wondered if the Crown’s spymaster ever slept, and rubbed a hand over his own face, realizing he’d not been to bed himself since yesterday.
He’d delivered the letters yesterday, admitting one was missing, and within hours, he’d received the summons to appear first thing this morning. His stomach had been churning ever since. Mistakes were costly in this business. Alec assumed there’d be a dressing-down, and a stern warning to be more careful. At worst, he’d be sent back to search the Countess of Bray’s chamber. He tugged on his earlobe. His ears were still ringing with the good woman’s screams.
“His Lordship will see you in the study, sir,” Northcott said, interrupting Alec’s thoughts. He led the way down the hall.
Adam De Courcey, Earl of Westlake, rose from his desk as his guest entered. “Ah, MacNabb. How very intuitive of you—I was just writing you another note.”
Alec frowned. “Another? When have I ever failed to answer your call the first time?”
The earl’s eyebrow twitched. “This is another matter, and hence, another note. Coffee, please, Northcott,” Westlake said, dismissing his servant. He indicated a seat across the desk from his own, and picked up an open letter on the polished mahogany surface. “You inherited your father’s title recently—you are the Earl of Glenlorne.” Westlake said, making the fact that he hadn’t heard it from Alec first an unspoken accusation.
Alec hadn’t known. The surprise caught him in the gut, but he hid it, and continued to regard Westlake evenly.
How could he have known? He had as little contact as possible with his family. They believed he had left England some years ago, and was in Ceylon. The bitter tang of shock filled Alec’s mouth. So his father had died young, just as Alec had feared, after a useless life of drink. He had not left Scotland on good terms with his father—or his stepmother, which had more to do with why he left. Alec had objected when his father began to sell off land, to make changes to old ways that had existed for centuries, and had written letters and decrees while he was in his cups that had destroyed old alliances. Alec suspected it hadn’t all been the MacNabb’s own doing. He could not prove it, of course. It had been better to leave than to watch the clan destroyed further. He tightened his hands on the arms of the chair. It galled him that Westlake should somehow know before he did.
Of course it hardly mattered. No doubt there was nothing to inherit except a worthless title, a crumbling castle, and a mountain of debt. With each generation there was a little less worth inheriting. It was as if the clan was cursed with ill luck. His great-grandfather, knowing war was coming, had hedged his bets on the outcome of the Jacobite rebellion by dividing his eight sons, placing half on the royalist side, and half in Bonnie Prince Charlie’s camp. The battle and the terrible aftermath had taken the flower of the clan, along with the laird and seven of his fine sons—all save the youngest. The lad had been away from home, took no side at all, and the English had let him keep what little was left of Glenlorne. Throughout Alec’s grandfather’s lifetime, and his father’s lifetime, things had only gotten worse for the once proud and prosperous clan. Soon, Glenlorne would be gone altogether, and all that would remain would be tired legends of MacNabb glory, told around smoky fires in tumble-down huts by men in rags—the kind of stories his grandfather used to tell Alec when he was a boy. He couldn’t help. He was no leader. He’d left home eight years ago, full of bright plans, and failed. He was Earl of Glenlorne? Yes, the clan was cursed indeed.
“Yes,” he said in answer to the earl’s pronouncement of his new circumstance, as if they were discussing the weather, as if he’d known but simply didn’t care. He had no intention of returning to Scotland for the burial, or of acknowledging the title. He wondered how his half sisters were faring, and the folk of the clan, and felt a prickle of guilt. He pushed it away. What could he have done if he’d stayed? He’d only cause more pain. He met the question in Westlake’s sharp gaze with disdain, telling the earl silently to mind his own business. Westlake smiled.
Alec supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Westlake knew before he did. There was damned little Westlake didn’t know.
“Actually, it isn’t all that recent. It was almost a year ago,” the spymaster said.
A year?
How had his stepmother and his sisters managed since? Alec gritted his teeth and remained stubbornly silent, ignoring the prompting of the earl’s raised eyebrows to explain himself.
“Is that all you wished to see me about? There’s nothing you need purloined, no one you want followed?” he growled.
Westlake smiled coolly. “I have a letter here from Countess Devina—”
“Who?” Alec asked.
Westlake’s articulate eyebrows twitched in surprise and annoyance. “Your stepmother, I believe?”
“Devorguilla?” Alec blurted.
“It appears she’s styling herself as Countess Devina now.”
Warning bells sounded in Alec’s head over more than the alteration of her name. Devorguilla had always had a penchant for things English. She would never have dared to change her name while his father was alive. It meant she was up to something.
“Now why on earth would she write to you?” Alec asked. Surely Devorguilla—Devina—had no idea Alec was in London. His family believed he was in Ceylon, didn’t they? He shifted in his seat, a familiar froth of guilt and failure stirring in the pit of his stomach.
“She didn’t,” Westlake said. “She wrote to your man of affairs here in Town, Richard Waters. I have someone in his employ who keeps me informed of interesting developments.”
Alec frowned. She wanted money—probably needed it desperately. Not that he had any to spare. He thought again of Countess Bray’s necklace, and wondered how much—
“She wants you dead,” Westlake said without emotion, as if Devorguilla had written to ask Waters for the funds to buy a bolt of cambric, or a length of ribbon.
Alec felt his jaw drop. “Dead?”
“Since you’ve been missing for quite nearly the requisite seven years, and haven’t acknowledged your inheritance of the title, she’s wondering if Waters can advise her of the rules of law that will allow her to have you declared legally dead, so she may claim your estate.”
“Claim my estate?” Alec blurted. “There’s nothing to bloody claim!”
“Still, she wishes to use any available funds to provide suitable dowries for her three daughters, Megan, Alanna, and Sorcha.”
Dowries. Of course the girls would need dowries to marry well. He hadn’t considered that it was now his responsibility.
“Can she do this?” Alec asked.
The earl’s brows twitched again, indicating amusement, if Westlake was capable of such an emotion. “You appear very much alive to me, Glenlorne,” he replied, using Alec’s new title. “I expect you’ll want to go north and deal with this yourself, in person.”
Alec stared at him. “No.”
Westlake’s brows took wing for his hairline. “No?”
Alec got up and paced the length of the carpet. “I shall direct Waters to send her a letter.” Was that the correct thing to do? He might be an earl by inheritance, but he had no idea how to be an earl. What should he say to Devorguilla, what commands should he give, beyond confirming the fact that he was indeed still alive?
Westlake didn’t speak for a long moment. He seemed to be considering something. “In truth, Glenlorne—”
“MacNabb will do just fine, thank you,” Alec growled.
“I need you in Scotland—or at least out of London. The missing letter has turned up. Lord Bray has it, and I’ve been assured he knows the whole truth. He packed Countess Bray off to the country yesterday afternoon, and he refused an invitation to dine with the Prince Regent.”
“What does that mean?” Alec asked. He had no idea what the letters contained.
“It means that I can no longer use your services.”
Alec gripped the back of the chair until the leather squeaked. “Because of one mistake in seven years?”
Westlake remained calm—he was never anything but calm. “No, not entirely, though I do recall I warned you that mistakes could not be allowed to happen. No, you’ve got a title now. You’ve become visible, a gentleman. Someone might recognize you if you began to frequent the kind of society functions your new status allows.”
“Now why would I do that?” Alec demanded.
Westlake opened a drawer, took out a book, and held it up.
Alec read the title. “
Waverley
? Walter Scott’s novel?”
Westlake riffled the pages. “Yes. The whole
ton
is reading it, my wife included, and mainly because the Prince Regent is fascinated by it. He invited Scott to London, and his interest is now making all things Scottish quite fashionable. He has Scottish ancestry, of course, and he’ll be the King of Scotland eventually.”
Alec chuckled. “I doubt he’ll be inviting me to tea to chat about my homeland, my lord.”
“No, but as a Scottish earl, you’ll be in much demand by the rest of the
ton
, the fashionable folk who wish to emulate His Highness’s interest. Why, my own wife has suggested we summer in Scotland, give a ball with a Scottish theme. I have put her off, of course, but you can see why you must go.”
Alec folded his arms over his chest. “And if I refuse?”
“I trust you remember an English earl still has precedence over a Scottish one?” Westlake asked calmly. “Did you know that Bray has offered a reward regarding the robbery of his home the other night? It seems a valuable necklace was stolen, his wife terrorized so badly she had to retire to the country. His footman saw a tall man with dark hair,” he mused.
“I didn’t take the necklace,” Alec said.
“Of course not, but it would be most inconvenient if you were identified—perhaps even hanged—for a crime you did not commit. You
did
terrorize Her Ladyship, if nothing else. She might be able to identify you.”
Alec’s lips twisted bitterly, and he cast a glance around the luxurious room. There was nothing at Glenlorne to compare with this. Not even the coffee that Northcott had silently delivered at some point during the conversation. Westlake crossed to the tray, and poured out. The rich fragrance reminded Alec that he wasn’t in Ceylon, living the life of a rich planter. He was a penniless thief, and his life, his secrets—they all belonged to Westlake. He left his coffee untouched and gave Westlake an exaggerated bow.
He grabbed Devorguilla’s letter off Westlake’s desk and shoved it into his coat for good measure. “If you don’t mind my lord earl, I’ll handle my own affairs from now on,” he said, and strode toward the door.
T
he heavy coach jolted and flew like a child’s toy over yet another deep rut in the road. Caroline winced and clutched the window ledge until the vehicle righted itself.
“That was a bad one!” The gentleman in the green hat, a certain Mr. Brill from Hampshire, chuckled. Caroline refrained from rolling her eyes. He’d made that same pronouncement about every single pothole between London and—well, wherever they were now.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Brill,” the woman in blue said, fanning her flushed face with her glove. “All this rain has made the roads a dreadful mess. I have no hope at all of reaching my destination with my bones intact!”
“And where is it you’re bound, Mrs. Hindon?” asked the second gentleman, a clergyman named Scroop. He had stuck his long nose into a book of Latin history as the coach set out from London, and left it there for most of the trip. After hours with nothing to do, Caroline envied him the prize of something, anything—even Latin history—to read. Mrs. Hindon preened under his attention.
“I’m going to Berwick, sir. My sister lives there, and she’s been poorly. Her husband died not a month past, and she’s in the family way. I hope to be a comfort to her however I can.”
“I daresay a nice stipend would ease her grief, what with another mouth to feed coming along! These are trying times.” Mr. Brill put in.
“Poor lass,” murmured the young woman beside Caroline, who had shyly introduced herself as Miss Louisa Best. Caroline had yet to see Miss Best’s face around the broad brim of her plain straw bonnet, since she kept her eyes downcast. Her brief comment marked the first time she’d spoken since she’d murmured her name to her fellow passengers by way of introduction.
“I myself am bound for York,” Brill declared, offering no further details. He fixed Miss Best with a curious stare, like a magpie sighting something shiny. “And where are you traveling to, Miss Best?”