Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

The hall grew quiet. Kerry blinked, tried to focus on Regis.

  “My lord commissioner, we have heard from a peddler who claims Thomas McKinnon presented himself as Mrs. McKinnon’s husband while Fraser McKinnon lay dying in a back room. I would suggest that her cousin sought to give the illusion of a husband in case the peddler thought to prey on an innocent woman. As for Mrs. McKinnon’s mother, the woman is a religious zealot with a history of condemning every thing and everyone, regardless of the truth! We have also heard from a doctor who saw Thomas McKinnon driving the beeves to market. We know that at this point, Mrs. McKinnon had dispatched her kin to Dundee, where she hoped they might gain passage to America. Why would she send her kin away if not for their own welfare? They had lived in that glen for several generations, alongside her, alongside Thomas McKinnon. It doesna seem particularly prudent if she conspired murder—who better to witness on her behalf than her own kin?”

  Justice Longcrier was sitting up now, watching Mr. Regis with some interest. “That may very well be, sir,” he said. “But you have not accounted for two facts: first, that Mr. Abernathy sent word that her debts were due just before she sent her clan wandering, and second, how did Charles Moncrieffe come to be killed?”

  The hall grew quiet as the crowd waited for his answer. Mr. Regis looked across to Kerry; his desperation was plain. “Mrs. McKinnon told you that she hadna seen the letter, my lord,” he said quietly. “I believe that to be true. I believe that letter, and another from her mother, were delivered about the time Charles Moncrieffe came to call.”

  Kerry blinked.

  “Kerry McKinnon did everything she knew to do to save her home, but when she couldna raise the money, she did what she had to do—she sent them away, tried to sell the beeves to provide passage to America. But Baron Moncrieffe wanted her land. Kerry McKinnon never saw that letter—she saw only Charles Moncrieffe as he attempted to force himself on her at the direction of his father!”

  Moncrieffe looked absolutely livid as he moved wildly in front of Longcrier. “My lord commissioner, I willna stand for these lies!”

  “The only lies in this hall are the ones you have told, Moncrieffe!” Arthur’s voice rang clear and loud above the din; Kerry stopped breathing. He came striding through the crowd toward the dais, Willie Keith firmly in hand. His expression was one of mad determination; his jaw was bulging with it.

  “Who are you?” Justice Longcrier exclaimed.

  “Lord Arthur Christian, my lord. But more importantly, this is Willie Keith of Killiecrankie. Willie delivers the post to the hamlets in the glens, and on the day in question, he delivered the last post to Glenbaden.”

  Moncrieffe roared his complaint, but the justice ignored him. Kerry still could not breathe, could not catch her breath. The justice leaned forward, peered closely at Willie. “What is your name, lad?”

  “Willie Keith,” he mumbled.

  “Willie Keith, two people have been accused of murdering Charles William Edgar Moncrieffe. Do you have information to the contrary?”

  Clearly frightened, the boy looked up at Arthur, and Arthur smiled warmly, the same, comforting smile he had bestowed on Kerry so many times. She could feel the strength of it now seep into her bones. Willie must have, too, because he nodded, turned his attention to the justice, and in a clear voice, told him that he had witnessed Charles Moncrieffe’s attempt to have his way with Mrs. McKinnon, that he was afraid and had hidden himself, had peeked in the window when Moncrieffe followed her into her house. He matched her story with every detail, and Kerry’s stomach lurched with the telling of it, sickened by the knowledge that he had seen such animal behavior.

  “What did you do when she shot him?” the justice asked.

  Willie colored, looked at his scruffed boots. “I … I hid for a time, milord. And then … I went inside, I did, to look at ’im.” The poor child flushed as red as an apple. “I’ve naught seen a dead man, not up close, milord. I dropped the post by accident.”

  The justice pondered that for a moment, then asked, “Do you recall what was in the post?”

  Willie nodded. “A letter from her ma and one from the Bank of Scotland. I remember because Mrs. McKinnon, she always looks a wee bit ill when those letters come.”

  The justice slowly shifted his gaze to Moncrieffe, his eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Willie Keith. You’ve been a good help to us, lad. It would seem, my Lord Moncrieffe, that Mr. Regis’s theory is perhaps correct—”

  “This is ludicrous!” Moncrieffe raged.

  Justice Longcrier pushed to his full height of a little more than five feet and folded his arms across his large belly. “You may think this court ludicrous, my lord, but I think that you found a way to cast out a dozen Scots so that you might farm your sheep and marry off your simple son! Unless someone here can prove otherwise, these people are to be released at once!” He whipped around to one of his men. “Release them! Bring Mr. Abernathy to me forthwith! Mr. Regis, you are with me!” he roared, and marched off the dais.

  The crowd went wild; they were suddenly pushing toward Moncrieffe, their convictions having changed with the justice’s verdict. The blood drained from Moncrieffe’s face; he pivoted around in search of an exit, and with his entourage, quickly followed the justice into the tower. Across the dais, Newbigging helped Thomas down, jovially slapping him on the back. Mr. Regis stood at the foot of the dais, looking a bit dazed as he stared at the door leading to the tower, finally moving.

  Kerry was numb, could not seem to make her limbs move. The witness stand was jostled about as people clamored toward her, past her, wanting to reach Moncrieffe. The sudden clamp of a hand on her shoulder did not wake her from her stupor; she stood gaping at the scene, unable to believe she had been pulled back from the brink of death.

  “My God, my love …”

  She crumbled then, hard against him, her legs incapable of holding her under the enormous weight of her emotions. He caught her, turned her around, covered her grimy face in kisses. “Dear God, I thought I had lost you,” he murmured against her skin. “I was so certain that I had!”

  The noise in the hall seemed to recede to a distance; she could hear nothing but his voice, his heartbeat, feel nothing but his body, his warmth. She would do anything, she realized, to remain in his arms forever. “You willna lose me, Arthur,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “I will go where you go, I doona care where it is, but you willna lose me again.”

  “Then come home with me now,” he said, and helped her down from the dais.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  GLENBADEN,

  THE CENTRAL HIGHLANDS,

  SCOTLAND, 1838

  THE SUMMER SUN broke the morning mist that drifted over the tops of barley stalks standing as high as a man’s head. On the hill behind the white house, four Black-faced sheep huddled together and eyed one of ten new lambs that had been birthed that spring. The white house had a new roof, new shutters, and a team of men who worked diligently to add a new wing that some said would be bigger than even Moncrieffe House.

  The cottages scattered across the glen were newly thatched; lazy curls of smoke drifted up to the morning sky from three of them, signaling the day had begun for the families who had found their way back from the coastal plains, most of them arriving on the Richey brothers’ flatboat.

  Willie Keith made his way through the barley field, marching along nicely in his new leather boots, his new leather satchel slung over his shoulder, both gifts from Lord Christian that he was especially proud of. As he neared the white house, he paused to look at Lady Christian—that was Mrs. McKinnon’s name now, had been since she promised herself to Lord Christian under the old oak on the southern edge of Loch Eigg. She was squatting down, playing with the pups that had been birthed by Mr. Gilgarry’s sheep dog a few weeks past.

  A sigh full of longing escaped Willie; he supposed that he would always love her.

  He reached into his bag and took out the packet of letters that had come. There were several f
or Lord Christian—one from an earl and one even from a duke, for he had seen the seals—he and Mary Shane liked to look at the seals and guess where they had come from before Willie made the long trek to Glenbaden every week.

  There was one addressed to Lady Christian from Mr. Regis, Esquire, now of Pitlochry. Willie knew all about Mr. Regis. He’d done such fine work that Justice Longcrier had made him his special advocate for Perthshire. His was a thriving business, for there was not a want of disputes in Perthshire, especially now that every one was making claims against Baron Moncrieffe.

  There was a special letter, too, and Willie smiled. Every week, she asked if he had word from Thomas McKinnon or Big Angus Grant. He hated to tell her no. Well, today he carried a letter thick as his arm, all the way from America. From Thomas McKinnon.

  As Willie cleared the barley field, he saw Lord Christian come around the corner of the house and grab Lady Christian by the waist, twirl her around, and kiss her deep, just like Willie dreamed of doing.

  As he walked into the yard, startling them, she blushed prettily, smoothed her hair at the temple. “Willie Keith! Is it time for the post already, then?”

  “Aye,” he said simply, and unable to bite back his smile, handed her the bundle. She glanced through them, her gaze settling on the one from Thomas McKinnon. It took a moment to sink in, but with a shriek of joy, she thrust the others at her husband and hurried to the oak below the white house to read it. Two pups waddled after her.

  Clutching the letters, Lord Christian looked quizzically at him.

  “Thomas McKinnon, it is.”

  A smile broke his face. “Aha. So the old dog has finally written home, has he? Probably rich as Croesus by now.” He patted Willie on the shoulder, smiling. “There’s a biscuit or two for you, lad, in the kitchen.” With that, he turned and walked toward the oak where Lady Christian had sunk to her knees. Willie watched as Lord Christian went down on his haunches beside her, put his arm around her shoulder and his head next to hers to read the letter with her.

  It gave him a warm feeling to watch the two of them like that, and as he made his way into the kitchen for his biscuits, he wondered if Mary Shane would ever let him follow her home like Mrs. McKinnon had let the Sassenach do.

  Epilogue

  DUNWOODY, SOUTHERN ENGLAND, 1848

  THE THREE GRAYING men walked through the field of yellow grass that was now thigh high, slightly apart from one another, each lost in his own thoughts. One of them paused near a small stand of trees, peering into them as he rubbed his neck. “Here,” he called to the other two. “This is it.” His two companions turned and looked to where he pointed.

  “Aye, that would be it then,” said Arthur, his voice betraying the years spent in Scotland.

  “Are you certain? I thought it was farther down.”

  Arthur turned and looked at Adrian. “I am certain,” he said solemnly, and walked toward Julian, who was already moving toward the stand of trees. Adrian followed, a bit more slowly than the other two, his knee giving him a bit of grief on this cool fall day.

  When they reached him, Julian adjusted his spectacles and pointed to a tree stump. “Do you recall? You were here, Adrian, when Arthur called out to you.”

  “I recall very clearly,” Adrian said, and as if hearing the gunshot fired at his back, he pivoted sharply on his heel and looked behind him. “It still seems a dream.”

  “I’ve never understood it,” Julian said. “I suppose I shall go to my grave wondering why he did it.” They stood in silence a moment, looking about them, each reliving that dreadful morning almost fifteen years past.

  “Do you recall the words of the vicar the morning of his funeral?” Julian asked.

  “ ‘Know ye in his death the quality of mercy,’ ” Adrian readily offered. “Yes, I recall. I have thought of it quite often, for it is exactly that I found in his death. Had it not been for Phillip, I should never have married Lilliana. The woman has taught me the true meaning of mercy.”

  Julian chuckled. “You’ve gotten a bit daft in your old age, Albright. The vicar said, ‘Know ye in his death the quality of love.’ I recall because at the time I thought it such an absurd thing to say. But strangely, in a roundabout way, I might never have known the true quality of love had I not married Claudia. And we all know I would not have married Claudia had it not been for Phillip’s death.”

  “Och, you are both mistaken,” Arthur said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “The vicar said quite precisely, ‘Know ye in his death the quality of life.’ Believe me now, for I have heard it in my head over and over again through the years, just as he said it, and it was exactly that which sent me to Scotland … and Kerry. I would never have done so if Phillip hadn’t so badly mangled his investments. That little journey showed me a quality of life I had not known existed. I would not have Kerry had Phillip not pointed me to her.”

  Julian and Adrian looked at him strangely; Arthur rolled his eyes. “I meant through my dreams. I dreamed of him so often, too often, until I finally made the decision to leave England behind and follow Kerry home.”

  “Still suffering from an overabundance of sentiment, are you?” Julian asked on a laugh.

  Arthur cuffed him on the shoulder.

  “Ouch! Must you hit so hard!”

  “Look there, the two of you,” Adrian said, pointing. The three men turned, looked toward the stream that babbled behind Dunwoody. There, on its grassy banks, strolled three women—one blonde, one auburn, and one dark-haired. They walked easily together; talking and laughing like young girls, pausing to admire a troop of butterflies. Nearby were their children—Adrian’s daughter and two sons, Julian’s four young girls, and Arthur’s two boys, playing on the banks of the stream, the older ones screeching with delight at some tale Adrian’s son was embellishing, the younger ones squatting in a circle, their heads bent together as they studied something in the grass.

  Adrian smiled, looked around at the yellow field where Phillip had met his death. “We will never know why, will we? So many unanswered questions. But we can be certain of this: had it not been for that bitterly cold morning in this very field, we would never have known or seen such beauty as is before us now. My friends, in his death, Phillip gave us our lives.”

  No one spoke for a long moment. Adrian at last turned and looked at Julian and Arthur; they were standing like two old Rogues, Julian’s arm propped on Arthur’s shoulder; Arthur’s arms folded across his chest, a quiet smile on his face.

  Arthur chuckled, shook his head.

  “What, more gushing sentiment?” Julian quipped, nudging him playfully as he stepped away.

  “Actually, I was just wondering …”

  “Yes?” Adrian prompted.

  “What in heaven’s name is Julian trying to do to us? Four girls? Honestly, Kettering, did you not learn life’s little lesson the first time around? Could you not have spaced them a bit apart, perhaps? At least Adrian had the decency to keep his children home until they were old enough to call. Last month, when you sent those four to Glenbaden, I was quite convinced you had done it just to torture me—”

  “Me? What of you?” Julian cried indignantly as he turned and strolled farther afield. “Those little demons you call sons are enough to make a man want to flee for the Continent. What, are you beginning your own little Scots army, then? For God’s sake man, the war is over …”

  Adrian laughed, and smiling, glanced once more at their beautiful, perfect families before turning and following his old friends—still arguing, naturally—deeper into the field, to the spot where Julian was convinced Adrian had once left a perfectly good walking stick so that he might fill both hands with a young tavern wench.

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Random House, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents either are the produ
ct of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is

  entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Dinah Dinwiddie

  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 any information storage

  and retrieval system, without the written permission of

  the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Dell® and its colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-48203-7

  v3.0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  for Liza

  Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,

  Lonely and lost to light for evermore,

  Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,

  Then trembles into silence as before.