Suffering The Scot (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 1)

by Nichole Van

  Andrew blinked, trying desperately to make sense of Madsen’s words.

  “How is that possible? We were business partners for two years before the voyage.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you were . . . paid? Where did the money for all our investments come from?”

  Madsen shook his head before closing his eyes. “I dinnae know. I was told tae no’ ask questions.”

  “Who? Who told you?”

  “I’m smart, aye. I dinnae ask questions like that.” Madsen snorted softly, voice sinking. “I dinnae know who gave me orders. The solicitors kept it secret.”

  “Who? Who were these solicitors?”

  “Fancy firm in London. Smith something . . . I cannae remember now.”

  “How about you try harder tae remember?” Kieran growled.

  Madsen flinched and shut his eyes, chest sinking. His labored breaths filled the small space.

  “Don’t suppose ye have a solicitor of the last name Smith?” Rafe asked Andrew.

  “Nae. That would have been far too convenient.”

  “I fear he’s unconscious now.” Kieran waved a hand over Madsen’s hammock.

  “Thomas!” Andrew barked. How could the eejit not remember the solicitor’s name? That information was vital. He wanted to shake Madsen until every last snippet of information tumbled free.

  He got silence instead.

  Kieran shook the hammock, rocking it. Finally, Madsen stirred, thoughts clearly meandering. “From the start of the voyage, ye were a marked man, Andrew Mackenzie.” He drew a rasping breath. “But then ye didnae die like ye were supposed tae. Always a bloody, stubborn arse.”

  “Wait—What?!” Shock chased every thought from Andrew’s muddled brain. “I was supposed tae die?”

  “Of course. Cuthie must have known ye wouldnae agree to the villagers being sold. It was his job tae make sure ye didnae return to Scotland. He was tae come up with a scenario that resulted in yer death.”

  Rafe gasped. Kieran swore.

  Andrew’s blood turned to ice.

  “The villagers were a clever solution.” Madsen licked his lips, eyes still closed, voice whispering. “Ye were to die, Mackenzie. That was ma sole job. Make sure ye never returned from the South Pacific. It just needed tae look like an accident. Or something ye had brought upon yerself.”

  “That was the plan?” Rafe asked.

  “Aye. And then ma benefactor cut me off when we heard that The Minerva was lost, but ye had lived. Took all the money back, left me with nothin’. Had tae resort to thieving tae pay my way.”

  “Who did this?” Andrew demanded again, voice raising.

  Madsen shook his head again, a soft moan escaping him.

  “Who ordered my death?”

  “I dinnae know,” Madsen whispered, voice drifting in a mumble. “Never asked. Never told me.” His shoulders slumped.

  “Hell, no.” Andrew shook Madsen. “Ye cannae say something like that and then pass out, Madsen.”

  Madsen whimpered but offered nothing more.

  They stared at him for another ten minutes, Andrew willing Madsen to open his eyes again. But it appeared their conversation had exhausted him. Madsen’s breaths grew shallower and shallower as they waited, all color bleaching from his skin.

  “He’s not long for this world,” Rafe murmured. “Who knows if he’ll ever regain consciousness.”

  A horrible numbness had taken over Andrew’s limbs. Shock, he was quite sure.

  How could it all come to this?

  For so long, they had assumed that Madsen was the man responsible. But to learn that someone else had been behind his actions. That Madsen had merely been another’s puppet. Another man had held Madsen’s strings the entirety of their acquaintance.

  And, even more horrifying, that Andrew’s death had been the end goal. And given Andrew’s state after that brutal beating aboard The Minerva, Cuthie probably thought he had completed the job . . .

  Worse, the puppeteer was still at large.

  Andrew stumbled back, making his way up to the top deck. Finally, the stench, the whisky from the night before, and his queasiness got the better of him. He stepped to the railing, ducking from under the tarpaulin and was sick over the side of the boat. His stomach heaved over and over.

  Someone wanted him dead.

  That same person had gone to elaborate lengths to install Madsen as his fake business partner. Madsen had never owned those outstanding business shares; this mysterious man did.

  Who?

  And, more to the point, why?

  22

  Jane rose later than normal, her head throbbing and eyes wincing at the bright light. She took a leisurely breakfast in bed.

  Andrew was gone, her maid had informed her. Off for London.

  Which was . . . good, she supposed. Jane needed some time to mentally sort through everything that had happened the previous evening.

  First, the horror of Wanleigh and Montacute’s expectations.

  Then, Andrew pushing her and daring her to let her inner self free.

  And then all the revelations about his voyage and Jamie . . .

  The one thing she refused to dwell on was their kiss.

  Well, perhaps she did a little . . .

  Or maybe a bit—

  Oh, bother!

  So it was all she could think about, but could anyone blame her?

  That bloody kiss.

  Her first kiss.

  How did one arrive at twenty-four years of age without ever having been kissed?

  Jane could easily answer that.

  Take a careful woman who desperately wished to avoid scandal—such as herself.

  Add in a vigilant mother who carefully monitored her every move.

  Combine it with an older brother with strict expectations and a tight leash on her.

  And, well, it was no surprise.

  Though, truth be told, Jane had never really met anyone she found worth the risk of kissing.

  Until Andrew.

  And even then, without a liberal application of liquid courage, she probably would never have kissed him.

  But, oh, that kiss.

  Even sober in the light of day, just thinking of it pinked her cheeks and sent heat flooding her body.

  Over and over, her mind returned to the gentleness of his hands. The way he held her against him, the leashed strength of his body wrapped around hers.

  Jane knew she should feel embarrassed and ashamed. She should.

  But she mostly just wanted to kiss Andrew again.

  And again. And again.

  Her heart lurched at the thought.

  But did his attachment run as deeply as hers? And, even if it did, what did it alter?

  A single kiss was hardly a declaration of love or a marriage proposal. In fact, from hearing acquaintances talk over the years, a kiss often signaled nothing more than a passing fancy. Was that how Andrew saw her?

  Despite his words, Jane doubted Andrew had the financial and social clout to marry her without Montacute’s support. She equally doubted her ducal brother would ever agree to the match. The duke had his sights set on Wanleigh.

  Continued association with Andrew risked Montacute’s displeasure, resulting in her being forced to leave Hadley Park and Peter. Though how Jane was to extricate herself from the situation with Lord Wanleigh, she did not know.

  Jane was still abed musing when her mother entered her bedchamber. Given her mother’s bleary eyes and strained expression, Jane wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the previous evening.

  “I’ve had a letter from Montacute,” her mother said without preamble. “He enclosed a message for you.”

  Jane’s stomach plummeted.

  Letters from Montacute were never good things. And to receive yet another letter so soon did not portend good things.

  Her mother handed Jane a piece of foolscap before sitting at the foot of Jane’s bed, the bedcovers dipping to her weight.

  Jane snapped th
e piece of paper in her hand and read her brother’s brief words.

  I expect you to do your duty as befits the daughter of a duke. Wanleigh will call upon you, and you will show yourself amiable and eager to please him. Do not disappoint me in this. You will not enjoy the consequences if you fail.

  Well.

  That left little doubt as to Montacute’s intentions.

  Jane lifted her head, her stricken gaze meeting her mother’s. Lady Hadley did not flinch at the pleading she saw in her daughter’s eyes.

  “We have been most indulgent with you, Jane,” her mother said. “But the time has come for you to marry. Wanleigh is an excellent choice. The best marital option on the market at the moment.”

  “But Mother—”

  “No, there will be no argument.” Her mother fixed her with a knowing, but terribly firm look.

  “Wanleigh is nearly thrice my age, Mother,” Jane all but hissed. “I cannot countenance marriage to a man in his dotage.”

  “It is apparent that the close interactions you have had with Hadley over the past few weeks have somewhat endeared him to your affections. I am not blind to the way you watch him. But need I remind you that Hadley is not suitable as a husband? The man is not good ton.”

  Ugh!

  “Mother, this isn’t about Hadley, per se.” Though, really, it was. “This is about my not wanting to marry Wanleigh.” Also true. “One does not necessarily lead to the other.”

  “Do not split hairs with me, young lady.” Lady Hadley’s eyes narrowed. “You like Hadley a little too much—”

  “Of course, I like Hadley!” Jane ground her teeth. “He’s not so far beyond the pale. Besides, he still has all his teeth and doesn’t wear a corset!”

  “Do not make a poor marriage simply to spite me or Montacute. Yes, Hadley might be a more attractive choice—on the surface, at least—than Wanleigh. But do not look to Hadley to be your savior, Jane. Desperation is not the same thing as love.”

  Oh!

  Jane flinched.

  Her mother was not the most intellectual of women, but occasionally, she delivered a barb that shot true.

  Desperation is not the same thing as love.

  Was that true? Were her feelings for Andrew born of desperation?

  How could she separate her desire to avoid a marriage with Wanleigh from her affection for Andrew?

  Her mother continued, “How many times must I say this? Birth may have made Hadley an earl, but he will never be accepted by Polite Society. His upbringing was too poor. He sees you as an easy target with your generous dowry and connections to the upper echelons of the ton. But you both must give up this fantasy.”

  Influence. Power. Money. I don’t care about such things, Jane longed to rage.

  But as ever, she bit her lip and dug her nails into her palm, her eyes surely snapping with suppressed emotion.

  “I know you, Jane.” Her mother’s expression turned pitying. “I know that you think you don’t care about money and political influence and being accepted into the highest ranks of the ton. But you will care. You will care when your children have no financial prospects, and your creditors hound you day and night for payment. You will care when your daughters must marry lesser men, or cannot marry at all, because of your lack of consequence. You will care.”

  Jane pressed her nails harder.

  She wouldn’t care.

  She was sure of it.

  But Lady Hadley had one final blow to deal:

  “Do not trade one cage for another, Jane. Do not tether yourself to a man who can offer you little beyond youth. Youth fades. You will live to bitterly regret it.”

  Jane hissed, breath coming in greater gulps.

  “Marriage to Wanleigh is not a trap,” her mother continued. “It is a ticket to freedom. He is wealthy, powerful, and best of all, elderly. You will likely find yourself a rich widow within a decade. See Wanleigh for the gift he is. Montacute sees this. I see this. Do not be foolish, child.”

  Marry an elderly peer, raise your social standing, collect your plump widow’s jointure when the time comes. Her mother had made the same choice, twice over.

  Jane could not reply. The scream stuck in her throat.

  How could she find a way out of this?

  Jane had always known she lived in a gilded prison. She just hated that every time she rattled the lock and tried to step into the light, her gaolers reminded her exactly how strong the bars were.

  “We start by making a list of who would wish you dead,” Rafe said, sitting back in his chair.

  Andrew, Rafe, and Kieran were lounging before the fire in a private dining room in an inn just outside London.

  Andrew had some business items to attend to in London, as did Kieran. Rafe was required, yet again, to dance attendance on his father. But for the evening, they were staying in a tidy inn south of Town.

  “That’s a good question,” Andrew sighed. Fortunately, his stomach had settled down. His mind, however, still reeled from the revelations of the afternoon. “I’ve been pondering it myself.”

  “The old earl, I’d ken,” Kieran said.

  “Aye,” Andrew said. “My dearly departed grandad certainly had a score tae settle with my father. It could be that he wanted me out of way so Peter could inherit. Keep everything within his English family.”

  “That is possible,” Rafe said. “Are the estates entailed?”

  Andrew shook his head. “No. An entail usually has tae be renewed every third generation, and my father never signed an entail. It’s actually why I doubt that the old earl wished me ill. If anything, it’s the exact opposite. He left me the estates and money in his will, something he did not have tae do, as there was no entail. Peter received nothing. Why do that if he wanted Peter to inherit?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, I agree,” Rafe replied. “Maybe we need to ask a different question: when we left on our trip to the South Pacific, who would have benefited the most from your death?”

  Andrew pursed his lips, thinking. “The most obvious answer is Peter. If I had died, he would have inherited instead of me—

  “But only the earldom, not your Scottish wealth,” Rafe pointed out.

  “Aye, but I don’t know why someone would have gone after my Scottish holdings before our trip. I was wealthy then, but nothing tae the degree that I am currently.”

  “Mmmm, so back to the earldom. Are there any other heirs, aside from Peter?” Rafe asked.

  “Nae. Peter is the sole remaining heir; he and I are the only living male descendants of the first earl. If neither of us sire a son, the earldom becomes extinct.” Andrew drummed his fingers, looking into the fire.

  Rafe pursed his lip. “So if you had died before the old earl—meaning you had died in the South Pacific, as this unknown person intended—Peter would have inherited all the lands and the estates of the earldom after his father’s death?”

  “Aye—”

  “Och, Peter is no’ yer man, I ken.” Kieran took a deep drink of his pale ale. “You’ve been partners with Madsen for how many years?”

  “Just over six years.”

  “And Peter is how old currently?”

  “One and twenty.”

  “So he would have been fifteen when this began? That’s a wee bit young to be financing an investment portfolio. He would no’ have had the money, if nothing else. Despite having a proper motivation, it’s extremely unlikely that Peter is yer man.”

  “Aye,” Rafe nodded, “Kieran has the right of it. Peter wouldn’t have had the resources or experience to set it all in motion.”

  Andrew agreed with them wholeheartedly.

  Rafe continued, “Your English title and lands aside, who stood to inherit all your Scottish estates, investments, et cetera?”

  Andrew sat back in his chair. “My mother, but I think we can safely remove her from a list of suspects.”

  “Aye,” Rafe said, “she loves you too much, despite your mangy looks and atrocious manners.”

 
Andrew chuckled before tapping his fingers, thinking. “The problem is larger than I think we understand. Madsen had been my partner for several years afore the voyage. If he had an employer who wanted me dead, the man had ample opportunity tae see the task done. Why wait until the voyage? I don’t understand.”

  “Have ye noticed anything off as of late? Anything that makes ye afraid for yer life?” Kieran asked.

  “No,” Andrew shook his head. “Nothing tae give me pause. Aside from Madsen himself, I can’t think of an acquaintance or former investor that wished me ill.”

  All three men stared at their cups.

  Andrew sat back, nearly smacking his palm to his forehead.

  “Och! We’re a pack of eejits.” He shook his head. “We’ve missed the most obvious question of all—”

  “What’s that?” Kieran asked.

  “Who knows that Andrew Mackenzie and Andrew Langston are one and the same person? When all this began, who knew that Andrew Mackenzie, investor in Scotland, was the heir to the Earl of Hadley?”

  Silence.

  “We’re assuming that whoever wants me out of the way knows that I am the Scottish Vulcan, as well as the Earl of Hadley. That I’m wealthy and a Peer of the Realm. But the reality is very few people are privy to that information. The question may be irrelevant, but . . .”

  “You’re right.” Rafe sat back. “Did Madsen know you were the heir to an English earldom?”

  “No. None of my investors would have known. There was no reason to ever connect Andrew Mackenzie with the Earldom of Hadley.”

  “Who did know?”

  “Before our trip? My parents and Scottish grandparents, obviously. A few of the older retainers at Muirford House . . .” Andrew trailed off, thinking. “I can’t think of anyone else for sure. Maybe my father’s solicitor? Possibly the old earl knew, but I have no definitive proof of that. Peter certainly didn’t know.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  “You have been listed in Debrett’s as the heir to the earldom,” Rafe said quietly. “So that was common knowledge among those who took the time to look.”

  “Aye, but listed as Andrew Langston, not Andrew Mackenzie. My middle name isn’t in Debrett’s. More to the point, who had such a grudge against me that they would wait years and spend a small fortune to ensure my demise?” Andrew countered.