Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  And so had the glen.

  The McKinnon family had lived in this glen for more generations than Kerry knew. They had fished the little loch fed by the larger Loch Eigg, had cultivated a strip of land that would support a bit of barley in the good years. Fraser’s grandfather, an officer in the old clan system, was fortunate enough to have owned some acreage in his own right, which had eventually passed to Fraser. Along with the land they had leased from Baron Moncrieffe, they had lived quite comfortably. Until Fraser fell ill, that was, and then there seemed nothing that she or Fraser’s cousin, Thomas, or anyone else in Glenbaden could do to keep the cattle from dying or the barley from withering.

  She had known things were bad, of course she did, but she had not known how bad.

  Abruptly, she lifted her head and looked up at the white house with the green shutters she loved, sitting majestically on a small foothill, mountains dotted with cattle rising behind it, a stream below it running serenely into the loch. She loved this glen.

  Oh God, she was in deep trouble—so deep, she was barely treading water.

  Fraser, damn him! It wasn’t until her husband had died that she began to discover the depth of her trouble. No sooner had she buried him when the first piece of correspondence came, a letter from the Bank of Scotland curtly informing her that taxes on the property were in arrears and that interest on the loan—a loan she was shocked to discover even existed—was past due, and the creditors quite anxious to be paid.

  As if that astounding news wasn’t enough, a second piece of correspondence had arrived from her mother, insisting that she come to her in Glasgow at once.

  Kerry could not say which letter had frightened her worse.

  The letter from the Bank of Scotland had, in hindsight, been easy to ignore. None of it made any sense to her then, and besides, she had been too panicked by her mother’s letter.

  After years of trying hard to love her mother, Kerry had finally reached a point where she acknowledged to herself that she could not. Her childhood memories were awful—Alva MacGregor had been a religious zealot who believed that every malady befalling a body was God’s punishment for disobeying His word—as she interpreted it, naturally. As far back as Kerry could recall, Alva had never said a kind word about anyone, and for some reason, saved her most vehement condemnations for her husband and daughter.

  One of Kerry’s earliest memories was being locked in a closet as punishment for having accidentally broken a vase in her play. She was only five years old when her mother had pushed her into the dark closet, deaf to her fearful screams, shouting that Kerry should beg God to forgive her. But all Kerry could think of was the Devil—she was certain he was in the closet with her, because her mother had told her so, and that he ate naughty children.

  In spite of the bright sunlight, Kerry shivered unexpectedly at the memory.

  Fortunately, her father, Devin MacGregor, was not as devout as her mother and did not tolerate that sort of punishment. The result of his extreme displeasure upon finding Kerry huddled in the corner of that closet was to send her off to Edinburgh to a passable girl’s boarding school he could ill afford. There Kerry remained until she was a young woman, returning home only in the summers when she was forced to endure her mother’s harsh condemnations of anything and everything.

  It was little wonder that she had begun to dream of escape, and when Fraser McKinnon had paid particular attention to her one summer evening at a harvest season gathering, she had shamelessly encouraged him. It hadn’t been hard to do—he was rather pleasant looking and was fortunate enough to own land nearby. When Fraser began to court her, Kerry could taste her freedom. She turned all the feminine charm she could muster on him, and they were married after a few short weeks. Not a moment too soon, either, as her father was found dead in his bed one morning just a month after they were wed.

  That was when Alva seemed to lose what was left of her mind. She began attending the gatherings of an evangelical minister who was gaining quite a reputation around Perthshire. Alva grew very enamored of the Reverend Tavish, and much to Kerry’s horror, within a month she had sold the family’s land to a sheep farmer and turned the profits over to Tavish. That was astounding in and of itself, but Kerry was bowled over when Alva up and followed Reverend Tavish to Glasgow, where he had, apparently, established some sort of enclave. He and his followers lived and spent their days among the Glasgow poor, condemning them for their heathen ways and coaxing them into his fold. It wasn’t too long afterward that Kerry received word her mother had married Reverend Tavish and was expecting his child.

  Her contact with her mother was sporadic after that, amounting to no more than a dozen letters exchanged in eight years.

  But when news of Fraser’s death reached Alva, she suddenly began writing with a vengeance. Fraser had been gone only a month when Kerry received the first letter demanding she come to Glasgow. That letter was followed with alarming frequency by others, boldly ordering her to give up her morally decrepit ways and come make a good, obedient wife to a Believer.

  Kerry would just as soon die.

  She glanced down at the latest missive from her mother. Morbid curiosity filled her; she unfolded it, shaking her head wearily when the letter began immediately with a tirade about the Glory of God, the Sins of His Children, the failings of the Church of Scotland, and of course, the litany of Kerry’s particular faults. It ended with the usual demand that she come to Glasgow, but interestingly, Reverend Tavish himself had deigned to add a line, instructing her to honor her mother’s wishes, deny the temptations of the flesh, and come to Glasgow at once, her only hope for chastity. With a roll of her eyes, Kerry stuffed the letter into the pocket of her gray skirt.

  She was chaste, all right, and God help her, she’d remain that way for the rest of her life before she would go to Glasgow.

  Aye, Thomas’s plan was beginning to look better and better all the time.

  Thomas McKinnon, bless him, was Fraser’s cantankerous cousin who had never stepped foot out of Glenbaden in all his life—although he threatened on a daily basis to do so. But Thomas loved this land. He knew the glen, knew what it would yield. It was his opinion that the land could not support cattle long term, as the grass was neither rich nor vast enough—but it was perfect for sheep. Sheep and barley, he told her, were the future; sheep and barley would turn the profit she needed to pay Fraser’s debts.

  But … in order to make the transition from cattle to sheep, Thomas had urged her to borrow the money necessary to buy the sheep. If they could just turn a profit in this year’s cattle, he said, they could repay half of what they borrowed for the sheep, and hence, were halfway there. Thomas had thought of borrowing from the bank to purchase the first dozen sheep. But then the letter from the bank had come, and once he had recovered from his shock, he had quickly devised another plan—borrow from Baron Cameron Moncrieffe.

  Borrowing from her neighbor was loathsome to Kerry, but Thomas’s suggestion had played in the back of her mind, in part because she had nowhere else to turn, and in part because Cameron Moncrieffe had been such a frequent visitor to her house in the last two years of Fraser’s life.

  Moncrieffe, a wealthy man, lived in Glenbhainn just beyond Loch Eigg. Kerry had once heard he farmed a thousand head of sheep. She didn’t know if that was true or not, but the man lived in high enough style. She knew this because when Fraser could get around, he often called at Moncrieffe’s renovated castle and had once taken her to a summer ball there. And when Fraser’s health deteriorated, Moncrieffe called at Glenbaden. It had been a terribly thoughtful thing for him to do, and truly, Kerry had appreciated his concern for her husband.

  Yet there was something about the man that made her uneasy, matched only by her extreme discomfort with his son, Charles.

  All right, then. She could not admit it to another living soul, but she could at least admit it to herself. Charles Moncrieffe was a ten-year-old lad arrested in the body of a thirty-year-old man. It was indeed a man’
s body and the way Charles looked at her, the way he smiled … may she rot in hell for her thoughts, but poor Charles Moncrieffe made her skin crawl.

  Kerry looked again at the two letters, trying to ignore the queasy churn of her stomach. As she could see it, the letter from Mr. Regis left her with two options. She could watch what was left of the McKinnon land be seized, the rents increase, and tenants lose their homes like hundreds of Scots before them pushed out by the sheep-herders. They would be displaced to America or to the rocky shorelines to farm seaweed while she went to Glasgow, to her mother.

  Or she could go to Moncrieffe.

  The grandeur of Glenbhainn and Moncrieffe House always took Kerry’s breath away, but today, standing in the middle of such a beautiful place in her old black bombazine, she felt like a ragged beggar. Alone in what was once the great hall, she marveled at the oak paneling, the brass light fixtures, the polished pewter framing the oval mirror just above a library table. Even the new marble floor had been swept and rubbed to a sheen, which seemed especially remarkable to her—she was fortunate if she could just keep the mud from the floors of her modest home.

  Kerry nervously wiped a damp palm on her skirts, then shifted the bonnet she held from one hand to the other.

  “Mrs. McKinnon. What a pleasant surprise!”

  The deep voice of Cameron Moncrieffe startled her; she jumped a bit as he sailed into the hall through a heavy oak door, followed by a small butler who carefully avoided her gaze. Moncrieffe was, as usual, impeccably dressed. She had always thought him fairly handsome, but he looked quite genteel with his gray hair fashionably crimped and combed and his thick side whiskers neatly trimmed. “Thank you for seeing me, my lord,” she said, dipping into a curtsey.

  “It is my great pleasure, madam. My day is considerably brightened by such a …”—he lifted her hand to his mouth, his lips lingering on the back of her hand for a long moment before slowly rising—“such a lovely caller.”

  Her skin prickled unpleasantly; Kerry gently withdrew her hand from his and clutched her bonnet tightly, forcing a smile to her lips. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, taking her elbow. “Shall we be seated?” Without waiting for her response, he looked over his shoulder at the butler. “Tea,” he said curtly, then propelled Kerry forward to a grouping of furniture covered in blue china silk. She briefly wondered what it cost to cover a chair the exact color of the summer sky and sat gingerly, vaguely fearing she might somehow ruin the silk coverings. Her host selected a chair across from her and, casually crossing one leg over the other, folded his hands on his thigh and regarded her kindly. “Now, then. To what do I owe the extraordinary pleasure of your call, Mrs. McKinnon?”

  Right. That. She glanced uneasily at the hearth, feeling a bit ridiculous—how exactly did one go about begging for money? “I, ah, I must admit I come on a matter of some delicacy, my lord.” Her voice sounded weak; she stole a look at him from the corner of her eye. His expression blank, he patiently waited for her to continue. “I suppose I should just come to the point, no?” she asked quietly.

  Moncrieffe nodded.

  Just speak. “I’ve not come on a social call, really—although I am pleased to see you well,” she hastily added. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of that. “But … but there is a matter of business behind my call.” Oh aye, business. She liked the sound of that and forced herself to relax her grip on her skirts.

  “Is there indeed?” he asked with an indulgent smile.

  “Aye …” I should like a large sum of money, please. “I, ah, have found myself in a wee bit of a predicament.” A wee bit of a predicament? It was a full-fledged catastrophe!

  Moncrieffe nodded encouragingly. “Please continue, Mrs. McKinnon. If you are in a … ah, predicament … I should like to help you if I can.”

  That was encouraging, but they were interrupted at that moment by the appearance of the butler carrying a silver tea service. She chewed on her lower lip, stared at her hands as she waited, feeling the pressure of her heart against her breast and fearing that he could hear its thunderous beating.

  “You were saying?” Moncrieffe asked politely as the door shut behind the butler, and moved to pour her a cup of tea.

  “My lord, I … I have nowhere else to turn,” she blurted, wincing at the bluntness of her admission. “Unfortunately, and m-much to my surprise, I have learned that my husband … Fraser … owed—that is to say, owes—quite a lot of money to the Bank of Scotland. And … and taxes.”

  Moncrieffe lifted a delicate cup of bone china to his lips and sipped his tea as if he heard such devastating news all the time.

  “And, ah, some creditors of some sort,” she shakily continued, “although I confess I am unclear as to the details.” She paused again, certain that was enough to shock and disgust him.

  “Is that all?” he asked pleasantly, then waved airily at the tea service. “Please, drink your tea before it grows cold.”

  Is that all? Drink your tea? Good Lord, had the man heard a word she had said? Incredulous, Kerry stared at him. “You … surely you understand—I wouldna come to you, I wouldna burden you had I any other option, but really, I’ve come upon my wit’s end. Yet I want you to know that I am not without a plan. My … my cousin, Thomas, he believes that if we can sell a few healthy beeves this year, we might transition from cattle to sheep, because the sheep are much better suited to the grass—but even with a decent showing at the cattle market, I fear it is not nearly enough! I’m in desperate need of cash to hold the bank for a time, but I am certain—”

  With a chuckle, Moncrieffe abruptly silenced her rambling plea as he set his teacup aside. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. McKinnon, but sheep?” He chuckled again, shaking his head, as if that was a perfectly ludicrous notion. “You have been sadly misguided, my dear. You’ve not enough acreage for sheep. Your little scheme would never work.”

  That declaration threw her—she trusted Thomas’s opinion so implicitly she was hardly prepared to argue his plans. “But Thomas said—”

  “You would be advised to forget what your cousin told you, madam,” Moncrieffe interrupted, his voice noticeably cooler. “He does you an injustice by filling your pretty head with such fantasy. And frankly, I doona think it particularly important if it be cattle or sheep—you’ve simply not enough land to support the livestock you will need to buy back your debt. Aye, you are quite right, Mrs. McKinnon—you are in somewhat of a predicament.”

  Stunned, Kerry could only stammer. “Aye, I-I realize—”

  He held up his hand. “I doona think you do,” he said, and slowly leaned forward, his blue-eyed gaze piercing her fragile composure. “Your husband’s trouble began when the plague killed his herd three years past. How do you think he paid his debts that year? He sought my considerable help, that is how. And again the following year. When last year’s bull was ill-disposed to father a single calf, he rather gave up trying to appease the bank or me. Quite frankly, Mrs. McKinnon, your debt is greater than you realize. I am personally owed more than five thousand pounds.”

  Five thousand pounds? The air seemed to leave her lungs; she suddenly could not catch her breath. The sum was overwhelmingly large, staggering, almost as grand as the sense of betrayal she felt. She slumped against the chair back, too stunned to move or speak or even think. Fraser’s lies seemed to pile on top of one another, pushing her down into a morass so deep that she almost felt as if she was drowning, right there, in a sky-blue chair. A flurry of memories whirled in her mind, of the dozens of times Fraser had assured her everything would be all right, that she had nothing to fear—

  “Here, now, drink this.”

  Moncrieffe was thrusting a dram of Scottish whiskey into her hand. Kerry sluggishly remembered where she was and pushed it away, shaking her head. “I … I didna know,” she whispered hoarsely as she forced herself to sit up straight.

  “I am certain he didna want to burden you.”

  That caused her to snort indel
icately. “He hasna exactly left me without a burden.”

  “There now, Mrs. McKinnon. You’ll only make yourself ill,” he said with a twinge of condescension, and strolled to one of six windows to gaze out at a green lawn below. “He knew he was dying, and there was little he might have done to reverse the course of things. He knew you would be adequately provided for, so he chose not to cloud the last few months of his life on this earth.”

  That brought Kerry’s gaze up and around to where Moncrieffe stood. “He knew that I would be adequately provided for?” she asked, aware that her voice sounded shrill. “Surely you understand my situation now, my lord, and I therefore canna imagine what you might possibly mean!”

  “Indeed I do understand,” he said, turning toward her. “Better than you know.” The strange smile that spread his lips made her blood suddenly run cold. “Your husband and I came to some agreement about the debt, you see, and he was rather insistent that your future be part of any agreement between the two of us. I was very happy to oblige him.”

  Fingers of dread scraped at Kerry’s belly. “What agreement?” she forced herself to ask.

  Moncrieffe extended his hand in a gesture for her to join him at the window. “Come here, will you? I would show you something.”

  Her legs and arms did not want to move. Kerry rose slowly, moved stiffly across the large expanse of room, the dread thickening. As she neared the window, he put his arm around her shoulders and smiled warmly. “See there?” he asked, pointing to the green. His son Charles was on the lawn, holding a stick and playing a game of keep away with two dogs, exactly as a young boy might play. To one side, under the canopy of a tree, Thomas leaned against the wagon, watching him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Charles has now reached his thirtieth year. I think it rather obvious he will never possess the mind of a grown man, but I’ve seen to it that it will never matter. Charles will inherit considerable wealth. In addition to the property I own now, and will soon repossess from you, I rather suspect that the Bank of Scotland will be quite pleased to sell me your land, Mrs. McKinnon.”