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

by Nichole Van

  Jane pursed her lips. “Still nothing about Thomas Madsen or investments in Scotland.”

  “Nae. I haven’t seen anything either. But we have drawers tae go through yet.”

  Another hour passed; they continued to sort through items. Andrew pulled another drawer out.

  “I’ve been thinking quite a bit about this, and there is one point that I’m struggling to understand,” Jane finally said.

  Andrew lifted his head, his eyes a question mark.

  “All of these papers refer to business issues before 1815,” she continued.

  He paused, glancing quickly back through the dates of the letters before him. Jane was right. He had yet to see anything after 1815.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I don’t know how much you know about the old earl’s death—”

  “I thought he died of an apoplectic seizure.”

  “He did. But it wasn’t the first seizure he had. He had his first stroke in 1815. Mother thinks it was due to all the stress from that Caribbean Affair.”

  “Ah. I take it the first stroke affected him?”

  “It did. His capacity was greatly diminished from that point onward. In fact, I can’t think that he came to Rosehearth again after that. But he continued to have strokes. By 1817, he was no longer speaking. The old earl was insensible.”

  Andrew sat back in his chair. “I first went into business with Madsen in 1813, so the old earl would have been in charge of his faculties still. We left on our journey in autumn of 1815. When did he have his first stroke?”

  “The previous winter, in February of 1815, I think.”

  “So before we left.”

  Mmmmm.

  Andrew drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Madsen and I had been exploring the possibility of a voyage before winter of 1815, but nothing had been decided. We hadn’t hired Captain Cuthie and The Minerva. That happened over the summer of 1815. This is all conjecture, of course. If the old earl were involved with Madsen, he could have set things in motion before his stroke. I forgot to ask Madsen when the order to have me killed was sent.”

  “Or, more likely, the old earl isn’t responsible in any way.”

  Glumly, Andrew nodded. “Aye, that is the more logical assumption, given the facts currently. But sorting through these papers is providing me with a broader understanding of the earl’s finances and risk-taking.”

  He pulled a folder of loose letters toward himself, while Jane opened a wooden box that appeared to contain letters.

  He was riffling through tailor’s bills when Jane harrumphed.

  He lifted his head.

  “This is different.” She flapped the foolscap she held and then waved it over the open box. “This entire box is full of letters from a man named Wilson reporting to the earl about a boy he keeps referring to as Mackenzie. Why would the old earl care that Mackenzie can ride a pony better than any other eight-year-old he’s seen?”

  Andrew’s heart hiccupped for a moment and then abruptly started again, racing at full tilt. He stared at the paper in her hand, fluttering harmlessly.

  Something in his face must have communicated his astonishment. Wordlessly, she handed the letter to him.

  Dear Lord Hadley,

  I hope this missive finds you in good health. I have received your requests and will get to them shortly.

  First, allow me assure you that young Master Mackenzie has completely recovered from his fall last month. The bruise has faded from his forehead. In fact, I saw him riding with his father just five days ago. The lad has a fine seat and can handle the reins of a horse better than any eight-year-old I’ve ever seen . . .

  The letter went on and on, detailing Mackenzie’s riding with his father, his attendance at church on Sunday—he squirmed only a little, wedged between his parents—and his superior performance in a footrace against the other village lads.

  Andrew set down the letter, staring at the box before Jane. There were scores and scores of letters, likely years of reports.

  This could only mean one thing.

  “Andrew?” Jane’s concerned voice intruded. A gentle hand on his arm. “Are you quite well? You appear overset.”

  Dazed, he shook his head. “This is me.” He tapped the letter. “These reports are about me.”

  “Mackenzie?”

  “Aye.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Aye. My father took tae being called by my dey’s last name of Mackenzie. He didn’t want tae be known as a Langston. So, I adopted it, too. I’ve always been Andrew Mackenzie, not Andrew Langston or any other title associated with the earldom. Growing up, no one knew we were related tae the Earls of Hadley. Not even Madsen.”

  Jane looked back at the box. “The earl had you watched?”

  “’Twould appear so.”

  More to the point, the old earl knew. He knew that Andrew Langston and Andrew Mackenzie were the same person. Here was proof positive.

  Andrew took the box from Jane and riffled through it. So many letters, some of which had clearly been read over and over, the folds creased and worn. Wilson, whoever he was, wrote every month or two.

  At the very bottom of the drawer, Andrew found what appeared to be the first letter.

  Dear Lord Hadley,

  I have news at last. Mrs. Mackenzie was delivered Sunday last of a healthy baby boy. It is said that the child and mother are doing well. The baby is the toast of the village, healthy and braw . . .

  Emotion pricked his throat. He read the next letter. And then the next.

  Why had his grandfather done this? The reports glowed with pride, from Andrew’s first tooth to concern over a persistent fever. There were no letters from his grandfather, obviously, so the conversation was entirely one-sided. Pity there was no return address on the letters. Was this Wilson fellow still alive?

  Regardless . . .

  “The old earl certainly seems to have been taken with you,” Jane said, setting down another letter, this one detailing his success at St. Andrews, including firsts in Latin and mineralogy.

  “Aye.”

  “This doesn’t seem like a man who wished you ill,” she continued.

  That was precisely Andrew’s thought. Why would the old earl spend years following his every move, and then decide to have him murdered?

  It made no sense.

  “We also haven’t found any proof that my grandfather was the investor behind Madsen,” he countered.

  “True.”

  Andrew continued to read about his teenage fascination with a village lass named Mhairi. The old earl seemed concerned that Andrew would marry beneath his station.

  In Andrew’s defense, Mhairi had been beautiful, if a bit flighty. Last he heard, she had married a ship’s captain and was happily raising her family in Aberdeen. But that was neither here nor there.

  Jane stirred at his elbow.

  “So what, precisely, was your Scottish grandfather’s profession?” she asked.

  “He began as the owner of some iron works outside Perth.”

  “Hmmm.”

  That got his attention.

  He lifted his head, fixing Jane with a bemused smile. “Ye have a question. I can feel it longing tae break free.”

  Jane gave a puff of laughter. “It’s just . . . the way this Wilson fellow goes on, it sounds as if your grandfather was quite prosperous.” She met his eyes, brow raised in question.

  He shrugged, not particularly comfortable with discussing the immensity of his fortune with her. It felt a little too much like bragging.

  He settled with saying, “As I’ve said before, I can well meet my financial needs, both my own and those of the earldom.”

  Jane paused, head tilting before nodding slowly.

  I can take on Montacute for you, he willed her to understand. I am not powerless.

  Finally, she broke his gaze, turning back to the box.

  They read through letters for the better part of an hour, description after descr
iption of Andrew’s life growing up, each one filled with pride and, even more surprising, affection.

  Which explained why the last letter in the box caught Andrew utterly unaware.

  Lord Hadley,

  Forgive the brevity of this letter, but I didn’t want to let this opportunity slip me by. I have heard news that young Mackenzie is seeking a business partner. The investment appears to be sound. I know you wish to remain anonymous, but I am acquainted with a man, Thomas Madsen, who could act as an agent for yourself . . .

  25

  Andrew hadn’t spoken a word in nearly thirty minutes.

  Jane was quite sure she had never witnessed him go so long without uttering a sound.

  The letters from Wilson to the old earl were at times charming and hilarious. Andrew had certainly been a handful, but it was obvious that Wilson admired and respected the boy he had been.

  With each letter, Andrew had grown quieter and quieter, as if lost in memory, perhaps wondering why his grandfather had spent so much energy understanding him, but never reaching out to him.

  Then came the letter mentioning Madsen.

  Andrew had read it aloud, Jane listening. He shook his head. A further look through the remaining papers in the drawer revealed solicitor’s documents from a Mr. George Smith, Esq., transferring the shares of Andrew’s business from Thomas Madsen to the old earl.

  Andrew had stared at the documents and then pocketed them, declaring they needed to return to Hadley Park as the afternoon was wearing on.

  Andrew drove the phaeton competently, but clearly lost in thought.

  Jane understood that sometimes when one had experienced a shock, a lengthy quiet stillness was needed. That didn’t stop her from pressing her nails into her palm, the familiar sting nearly unconsciously done.

  Jane disliked seeing his cheery countenance so dark and troubled. Andrew was light and sunshine, forever ready with a smile and happy quip.

  There was something decidedly wrong with the universe when his mood dipped. She felt helpless against it, the urge to cheer him up any way she could almost overpowering.

  Was this love then? This aching tenderness? This maddening desire to set his happiness above her own?

  Oh!

  Jane quite feared it was.

  She loved him.

  She loved Andrew.

  She truly did.

  What was she to do with the information?

  He stirred, clucking the horse to continue walking on, circling the quarry’s edge. “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.” She swallowed, attempting to quiet her racing heart.

  “I didn’t ken it would upset me like it has. After all, I went looking for the proof that my grandfather was my missing business partner, that he was the man who ordered my death—”

  “Are you certain of that? Those letters don’t sound like a man who wished you ill—”

  “That Wilson fella? Perhaps not. But Madsen said that he received orders from the true business partner to set the entire catastrophe in order, so it must have been the old earl in the end.”

  “Again, we don’t have proof of that—”

  “Och, it’s simply a matter of time. I’m sure the evidence is buried in Rosehearth’s library. I just have yet tae uncover it. The writing is on the wall, as the Bible says—”

  A rider burst through the trees ahead—a groom from the stables.

  Andrew pulled the phaeton to a stop, as the lad reined in his horse beside them.

  “I’m bade to give you this, my lord. Lady Hadley says ‘tis urgent.” He handed a folded piece of foolscap to Andrew.

  “Thank you.”

  The lad saluted and wheeled his horse back toward Hadley Park.

  Frowning, Andrew read the note, grimaced, and then passed the paper to Jane.

  Hadley,

  I just received word that Montacute comes tomorrow. Please return to Hadley Park with haste, as there is much to prepare.

  Lady Hadley

  Jane’s heart performed an acrobatic leap, lodging instantly in her throat.

  There could only be one reason why Montacute would be coming.

  He would either force Jane to accept Wanleigh.

  Or remove her from Hadley Park.

  Or, most likely, both.

  Too many shocks stacked on top of each other.

  First . . . realizing the old earl had likely ordered Andrew’s death.

  Then . . . her love for Andrew.

  And now . . . Montacute coming . . .

  Her lungs heaved, and she pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. Her right hand clenched tight, pressing deep into her palm.

  What was to be done? This was too soon. She had not had a moment to—

  “Here, now,” Andrew’s voice broke through her terrified ramblings.

  While she had been panicking, he had descended the carriage and was now standing on the ground beside her. He snagged her hand and helped her down, his hands tugging her close to him. “Is it really as bad as that? Montacute will not harm ye—”

  “You can’t know that,” she whispered.

  “Ah, but I can.”

  Jane stepped back, raising an eyebrow.

  “Are ye truly going tae argue with a Scot about this?” He winked at her. “Ye’d be a right wee dafty tae do that.”

  She managed a weak chuckle, but that didn’t stop her from wrapping her arms across her chest.

  “Why is Montacute coming?” Andrew asked, clasping his hands behind his back, resting his weight on one Hessian boot. “I can make several educated guesses, but I’d like tae hear your insight into this.”

  Wasn’t that so like Andrew? He never tried to take her words from her. Instead, he asked and listened.

  Was it any wonder she had fallen so hard and fast for him?

  “Montacute wishes to pressure me to marry Wanleigh,” she replied tonelessly. “I’m sure my mother has already informed him that you and I—” She motioned between them. “—that you and I have become . . . close.”

  “He wants tae assert his authority over ye?”

  Jane nodded.

  A pause.

  “I meant what I said the night of ball,” Andrew continued. “I want ye to have choices, Jane.”

  She swallowed. It was his first allusion to that night and their kiss.

  Biting her lower lip, she pressed her nails into her palm again. “I want to have choices, too.”

  “Well, that’s settled then. Ye’ll tell your lofty brother that ye will not be marrying Wanleigh. I’ll support ye in your claims, and Montacute will leave.”

  Jane almost laughed at the absurd naivety of his explanation.

  “Montacute will not be so easily pacified, Andrew.”

  “So he rants and raves and makes threats—”

  “They won’t be idle threats. If you defend me, you’ll only incur his wrath, too.”

  “Jane.” He took a step toward her.

  “Andrew.” She replied, matching his aggrieved look.

  He took hold of her bonnet and gently loosened the ribbons, tossing it onto the phaeton seat behind them. Grasping her hands, he tugged her to him, wrapping both his hands around her waist, pulling her even closer.

  A hug.

  Andrew Mackenzie Langston was giving her a hug. He ran a hand up her back, soothing her with soft sounds.

  She relaxed against him, sagging her head onto his shoulder, arms twining around his neck.

  It was so lovely to be held. To breathe in the scent of sandalwood and woodsmoke of his coat. To feel the soft superfine cloth and flex of his shoulder muscles under her cheek, the roll of his throat as he swallowed, the deep rasp of air in his lungs.

  She remembered this. How perfectly they fit together, puzzle pieces neatly aligned, her face tucked into his neck, head resting on his shoulder. How gently he held her, as if she were precious and treasured.

  He released a long breath of air, lungs heaving out and in. He slumped further around her, pulling her th
at much closer.

  Jane was quite sure she would be content to remain in his arms for the rest of her life.

  Yes, please. Let it be you.

  She was truly and utterly lost.

  “I dinnae care about Montacute’s censure, Jane.” Scotland thick in his voice next to her ear. “I wish I could properly communicate that tae ye.”

  “Andrew, but—”

  “Nae, let me say my piece.” He pulled her that much closer, breath touching her neck. “I’m sure it hasnae escaped your notice that I’ve developed a distinct fondness for ye.”

  Something lodged in Jane’s throat.

  Oh, you beautiful, wonderful man.

  Would he offer to marry her himself? To save her from Montacute?

  But did he truly wish this?

  He continued, answering her question. “I fully intend tae court ye and woo ye proper-like.”

  Jane pushed away, needing to look him in the eye. “Andrew, I cannot allow you to marry me simply to spite Montacute.”

  “I know.” He regarded her solemnly. “I refuse to marry you to spite Montacute.”

  Jane blinked.

  Not quite the answer she had expected.

  She took a step backwards. He reluctantly slid his hands off her waist.

  “I’m not explaining myself right.” He grasped her hand, holding it loosely between both of his. He waited until she met his gaze. “You, Lady Jane Everard, deserve more than a marriage of convenience. If and when ye marry, ye deserve tae know that the man you’re marrying loves and adores ye for your beautiful, kind, witty, intelligent, remarkable self. Not for your family name, or your dowry, or your brother’s machinations, or even kind desperation.”

  Tears pricked her eyes, turning Andrew into shimmery shades of gray, cream, and blue.

  “Ye deserve tae know that only the purest of love sent your beloved to the altar.”

  Jane hiccupped, biting her lip in earnest.

  “Now, here’s the part that gets a wee bit difficult for myself.” He cleared his throat. “I want that man tae be me, Jane.”

  Oh!

  Tears splashed down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop herself from launching onto his chest. His arms banded around her, pulling her tight against him with gratifying speed. His nose dipped into the space between her earlobe and shoulder, nuzzling at her neck.