Rumors Among the Heather
Amanda Balfour
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Vinspire Publishing
Ladson, South Carolina
www.vinspirepublishing.com
Rumors Among the Heather
Copyright ©2013 Brenda Smathers-Bell
Cover illustration copyright © 2013 Elaina Lee/For the Muse Designs
Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.
All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
ISBN: 978-0-9890632-1-0
PUBLISHED BY VINSPIRE PUBLISHING, LLC
To my husband, Clinton, for his love and support
Chapter One
1744 London England
Strolling down the back streets in the notorious area of London known as Limehouse did not bother Matthew MacDonald, Baron Bonnleigh. The things he had seen in foreign parts made these streets look tame by comparison. Since leaving his home in Scotland at the age of twenty-one, he had been a soldier of fortune, selling his skills to the highest bidder.
He had no place to be and plenty of time to get there. He turned onto Narrow Street as the gaslights were lit. When the lights came on, so did the noise and bustle. Ladies of the evening strolled the wharves, and carriages deposited their passengers in front of gambling parlors.
Matthew walked steadily until he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. With an economy of motion, he pulled his dirk out of its sheath and held it down by his side. A masked figure stepped out of the shadows of a doorway, obstructing his passage.
A gruff voice called out, “I’ll be relieving you of your purse, my fine gentleman.”
“My good fellow, I have no intention of giving you my purse. Step aside and let me pass.” Matthew started to step around the masked man. The footpad moved to block him.
“I can’t do that, me hearty. I’ve a pistol aimed at your person which says hand over yer pretties,” the footpad said with a chuckle.
“If you look down, you’ll see I have a dirk ready to cut your heart out. Now kindly step aside.”
“Mate, I think I could pull the trigger on this pistol quicker than you could cut out my heart.” Matthew’s assailant did not sound as confident as before. He glanced around the area before his gaze found his quarry again.
Through half-closed eyes Matthew stared back at his assailant. He watched him lick his lips and take a step back.
“Friend, I’m a man of my word if nothing else. However, if you look farther back to the next building, you’ll see my man with a pistol aimed at your head. Even if you kill me, you will not carry my purse to hell with you. Now, you tiresome creature, step aside.”
“If that be the case, I will be moving along. You ain’t the man I hoped to meet. Please continue,” the scoundrel said, stepping aside and bowing.
Matthew picked up the tune he’d been whistling before the diversion and continued his stroll to the Blue Goose. He came to the alleyway leading to the establishment and walked down the wooden steps. The area was lit only by a single flambeau. Nothing in the dark alley storefront would suggest it housed a notorious gaming parlor. As he neared the entrance, a porter stepped out and held the door for him.
Never too far from Matthew’s side, Ribble, his manservant, kept watch without being conspicuous. Both men entered the bustling parlor of the Blue Goose. All aristocratic titles were dropped at the door. Here it would not be uncommon to place bets alongside the footpad who had tried to relieve someone of their purse. Laughter and drunken banter made it difficult to hear. And unlike the more reputable clubs, no one worried about polite manners.
The high stakes gambler made his home here. Fortunes changed hands with each throw of the dice or turn of the cards. All manner of sport could be enjoyed, from boxing to bear baiting. If sporting pursuits were not your particular vice, then the occupants of a few rooms upstairs could take care of your more pressing needs.
Harley Derrick waved Matthew over to his table. Jostled by the tightly packed patrons, he acknowledged several acquaintances before seating himself at Derrick’s table.
“Bonnleigh, my old friend, what brings you to this hellhole? I didn’t know you were in the country,” Derrick shouted in his ear.
“Arrived yesterday from Spain. I’m working my way home.”
“You’re looking fit, I see. I’ve missed you, Bonnleigh. We had some adventures, eh? I heard you were mixed up in that Austrian business. I tried to get there, but Italy kept me tied up. By the time I was free, the dust-up was over,” Derrick confided.
“You didn’t miss much. It was so mixed up sometimes I couldn’t tell on which side I was fighting. After Silesia, a treaty signed by Britain and Austria made my position awkward. I fought officially under the Spanish flag before Britain entered the fight. How about you? Where are you headed next?”
“Thought I might go over to France, see what’s going on there. I hear the young prince is getting restless. Kicking my heels here only adds to my boredom. I left my commission, and I’ve been trying to keep my feet on English soil for a spell. I’ve tried, but I can’t stand it. The same damp English weather day after day,” he said, shaking his head. “Too blame tame by half,” Derrick groused.
“I know what you mean. My problem is I’m tired of wars, but I can’t think what else to do. I have business to take care of here, and then I have to go back home to Scotland. Let me know if you go to France. I might be interested, if I can get everything put to rights at Lark Mead.”
“That I will. Think I’ll wander on upstairs. Good seeing you again, Bonnleigh. Oh, by the way, what happened to Senora Salvadorez? Is it true you fought a duel over her? Word has it you fought in the barracks yard.”
“Afraid so, just another reason to leave. Only wounded Senor Salvadorez, but he didn’t take it too well. Left me with the impression that I should leave as soon as possible,” Matthew said with a grin. Shaking his head to erase the memory, he continued, “Oh well, it is of no concern now, my friend. I think I’ll try my luck at cards tonight. You know the old saying, unlucky at love, lucky at cards.”
Unbidden, thoughts came to Matthew and conjured up the face of Senora Salvadorez. With deep chagrin, he remembered her fiery, laughing brown eyes and alluring body. However, the beauty had forgotten to mention she had a husband. The appearance of Senor Salvadorez came as a disagreeable entanglement, and the scandal that followed proved to be even worse.
&nb
sp; He watched Derrick make his way across the room and up the stairs before he turned and headed for the faro table. He hoped Derrick was wrong about the prince. The last he’d heard, “The Old Pretender” did not want to go forward with another rebellion, and Matthew did not relish the idea either. However, if his prince needed him, he could not refuse to fight for the Stuarts and for Scotland. Sadly, he shook his head again.
Two hours passed, and the room became hotter and more crowded. From where he lounged in front of the faro table, Matthew watched his fellow gamblers from beneath half-closed eyelids. He had been back on English soil for only a full day, and already he felt restless. Filled with ennui, he bet recklessly, almost hoping he would lose at least one draw—anything to relieve the tedium—but he did not lose a single hand.
There were six other diehard gamblers around the table. Hungry gazes watched as their stacks of chips dwindled and his increased dramatically. He glimpsed the obsession in their eyes and wondered how anyone could feel so passionate about anything, let alone cards. After all, a game was just that—a game.
Feverishly, the portly gambler with the florid complexion seated beside him placed his bet. His rheumy eyes darted around the table continuously. He licked his lips before downing a tankard of ale in one gulp. “Dash it all, don’t know when I’ve had worse luck. It appears to all be running your way, sir.”
Matthew did nothing more than cock a derisive eyebrow in amusement. “If your luck has indeed run out, sir, might this not be a sign that you need to try another game?”
“I’ll be the judge of that, sir. Besides, it’s bound to turn around soon,” he said while recklessly placing another bet.
“Blast your bones, Lord Bonnleigh, you’ve the devil’s own luck tonight, but I’ll wager your luck won’t hold. It ain’t natural. Give me a hundred on ten to win,” Lord Ashton called defiantly. “You have all our money. Your luck is bound to change. I never saw anyone bet so recklessly and have it come to rights.”
Each player in his turn placed his bet. The crowd of onlookers roared when Matthew placed all of his winnings on number seven. He waited for the banker to pull off the exposed card and place it on the winning pile. The seven of spades came up, and the crowd cheered with whistles and catcalls until the manager came out to check on the din. Depleted at long last, the remaining deck held only three unknown cards.
“I’ll call the turn,” Matthew spoke softly as he pushed his entire winnings of two thousand pounds forward.
A hush filled the room. All eyes went from the manager to Matthew and back. The banker waited for approval. With a nod of his head, the manager gave his permission. The banker swallowed hard, wiped his palms on his vest, and waited for Matthew to call the cards.
“King, queen, five.”
With shaking hands, the banker turned over a king, a queen, and the last card turned over was a five.
Lord Ashton lunged across the table, his hands reaching for Matthew’s throat. Matthew stepped back inches short of Lord Ashton’s hands and watched as Ashton slid face down on the floor. The manager went to Lord Ashton’s aid and helped him up. The irate lord stood up, adjusted his clothing, and in the process of dusting himself off swung with his right fist, and Matthew dodged the punch. This spurred Lord Ashton to act again. When he regained his balance, he swung repeatedly and missed each time—with room to spare.
“This is ridiculous, Ashton. I will not fight a man who is on his way to being completely foxed. Go sleep it off."
“You’ll not be telling me what to do, you arrogant prig. Bloody low-down cheating scoundrel. I’ll wring your neck with my own hands. Who’d you pay off? I thought this was an honest gaming house. No one has that kind of luck,” Lord Ashton spat out roughly.
He made another lunge, flailing away like a human windmill. Matthew did his best to hold him at arm’s length. As he dodged another left, he tripped over an onlooker who had also lost his money at faro this night. Ashton fell as well, managing to land on top of Matthew. Before he could defend himself, his opponent’s hands wrapped around Matthew’s throat.
The manager and one of the patrons pulled the two men apart. “Lord Ashton, have a care. Think what you’re saying, my lord. Men have been called out for less. I run a clean game. Are you trying to ruin me? I’ll not stand for this kind o’ thing. If you’ve something to settle, do it outside!”
Matthew stood up and carefully adjusted his attire. He motioned with a turn of his hand. “After you, Lord Ashton.”
Red-faced, Lord Henry Ashton shook off his restraints. He straightened his shoulders and staggered toward the back door. Matthew followed a few steps behind. Ribble stood in front of the door and barred the way to the curious.
“Ribble, keep guard. I don’t need any more help tonight,” Lord Bonnleigh whispered as he went through the door.
“Aye, my lord, I will see to it,” Ribble said.
A cool ground fog moved at a snail’s pace toward where the two men stood face to face in the alley. Lord Ashton began ranting loudly and throwing pieces of wood, trash, old metal, anything not tied down. Matthew watched in amazement at his antics.
“Good lord, Ashton, what’s got into you?”
Lord Ashton stopped, took a deep breath, and looked from side to side. In a hesitant manner, he walked over to Matthew. He leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Make this look good, Bonnleigh. I’ve news from your liege, and the night has ears. Sorry about calling you names, but I had to get you alone so no one would suspect I know you as more than a card player. If it gets out I’ll be in the soup.
“You can’t go back to your room at the Green Dragon tonight. Prince Charles has made no secret that he is ready to return to Scotland, and you know what this will mean. Someone turned your name and Beaumaris’s in as Jacobites of interest. Beaumaris has been arrested for questioning, they say. Word is they’ll be waiting for you to return to your room.”
“Thanks, Ashton. I owe you one. You know, the prince could do with men like you.”
“You know I’m not political. Don’t take sides, never did. No one in my family has for over a hundred years. That’s how we hold on to our land, and I don’t intend to change the tradition. Besides, I never exert myself if I can help it,” he said with a wink and a slow smile.
“Why are you helping me now? How did you find out this information?”
“I may not be political, but I would not find it amiss if a Stuart occupied the throne. Besides, we were friends a long time ago in our salad days. You helped me out of that little scrape in Saint Pierre-des-Roches. I owe you more than a favor for that.”
“As you say, we were friends back in the day. Young and foolish. I never gave it another thought,” Matthew said.
“I know that, but I pay my debts. Added to that, I’m not fond of anyone being bushwhacked. Another reason is very personal. I would do anything to upset my father-in-law’s plans. He thinks I owe him something for letting him saddle me with his icicle of a daughter. He’s in the war department now, you know. He ignores me and talks as if I don’t have ears, while drinking my best port. I overheard him bragging to one of his cronies. That’s how I found out they were going to waylay you along with a courier just over from France.”
Ashton continued, his tone serious. “Scotland’s the only place for you now. Collect your man and go to my digs in Park Street. There’s a man waiting with a message for you, even as we speak. I had him brought there. Safest place for him at the moment. Sorry, but that’s all I can do. You’re on your own. God help you!”
“We’ll leave at once, but what about you?”
“Land a few punches and leave me here. For friendship’s sake, eh?”
“Ashton, I never thought the day would come when I’d get the chance to pay you back for that charming little mademoiselle you stole from me in Calais.” Matthew raised his voice.
“Careful now, Bonnleigh. I can’t help it if she found my dimples and blond hair more appealing than your dark good looks, now can I?”
Matthew laughed as he landed some well-aimed punches, leaving Lord Ashton looking worse than he actually was, before walking back into the gaming parlor to collect his winnings. He had a drink at the bar and left quietly while the management tried to revive a faking-unconsciousness Ashton.
Once outside on the street, Matthew explained briefly to Ribble what Lord Ashton had said. Ribble headed for the Green Dragon to check out his story, while Matthew hailed a passing hack to make his way to Park Street. They agreed to meet on the Post Road at the Cock and Bottle tavern.
The house appeared dark, and Matthew approached from the back way with his pistol drawn. Cautiously, he stepped through the unlocked French doors and into a small sitting room where he found Isaac Potter snoring softly in the moonlight. He clamped his hand over Potter’s mouth. Potter’s eyes opened wide in alarm until he heard Lord Bonnleigh’s voice.
Bonnleigh took his hand away and said softly, “What are you doing here?”
“Lord Ashton’s man stopped me on the road into London and told me there might be a reception committee waiting for me on Hounslow Heath. He said he would have you meet me here. He took me on a round-about way into London, and I’ve been kicking my heels ever since. Did I do right?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, yes, you did fine. What message have you got for me?” Matthew asked with an urgency born of caution.
Potter produced a letter with the seal of the Stuarts out of his cap’s hiding place and handed it to him. Matthew broke the seal and read the contents. The letter from Prince Charles Edward Stuart requested funds to outfit a frigate. Preparations for his journey to Scotland were imminent. Unfortunately, the funds promised by King Louis were not forthcoming.
“Who gave you this message?” he asked sharply. This strange turn of events annoyed him, but he did not see anything wrong.
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