The Ton's Most Notorious Rake
Page 26
The girl correctly interpreted Alan’s expression.
‘Don’t encourage him, Jackson. This is my house now and I won’t have you silly men brawling in it. There is enough disarray here as it is. If you want to beat each other senseless, kindly step outside.’
‘It’s not your house till after probate,’ Alan couldn’t resist pointing out. ‘We will contact you presently about the sale.’
‘Enough of this,’ Lady Ravenscar announced, ramming her cane into the floor with as much force as the girl had smashed the mace into the worn floorboards. ‘What is all this about a sale? And where are you going, Alan?’
‘Back to Hades, Jezebel. You needn’t worry I was thinking of contaminating the hallowed grounds of the Hall with my presence. That’s the beauty of your husband forcing my father to break the entail. Believe me, I am as glad to be shot of the Hall as you are of me.’
‘Nanny Brisbane is ill. I dare say if you are already in the vicinity, she would be grateful if you would show a modicum of respect and visit her.’ Lady Ravenscar’s tones were dismissive, but she didn’t move from her position in the doorway. She didn’t have to because he stopped in his tracks. Once again she had dealt him a very effective blow.
‘Nanny Brisbane is ill?’
The girl glanced from him to his grandmother, her brow furrowed.
‘Are you the rakehell?’
‘Lily Wallace!’ Lady Ravenscar all but bellowed and the girl shrugged.
‘Sorry, the black sheep. Mrs Brisbane contracted the fever as well, but she is mending. Still, she would likely be happy for a visit, unless you mean to scowl at her like that and go around bashing things. You can’t possibly be her Master Alan, you don’t look in the least like the miniature of you and Catherine she keeps on her mantel, but then those are never very good likenesses.’
Alan abandoned the effort to determine if she was mad or not and moved towards the door again.
‘I will see Nanny before I continue to Bristol.’
Lady Ravenscar hesitated and then moved aside to let him pass.
‘Catherine and Nicola would no doubt expect you to pay your respects as well.’
He didn’t stop.
‘I don’t need lessons from you on family loyalty, Jezebel. Though it is very typical of you to preach what you don’t practise.’
As he climbed on to the curricle and took the reins from Jem, he cast a last look at the classical façade of Hollywell House with its pillared portico. He hated the burning resentment and anger his grandmother always dragged out of him, but it was his fault. It served him right for trying to exact a very petty revenge on her by trying to acquire Hollywell. In fact, he should have continued to avoid this particular corner of England like the plague just as he had for the past dozen years. Nothing good came of tempting the fates.
Copyright © 2018 by Ilana Treston
Keep reading for an excerpt from DEVIL IN TARTAN by Julia London.
Devil in Tartan
by Julia London
CHAPTER ONE
Lismore Island, The Highlands, Scotland, 1752
THE CAMPBELL MEN landed on the north shore of the small Scottish island of Lismore in the light of the setting sun, fanning out along the narrow strip of sand and stepping between the rocks and the rabbits that had infested the island.
They were looking for stills.
They also were looking for a ship, perhaps tucked away in some hidden cove they’d not yet found. The stills and the ship were here, and they would find them.
Duncan Campbell, the new laird of Lismore, knew that his tenants—some two-hundred odd Livingstones—were gathered to celebrate Sankt Hans, or Midsummer’s Eve, a custom that harkened back to their Danish ancestors who had settled this small island.
The Livingstones, to the Campbell way of thinking, were laggards and generally far too idle...until recently, that was, when it had come to Duncan’s attention that this hapless clan had begun to distill whisky spirits without license. He’d heard it said in a roundabout way, in Oban, and in Port Appin. Livingstones were boastful, too, it would seem. Rumor had it that an old Danish ship had been outfitted to hold several casks and a few men.
Where the Livingstones lacked godly ambition, the Campbells fancied themselves a clan of superior moral character. They were Leaders of Scotland, Pillars of the Highlands, Ministers of Social Justice and they distilled whisky with a license and sold it for a tidy profit all very legally. They did not take kindly to illicit whisky that undercut their legitimate business. They were downright offended when someone traded cheap spirits against their superior brew. They disliked illegal competition so much that they took great pains to find it and destroy it by all means possible. Fire was a preferred method.
The Campbell men creeping along the beach could hear the Livingstone voices raised in song and laughter, the strains of a fiddle. When night fell, those heathens would be well into their cups and would light a bonfire and dance around it. Bloody drunkards. But alas, the Campbells did not make it more than a few dozen steps into their search when they heard the warning horn. It sounded so shrilly that it scattered rabbits here and there and, frankly, made Duncan’s heart leap. He hardly had a moment to collect himself before buckshot whizzed overhead.
Duncan sighed skyward. He looked at his escort, Mr. Edwin MacColl, whose clan inhabited the south end of Lismore, and who was diligent in paying his rents and not distilling whisky. Duncan had pressed the very reluctant Scotsman into service by threatening to raise his rents if he didn’t lend a hand. “That’s it, then, is it no’?” he asked MacColl as another shot rang out and sent up a spray of sand when it hit the bit of beach. “They’ve seen us and warned the others.”
“Aye,” MacColl agreed. “They keep a close eye on what is theirs. As any Scot would,” he added meaningfully.
Campbell recognized the subtle needling, but there was no opportunity to remind MacColl that illegal whisky was bad, very bad, because four riders appeared on the hill above them with long guns pointed at their chests. Naturally, Miss Lottie Livingstone, who, as daughter of the chief here, ran wild on this island, led them. If she were his daughter, Campbell would have taken her in hand and ended her feral behavior tout de suite.
“Laird Campbell!” she called cheerfully, and nudged her horse to walk down the grassy slope to the beach. “You’ve come again!”
Campbell groaned. “Must it be so bloody difficult to root out corruption and illegal deeds?” he muttered to MacColl. “Must the most beautiful lass in all of Scotland be the most unruly and untamed of them all?”
Apparently, Mr. MacColl had no answer to that, and in fact, he turned his head so that Duncan could not see his face. Duncan rolled his eyes and addressed the woman who lived like an undomesticated cat on this island. “Hold your fire, aye, Miss Livingstone? I am your laird after all!” As if that needed explaining.
“How can we help you, laird?” she asked.
“No’ you, lass. I’ll have a word with your father.”
Her eyes sparked, and above another glittering smile she said, “Oh, but he’ll be delighted, he will.”
The lass had a way of giggling sometimes when she spoke that made Duncan wonder if she was laughing at him or was just a wee bit off her head. He called in his men, and motioned for them to follow along as he and MacColl trudged up the hill toward the Livingstone manor.
If they couldn’t find the stills and Livingstone would not own to them, then by God, Campbell would inquire about the past due rents. He’d have something for his trouble.
Copyright © 2018 by Dinah Dinwiddie
ISBN-13: 9781488086588
The Ton’s Most Notorious Rake
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Mallory
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