Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “That since I am the heir apparent, I would know.” Quinn waved him off. “You couldn’t know. What is the news?” Quinn attempted to relax the tension in his shoulders.

  Stirling’s expression gentled. “He is quite ill.” Stirling sighed. “It is a tragedy that he lost his son.”

  Quinn couldn’t disagree with that. Even a bounder like the Earl of St. Andrews did not deserve to lose a son to suicide. After such a tragedy, what sort of stiff-necked man must the old earl be to hold on to the righteous belief that his brother should have married a woman of the earl’s choosing? Had he not the slightest interest in learning something about, Quinn, the man who would take his place as Earl St. Andrews?

  Quinn’s mother took great delight in Quinn’s advancement as the presumed heir to the earldom. Quinn, however, found himself divided and had, therefore, avoided the matter. He was, foremost, a businessman, a brewer, and undeniably a Cit. He loved being a businessman and would loathe to abandon the life. If his uncle’s aversion was shared by the rest of the haut monde, an earl from the merchant class would be a singular oddity.

  He didn’t know how to be an earl, nor did he especially want to learn how to be one. In his experience, titled folk tended toward idleness, recklessness, and extravagance, and were disinclined to pay their debts. These were not qualities he had been raised to admire.

  On the other hand, as a peer, an earl commanded political capital. Quinn wasn’t sure he wanted a political career, but he couldn’t shake off the thought that a seat in Parliament might allow him to make changes favorable for Scotland and the nation.

  Quinn sipped his coffee, then said, “I imagine I will hear from him when he deems it necessary.”

  Quinn turned the discussion to Sir Stirling’s ale requirements and found him to be an able and fair negotiator. Quinn’s mood lifted considerably when they ended with an agreed-upon arrangement that pleased Quinn. Before Sir Stirling departed, he invited Quinn to a tavern called The Melrose, with the promise of someone he wanted him to meet.

  “Is this a trap?” Quinn joked. “I am not such a fool as to be compromised by a tavern wench.”

  Instead of laughing, Sir Stirling’s expression turned serious. “There are tavern wenches and there are tavern wenches.” After which, he took a breath and clapped Quinn’s shoulder. “No traps, I promise.”

  Quinn studied the man. Surely, Sir Stirling was not proposing a match for him? He wasn’t in the market for a wife. Nevertheless, Sir Stirling was a fascinating character, and Quinn wouldn’t mind getting to know him better.

  An afternoon appointment agreed upon, Stirling called for his outer clothing. Quinn walked to the door, shook hands, then Stirling left and Quinn went to his room to prepare for his appointment.

  Chapter Four

  The Melrose

  Inverness

  That afternoon

  Quinn stepped from his carriage and pulled his coat tighter about him as he waved his coachman toward the stables of the public house where he had agreed to meet Sir Stirling. He’d had no difficulty locating the establishment. The Melrose stood prominently alongside a smithy on Tomnahurich Street. Farther down, the road angled toward a hillside church, its churchyard scattered with headstones, altar tombs, and yew trees.

  The few hours of wintry daylight had nearly slipped away, and he stepped briskly toward the door. Inside the tavern, Quinn basked for a moment in the warmth before he removed his overcoat and handed it to a buxom serving woman who eyed him with interest.

  Ignoring her impertinence, Quinn scanned the noisy public room and spotted Sir Stirling at a table in a secluded corner in the rear, conversing with a man over a disorderly array of papers and books. This must be Sir Stirling’s friend. Quinn was curious as to the reason for the odd invitation but, without considering Quinn’s future earldom, Sir Stirling was an influential gentleman and a good customer. Plus, Quinn liked him, despite Sir Stirling’s peculiar interest in matchmaking.

  Upon Quinn’s approach, Sir Stirling rose with a smile and an outstretched hand. The other man put down a book and pencil and stood.

  “Murray, delighted to see you again,” Sir Stirling said. “I’d like to introduce my friend, Malcolm Russell, the proprietor of this fine establishment. Russell, this is Mister Quinn Murray, owner of Bonnie Lassie Brewery.”

  Russell extended a hand. “And heir to the Earl St. Andrews, I understand. Welcome to The Melrose, Mister Murray.”

  “Thank you.” Quinn clasped his hand and glanced uncertainly at Sir Stirling. Was this about business, then? And why did his new acquaintance mention Quinn’s new connection to the nobility?

  Sir Stirling smiled and shook his head. “I am sure you are wondering why I wanted to introduce the two of you. It’s not about your fine beer, although I’m sure that is a subject you both would like to pursue further. What I particularly wished to discuss is some of Malcolm’s genealogical discoveries.”

  Genealogical discoveries? Quinn’s eyes narrowed. What had this to do with him?

  Malcolm grinned. “I understand. Most folks don’t appreciate my obsession with family lineage. ‘Past history,’ they tell me. But my interest lies with tracking the descendants of a particular individual, a brave and noble Scottish hero, in fact. Take a seat and I will explain my efforts to locate forgotten descendants of Robert the Bruce.” He waved a hand to a dark-haired serving maid two tables over. “Catriona, bring ale for my friend here.”

  Quinn joined them at the table. Catriona delivered a glass of ale and Quinn listened as Malcolm described his lifelong fascination with the life and deeds of the great hero Robert the Bruce. Quinn recalled being enthralled by the tales of The Bruce recounted by his father and tutor, as well as the countless books he’d poured over as a youth.

  “I am myself descended from The Bruce,” Russell concluded with a smile of satisfaction. “In the course of time, our family lost our lofty position, which is why you find me here, a mere publican with no pretensions of wealth or nobility. That does not mean, however,” he added with a grin, “that the Russells have allowed our reduced circumstances to discourage us.” He gestured at the room. “I run a successful business with honesty and integrity that provides a useful service to my customers.”

  “Here, here!” Quinn lifted his glass. After all, his own business depended on pubs like The Melrose.

  His companions joined in a toast to the health of public houses, after which Malcolm continued. “My boyhood fascination with The Bruce turned into an obsession to find proof of our family’s connection to him and, in the course of doing so, I came across more of his progeny, including many born out of wedlock.” He shrugged. “It happens. Particularly with charismatic men like the Bruce. Many women claimed to have borne his child, of course, but as I searched, I found four women—daughters of his supporters—who fell pregnant soon after Bruce’s visit to their homes. All four were quickly married off respectably and bore children shockingly soon afterward.”

  Quinn leaned forward. “Did he know, do you think?”

  His host chuckled. “As to that, I have no way of discovering. Nor do I know how these ladies’ fathers reacted to the news of The Bruce meddling with their daughters. Written documents from that era are scarce. The man was a hero, worshipped by many. Perhaps they thought it an honor to claim a grandchild of his.”

  Sir Stirling reached across the table and pulled out a sheet with the heading Grant. “The Grants supported The Bruce and were rewarded with extensive lands in Strathspey, where many remain to this day.”

  “I’ve succeeded in tracing one line of the family to a young lady in Aberdeen.” Russell’s eyes gleamed. “Her father was a tavern owner, like myself. He and his wife are deceased, but for some odd reason, the daughter has disappeared, and the tavern seems to be in the possession of a stepbrother whose reputation is dubious.” His brows furrowed. “I am not acquainted with the young lady, of course, but as a descendent of Robert the Bruce myself, I feel an obligation to ensure her safety.”r />
  Sir Stirling handed Quinn the paper. “Malcolm has found four of these Lost Flowers of Scotland, as he calls them, who have fallen into precarious situations and seem to be in need of assistance.”

  “As the progeny of The Bruce, they deserve much better.” Russell pounded his fist on the table. “At the very least, they should have a comfortable life with a prosperous husband. The very least.”

  Suddenly, the reason for his presence became clear. “Aha! You intended for me to take Miss Grant to wife in a misguided attempt to honor the memory of a dead hero.” He stood. “Gentlemen, this has all been very interesting, and I commend you for your excellent motives, but I have no intention of wedding a woman I have not met, nor wish to meet.”

  Sir Stirling gave a deep sigh. “Sit down, Murray. Despite my reputation as The Matchmaker, I do not coerce anyone to wed against their will. I possess no magic, no potion, no special power to influence you in any way.” He pointed to the paper. “Russell and I believe that these four young ladies—descendants of The Bruce—are in desperate need of help. It occurred to me during our business discussion that you travel a great deal in the area of Aberdeen and beyond for your brewery and you might be amenable to making inquiries about the young lady.” He shrugged. “Marriage is not a condition of the task.”

  “No, indeed,” chimed in Russell. “A future earl could be expected to look much higher than an innkeeper’s daughter. But if you could locate her for us, we can take the necessary steps to see that she is properly settled, as is fitting for a descendant of Robert the Bruce.”

  Quinn grimaced. Heir to an earldom or not, he would never marry for wealth or connections. If he ever wed, it would be to someone he loved and trusted, and not as a mere business transaction.

  Quinn sat, then set his elbows on the table, his hands extended. “The fact is, I am not in the market for a wife, and most likely will not be for a few years yet. My extensive travel is not conducive to a successful family life. There is also this business with the earldom to settle. But when I do wed, it will be to a lady of my choice, be she rich or poor, noble or commoner.”

  “Bravo!” Sir Stirling applauded. “A most commendable sentiment. One I have advocated for many gentlemen, including myself.”

  Quinn snorted. “And you the one who wed a duke’s daughter.”

  Sir Stirling grinned. “Merely a stroke of luck. You wed the lady, you wed her family and everything else.”

  The three gentlemen laughed.

  Sir Stirling picked up the Grant paper. “What do you think, Murray? Might you be willing to lend us a hand in locating this lost Flower? Out of deference to the noble Bruce, Scotland’s greatest hero?”

  Quinn blew a puff of air. Aberdeen was on his itinerary for the winter. As well, it would be no trouble to ask after the Grant lassie along the way.

  “Aye.” He accepted the paper from Sir Stirling’s hand. “I’ll do what I can to find the young lady for you and ensure her safety.”

  The other men cheered. “To The Bruce!” They raised their glasses. “To Scotland! To the Lost Flowers!”

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, Roslyn rose at dawn, washed, dressed, and packed her meager belongings, which included a small bag of white flour. Sprinkling bits in her cinnamon-colored hair should tone down the brightness and add to the severity of the tight bun. That, she hoped, would produce the illusion of a more mature woman. She donned cap and apron, then, energized by a bowl of porridge, she helped serve the morning crowd until the Dundee coach arrived and began to unload. After bidding her friends goodbye, she put on her coat and bonnet and, valise in hand, bid a final goodbye to Jack and Lizzie, then strode out to the thickset coachman, who stood beside the open coach door.

  “Good day, sir. I should like a place on your coach, if you please.” Her insides quivered.

  The man studied her. “Be ye travelin’ alone, miss?”

  Roslyn stretched to her full five feet six inches and addressed him with a confidence she did not feel. “I am, indeed. Have you room for one more?”

  He scratched his head. “What with four other passengers, it’ll be might close, but seein’ as you are on the small side, I reckon t’others won’t mind.” He winked in the direction of two men a few feet away, who eyed her like hungry men at a feast. “That’ll be three shillings, if ye’re goin’ all the way to Dundee.”

  Roslyn swallowed. “Actually, sir, I have a rather—er—unusual request. There is a-a person I wish to avoid, you see, and I would like him to think I am traveling to Dundee while, in actuality, I will be going somewhere else.”

  His eyes narrowed. “On the lam, are ye? Not from the constables, I hope?”

  She gasped. “Oh no! Nothing like that.”

  “A husband? A lover?” He leaned closer and she edged backward.

  “N-no.” Don’t let him intimidate you. This is a matter of life or death. Roslyn withdrew the three shillings from her purse and held them out. “You may have the full fare if you agree to set me down at the outskirts of town, no questions asked. And,” she added as she saw his eyes focus on the coins, “you must promise not to breathe a word to anyone.”

  Lips pursed, he accepted the coins. “Very well, Miss, I’ll take your bargain.” As he grasped her hand to help her into the coach, he added, “I wish ye well in your journey, wherever it may take ye.”

  Roslyn released a breath at having crossed the first hurdle. She didn’t even mind the two coarse-looking men determinedly squeezing into the seat beside her. They wouldn’t share the seat for long. Once she was gone, they would have to seek entertainment elsewhere. The stout farmer and his even stouter wife sitting across from her appeared well able to defend themselves.

  The coachman closed the door, and soon the carriage rolled forward. When they stopped at a crossroads half a mile out of town, Roslyn disembarked, murmured her thanks to the driver, then pulled her skirts high enough to keep the hem from becoming ruined in the slushy snow. While the coach remained in sight, she headed west. Once the coach disappeared, she pulled the flour from her bag and applied it to her hair, then returned the flour to her bad and doubled back into town, careful to avoid the Forfar Inn.

  In front of the grocer’s, she approached a cart being loaded with foodstuffs and addressed the driver, “Are these goods bound for Balmurray House?”

  “They are.”

  Relief over his friendly smile eased the knot in her stomach.

  “I heard the earl is in need of a housekeeper and I plan to apply for the position,” she said. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to carry me there? I could walk, of course…”

  “Housekeeper, eh? Happens they are short staffed. I’ll take ye up and be pleased to do it. Name’s Stebbins.” He tipped his hat.

  Roslyn angled her head in acknowledgement. “I am Mrs. Green. Thank you for your kindness.”

  He helped her into the wagon, then loaded the last two boxes sitting on the ground before climbing up beside her and snapping the reins. The cart jerked into motion and they started forward. As they drove along the snow-covered, slushy road, Roslyn gave thanks that she hadn’t been required to walk. Her boots would have been ruined and her skirt hems soaked and covered with mud. Not the sort of impression one wished to make when applying for a position.

  To her relief, the driver remained quiet until a great Palladian mansion came into view on the hill to the right.

  “That’s it, Balmurray House,” he said. “The old earl—that’s the present earl’s father—had it built in 1760 or thereabouts. Finest house around these parts.”

  “It’s quite…imposing.” Tension coiled in her belly. Could she lie convincingly enough to obtain the position?

  The driver turned onto a drive that followed the curve of the hillside up to the mansion, then directed the horses around back and stopped before a plain door. “This is the servants’ entrance,” he told her. “There’s naught but a few maids ‘n footmen aside from Cook, ‘n she’s the one in charge.�
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  Roslyn thanked him and hopped down from the wagon, just as a kitchen maid came flying through the door.

  “You are late,” she began, then stopped and blinked at Roslyn.

  “I am here to apply for the position of housekeeper,” Roslyn informed her.

  “A housekeeper?” she exclaimed. “Cook’ll be glad to see you. Come in. I will take ye to her.”

  Cook, a middle-aged, plump woman with graying hair visible below the edges of her cap, wore a scrupulously clean apron despite the clutter of pastry and currant filling on the table in front of her. She was also very tall—taller than most men—and very, very relieved to see Roslyn.

  “Have ye experience as a housekeeper?” the woman asked as she continued to fill pasties with currant filling.

  Roslyn launched into the tale she’d practiced last night until well after two a.m. “Indeed, I do, ma’am. I worked for Lord Mason in the north. You may have heard of him. He passed away recently, I am sorry to say. I worked for him for six years.” Lord Mason, the Viscount of Lanscont, had died at the ancient age of ninety-seven and left his estate in complete disarray with no direct heir. The family was hip-deep in a squabble that would probably take them into the next decade. If the cook knew of the situation, she would likely shy away from wanting to check references.

  “Viscount Lanscont, eh?” She grimaced. “I need no’ ask why ye did not stay with the family.”

  Roslyn nodded. “I cannot say more, but I believe you understand the situation.”

  The woman shot her an assessing look, then returned her attention to the pasties. “Cannot say more. That’s good. You know how to keep your employer’s business to yourself, then.”

  Roslyn straightened. “Indeed, I do.”

  “You are hired,” Cook said, and Roslyn thought she would faint.

  The woman immediately instructed her to supervise the laundry and put to rights the linen closet. Supervising the care of the ailing earl, she quickly discovered, took precedence over every other chore. He was recovering from a spell of weakness. Thankfully, he didn’t speak to her until the third day and, even then, he spoke little. After a week, however, he regained his wits and began what seemed a quest to find out all about her. In spite of his probing, Roslyn remained firm in her scant answers: she was Mrs. Rachel Green, a widow, and had left Viscount Lanscont’s employ when he passed away.