Marsh rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. Damn, but she was a self-possessed little tart. Like a succulent red cherry, she looked delectable enough to eat. And well she knew it. Those bright blue eyes had sparkled with awareness when he’d approached her. She’d not been at all opposed to their flirtatious encounter—at first. But then he must have done something and she’d recognized his lack of social acumen. That’s when her interest had cooled.
Was that what had cooled his father’s interest in his mother? Had she overreached her bounds? Cameron Byrde must have been a man of some means if he’d settled a hundred pounds on her. But Maureen MacDougal, for all her gentle manner and quiet beauty, had been a simple lass from ordinary stock. She’d worked her whole life as a domestic in other people’s homes. That’s probably how she’d met the heartless Cameron Byrde.
Marsh’s gaze narrowed on the luxurious coach up ahead. If his father was from anywhere around Kelso, then the pretty little snob in that behemoth carriage was sure to be acquainted with him. After all, like gathered with like.
By the same token, they excluded everyone they deemed not like themselves. He’d learned how to travel those circles in Boston and in Washington. He had the money to fit in when he worked at it, and the social skills as well. But here he was less certain. Though he now had the requisite servant, carriage, clothing, and horse flesh—and plenty of money—he could see already that it might not be enough. Perhaps Duffy Erskine was right. Perhaps the man could help him with the rest of it. All he needed was entrée into the right society. After that he could manage on his own. He’d done so in Boston, and he could do so here.
He was resolved on the matter several hours later as they crossed a narrow stone bridge to enter the town of Kelso. It was a prosperous-looking place centered around a village green. He stared around him at close-set cottages, painted shop fronts, and busy village folk. Had his mother once walked these cobbled streets?
His palms began to sweat. Did his father walk them still?
He reined in at the sign of the Cock and Bow and handed his weary animal over to the ostler. “A room for me. And for my man,” he said to the aproned innkeeper who came eagerly out to introduce himself.
“Yes, sir. And how long will you be staying, sir?”
Long enough to wreak havoc on my father and whoever else contributed to my mother’s grief and suffering.
But to the shiny-pated fellow he only said, “A week. Maybe longer.”
“Very good, sir. Very good.” The man led the way to the register. “And what name shall I record here, sir?”
“Marsh … Marshall MacDougal.”
“MacDougal.” The man stared at him a moment. “MacDougal.”
Marsh’s gaze narrowed. Did the man know the name? Did he know the family?
“Is that spelled ou or uo?”
Marsh’s even expression hid any sign of disappointment. “It’s ou, and only one l” He took the key the man handed him. “Tell me, Mr. Halbrecht, are there any sights hereabouts I should take in? Or perhaps particular social gatherings I ought to seek out?”
The man gave him a quick assessing look and glanced over at Duff, who was unloading the carriage. Apparently satisfied that this customer was a gentleman and kept a manservant, he said, “We have our own subscription hall with dances every Friday. It’s not yet huntin’ season, but there’s prime fishin’ in the Tweed. Course if you want to venture off the bridge, you’ll have to apply to the stewards at the big houses. Mostly they make free with fishing along their shores. At Woodford Court they’s only particular about the stretch right along the house.”
“And the other estates?”
“They’s only one other close around here. It’s upstream a mile or so. Byrde Manor. Though it’s not nearly so grand as Woodford …”
Byrde Manor! The words echoed in Marsh’s head, drowning out the rest of the man’s remarks. There was an estate called Byrde Manor. Had he this easily found the seat of his father’s family? But what else could it be? Though his heart thudded with excitement, he somehow forced himself to remain calm.
“So you suggest I apply to the house for permission to fish their portion of the Tweed?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “’Tis not strictly a necessity. Howsomever, I’m sure they would appreciate it.”
No. Marsh didn’t think they would appreciate it at all, not once his true identity was revealed. But for now he would court the Byrde family’s approval and acceptance.
He thanked the man and turned for the stairs, patting the pocket of his riding coat that held the three letters Cameron Byrde had sent to Maureen MacDougal. His time in London had been a waste, but after only ten minutes in Kelso he might have located his father’s lair, or at least have discovered a strong lead in that direction.
But was the man in residence at Byrde Manor?
He hesitated at the base of the stairs. Surely the innkeeper would know. But was it wise to reveal his hand so soon? In a town like this, gossip about a stranger was sure to spread quickly.
Fortunately, when he looked back, the innkeeper attached another meaning to his pause. “If you haven’t any of your own, I’ve all the fishing tackle you need, Mr. MacDougal. You came to the right place, that’s for certain.” He smiled helpfully. “You just let me know if I can be of any assistance to you. Any assistance at all.”
Marsh only nodded. No use to look too eager. Besides, he would know the truth soon enough. By this time tomorrow he might very well have come face-to-face with his father. Until then he needed to think on what he meant to say to the man, how he intended to behave.
Rage rose unbidden in his chest, as thick and choking as it had been when first he’d learned the truth of his parents’ history. The confrontation was coming. He could sense it in every fiber of his being. But he had to be ready. He had to be in control.
Then God help Cameron Byrde, for his unwanted son meant to crucify him.
Sarah did not know whether to weep in frustration or shout with joy.
“They all went up to Glasgow,” Mrs. Tillotson, the housekeeper at Woodford Court, told her. “They left just yesterday morning. Miz Olivia wrote your mother about their sudden journey. I was to post it when next I got to town.”
Sarah chewed the side of her lip. “All of them went, even the children?”
“Yes, miss. Himself had business to tend to—the Glasgow horse fair, it was. Your sister decided a jaunt north would be nice,’specially now that the weather is warming up.”
Sarah made a face. She’d hardly call this warm. But the chilly northern climes were the least of her worries. Olivia and Neville were gone, leaving her alone at Woodford. Once her mother received Olivia’s post, she would summon Sarah immediately home again. Then James would probably insist that she be trundled off to a convent or some other equally unpleasant place.
Of course, that was assuming Mother received Olivia’s letter.
Sarah grimaced inwardly at such a devious thought. Yet once rooted, the idea would not go away. If her mother was not informed of Olivia’s whereabouts, she would assume Sarah was safely in her sister’s company. And indeed, for all practical purposes, she was. Under her roof. Under her protection. Just because Olivia and Neville were not physically in residence did not lessen their influence. Besides, the humorless Agnes was here like a dour shadow, dogging her every move.
Though Sarah had not initially wanted to come up to Scotland, the alternative had been far worse. Now that she was here, however, she was content to stay. Besides, now that she thought of it, Olivia’s absence was a perfect opportunity. What better way to prove that she was sensible and practical, and had learned to control her impulsive nature?
All she had to do was intercept Olivia’s letter.
“Are you all right, miss?” Mrs. Tillotson asked, drawing Sarah back to the present.
Sarah blinked, then turned her brightest, most deliberately sincere smile on the good-natured little woman. “Oh, of course. Of course. Well, I am
disappointed, of course. For I so wanted to see them all. When shall they return?”
“Oh, they mean to be gone a good month and more. Perhaps you would like to join them in Glasgow.”
For a moment Sarah was sorely tempted to do just that. The city—any city—was sure to be more exciting than the quiet countryside. But if she arrived in Glasgow, Olivia would quiz her on why she’d been sent up from London, then proceed to boss her around as if she were still twelve.
Besides, Sarah decided, the excitement of city life was precisely what she did not need right now. “No. No,” she answered the woman. “I believe the best thing will be for me to go on to Byrde Manor.”
“Oh, yes. You’ll want to spend time with Bertie—I mean, Mrs. Hamilton.”
Sarah smiled, and this time without any deception. Her mother’s beloved longtime housekeeper and companion had remarried and retired to her native Scotland some years ago. She lived now with her crusty husband in the steward’s residence at Byrde Manor, the estate of Sarah’s half-sister, Olivia.
While Sarah’s own father had left her very well fixed, with numerous investments and income properties, plus an enormous quarterly allowance, Olivia’s father had left his one child only that modest estate, with its sheep meadows, home farm, and comfortable but rustic house. Still, Sarah had always enjoyed visiting at Byrde Manor. Staying with the Hamiltons would be like visiting with grandparents.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe I would like that. And if you like,” she added, “I’ll post Olivia’s letter to Mama along with my own. For I will want to apprise her of my safe arrival.”
Mrs. Tillotson bobbed her head. “Very good, miss. But let me fetch you a cup of tea before you go on to Byrde Manor. My, but Bertie shall be so pleased. Indeed she will.”
“So. It is all set,” Sarah said out loud when Mrs. Tillotson trundled off to fetch the tea and letter. And if she was being deceitful, she consoled herself that it was not really so terrible a thing she did. She would write to her mother to assure her of her arrival. But Mother needn’t know about Olivia’s absence. Nor did Olivia need to know just yet the unpleasant circumstances surrounding Sarah’s unexpected sojourn to Scotland.
For the next month, at least, she could enjoy a trouble-free existence.
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About the Author
Rexanne Becnel is the author of more than twenty historical romance and contemporary mainstream novels, many of which appeared on the USA Today bestseller list. With the publication of her first novel, My Gallant Enemy, Becnel won the Waldenbooks Award for Best First-Time Romance Author and the Romantic Times Award for Best Medieval Romance by a New Author. While growing up, Becnel lived for a time in Germany and England, where she became fascinated by medieval history. After studying architecture at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, she worked as a building inspector for the Vieux Carré Commission, the agency of the City of New Orleans charged with protecting and preserving the distinct architectural and historic character of the French Quarter. Becnel lives in New Orleans with her husband and two children.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Rexanne Becnel
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6735-5
This edition published in 2021 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10038
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