The Maid of Inverness (The Marriage Maker Book 21)

by Rose Fairbanks

  “Perhaps in the way you did before gaining custody of the child?” Sir Stirling asked. “As a card counter?”

  “Oh ho!” Douglas laughed. “The pot calling the kettle black?”

  “We can’t all roll over and turn up dukes!” Sir Nicholas gnashed his teeth.

  “There is more,” Russell said, withdrawing additional papers. “I could not ignore the strangeness regarding the marriage record between David Kincaid and Marie Hannay. The record in the ancestral account was falsified. I went to the church to see the original license but there is no Church of All Souls in Dumfries and never was. Sir Nicholas’s father was never the rightful laird of the Kincaid clan—he must have bribed someone to record it wrongly. Marigold’s father was the heir. She was the Maid of Inverness, and is now Lady Marigold Kincaid of Inverness.”

  Nicholas turned red and Priscilla sobbed hysterically.

  “You falsified her age, as well.” Mr. Russell laid down a final sheet of paper. “The lass is already one and twenty.”

  Marigold blinked through tears as she read her name on a baptism record. She might have been free of Nicholas and Priscilla half a year ago.

  “Will we be homeless?” Edith asked and began to cry.

  Priscilla screamed.

  “Hush.” Marigold rushed to Edith’s side. “So long as you want, you and Augusta may live with me.”

  “But Mother and Father?” Edith hiccoughed.

  “That is for Miss Marigold to decide,” Sir Stirling said. “According to the records we found, she has been of age for six months.”

  “Why?” Marigold turned to her cousins. “Why did you lie about all this? Why did you treat me as the poor relation who should be grateful for your notice?”

  “Jealousy, I would guess,” Douglas said.

  “Why should you have all this?” Nicholas bellowed. “You are not even Scottish. You’re American. My grandfather abandoned my father and his country. Not to mention, your mother came from a whore.”

  “And where did your father come from?” Marigold asked. Her voice trembled in anger.

  “David Kincaid took no other wife while she lived. Surely it was all an error. In those days you could marry anywhere in Scotland. Who cares if it was not a church?” He shrugged.

  “Alas, there must be record of it,” Mr. Russell said. “Angus’s will address the lairdship. He mentions his father raised him knowing he would one day be laird. That is not the talk of a man who had a legal heir in Scotland. If he had one, why should he leave the country alone?”

  Nicholas had no reply and Sir Stirling stroked his jaw.

  “It occurs to me, Nicholas’s knighthood might not be legal. The King was under the impression he was Laird Kincaid. Should we notify the magistrate?”

  Marigold chewed her bottom lip. “No...no. I have only desired freedom from want. I do not seek retribution. Nicholas’s grandparents might not have legally wed but he is legitimate.”

  “My darling cousin.” Priscilla threw herself at Marigold’s feet. “Have we not treated you kindly all these years? Have we not loved you?”

  Shaking her head and throwing her shoulders back, Marigold peered down into Priscilla’s eyes. “No, you have not. You will stay this night at an inn and pack your belongings tomorrow. You will not reside here another moment.”

  “Where is your compassion?” Priscilla shrieked and launched from the floor toward Marigold’s face, ready to slap.

  “That is enough, madam,” Douglas shouted over her screech and caught Priscilla’s arm. “Stirling, Russell, get them out of here.”

  Mr. Russell led her out the door. Stirling followed with a tight grip on Nicholas’s arm.

  “I can’t believe it,” Marigold said and sagged in relief. “Do I really have ten thousand pounds?”

  “Yes and no,” Helen said. “Your grandfather left ten thousand pounds which has been accruing interest, so it was far more. However, we have every reason to believe your cousin spent it all. To see it recovered, you will have to prosecute.”

  “Oh.” Marigold’s heart sank.

  “There is no need to decide this now,” Douglas said and gathered her hand in his. “I hope that you still wish to marry me.”

  “I do.” She met his eyes, smiling. “Perhaps now no one will think I am unsuitable. Even if I am not rich, I have a pedigree.”

  “Grandmama, how is it that you are here and how did you know to collect her for the ball in the first place? If you knew of her, why did you not protect her?”

  Helen looked at her hands. “Just as my husband would not allow his brother to marry where he wished, he did not allow me to look after Marigold. Legally, she went to Sir Nicholas. Beyond sending servants as spies to the house, I could do nothing. But I sat and waited and hoped. I am so happy to hear you will make her your bride. My two regrets come together!”

  “Two?” Douglas asked.

  “I did not reject you, Douglas,” she said with tears in her eyes. “When your father—my son—died, I wanted you and your mother to move back to the house. I wanted us to be a family. My husband refused to admit your mother and called her every foul name imaginable. He did want you, but I am convinced it was as much to wound my daughter-in-law as it was for the noble cause of educating you. Rather than give you up, Esther fled. We had no notion of where you were or how you fared.”

  Marigold threw her arms around Helen. “You poor woman! Your heart breaking year after year living with such cold-hearted men.”

  “But no longer,” Helen sniffed. “Douglas is such a sweet man. I know you will be very happy.”

  “We will,” Marigold said as she lowered her arms and met Douglas’s eyes.

  “Forgive me,” Douglas said as he came to his grandmother’s side. “I have held you responsible for the actions of others. I have imagined some cruel scheme against me when it seems many did as they thought best. My mother erred in keeping me from family, and you were powerless to stop your husband.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” Helen embraced her grandson, dwarfed by his large frame.

  ***

  Three weeks later, Douglas entered The Melrose in a rush and slammed the door shut behind him. If this was what women felt every time there was a draft, then he would bundle Marigold and Grandmama up in furs and not let them leave until winter thawed. He had learned that a woman’s gown trapped icy blasts, and his smalls were thin protection against the cold.

  Malcolm approached the bar and asked after Russell. The maid, at first, was taken aback by his costume, and then gave him a knowing look. As she marched him through the drinking hall, men called after them, then shuddered in disgust upon seeing his visage. Losing to Stirling was a sweet loss, indeed.

  A man called out an offer to take Catriona—dear lord, he hoped the man did not refer to him—upstairs, and the image brought to mind the delights he experienced with Marigold. She was not shy in the least, even for her first time.

  “Becky and Ruth have told me,” she said before launching herself into his arms and tugging at his cravat.

  However much she had been told, it was quite another thing entirely to do it, and he had to stay her hand before she either strangled him or prematurely unmanned him. Fortunately, whispering in her ear and then sucking that sensitive appendage allowed him to regain control of the situation. Marigold became pliable in his arms as his kisses spread down her neck and across her collarbone. He carried her to their bed. Then, stripping off her clothing layer by layer, he allowed his eyes to feast on her body before returning to her green orbs.

  “I love your eyes,” she said. “So clear and so intense.” She sighed then scanned his body. “You are overdressed.”

  “Allow me to rectify that.”

  He had told himself to go slow but found himself unclothed faster than ever in his life. Marigold held her arms open, and he fell into them. She ran her hands up and down his back while he worshiped her body with kisses and then with his tongue. Only after she had found bliss did he climb b
ack up her. Kissing her deeply, with her taste on his mouth, he entered her. Fully joined, they had experienced new heights of passion.

  Douglas shook his head to dispel the memory. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to go back outside in the cold air. Catriona brought him to a table where Russell and Sir Stirling chatted. They had discovered the other three descendants of Robert the Bruce. Upon seeing him in a gown of delicate muslin, they burst into laughter. After several minutes and having to wipe away tears and clutching sore bellies, they sobered.

  “Since you are such a good fellow,” Stirling said, “I’ll lend my name to your enterprise anyway.”

  “You will?”

  “I have wanted to diversify,” he said. “Tell me more about your steamship interests.”

  Douglas grinned, but Russell held up a hand. “I am sorry, but our maid here must get to work. If you wish to have a long conversation with him, then perhaps you can purchase his time after his shift ends.” Russell winked.

  “Russell,” Douglas said in a warning tone, although he knew the man teased.

  “I will not delay you,” Stirling said, laughing again.

  “Come along, Doug-ella,” Russell said, and Stirling roared with laughter again.

  Hours passed as Douglas served drinks and greasy food then wiped down tables. Propositioned and accosted several times, his nerves were frayed by the end of the shift. Of course, it was not all bad. He had spent enough time on the street and trying to make his way in the world to find some piece of joy in everything—even being a duke.

  The night’s highlight came from seeing Sir Nicholas drunk and losing round after round of cards while loudly crowing about his horse-faced wife who held his purse strings. Marigold might not desire justice, but Douglas had never claimed to be as compassionate as she. The man had spent all of Marigold’s money, but if Stirling would support the steamships, then Douglas had no doubt in his ability to earn a fortune for his wife. Augusta had married just days after he and Marigold. Edith resided with her sister. They sold the house, giving them enough to make the initial investment in ships. Of course, the household staff joined them at Randolph Fields, and Jack had become unexpectedly reliable as a house steward.

  As Douglas rubbed his aching back after mopping the filthy floor, he could only think in awe of the woman who waited for him at home. Her strength and grace continued to amaze him. Despite a lifetime of thankless tasks, she still cared for others. She would soon open a school for the poor children of Inverness and a public library, as well. “Everyone deserves adventures,” she had said. “And until they can go on their own, they should read them.”

  The clock chimed four in the morning when Douglas climbed into bed and curled against his wife. He had spent his life wandering and afraid of his duty. With her, he had found a reason to stay and face his fears. He had reconciled with his grandmother, and finally knew the security of love and belonging. Life with Marigold would be his greatest adventure yet.

  ###

  Take a sneak peek at the next book in The Flowers of Scotland collection

  Dreaming of a Gentleman

  Summer Hanford

  The man of her dreams finally wants her, but a stranger’s love beckons.

  Miss Rebecca Wycliff knows her place in the world, that of a poor relation beholden to her relatives for any scrap they care to award her. Still, she holds a secret dream for more, one that would see her tossed out on the streets, penniless, should her wish be uncovered. But some dreams come true when least expected…and sometimes dreams change.

  Chapter One

  Cold seeped into her knees as Rebecca knelt on the parlor carpet before a threadbare footstool. With care, she applied pins to her cousin’s hem. Beneath Maggie’s gown, one slipper-clad foot took up an agitated rhythm atop a faded, hand-stitched rose. Rebecca didn’t need to look up to know Maggie frowned. Her gaze dropped to the well-rendered flower. Surely, the skilled stitches deserved better treatment.

  “Becca, are you certain you’re raising the hem enough?” Maggie pitched her squeaky voice even higher than usual.

  Rebecca pulled several pins from between pursed lips and glanced up. “I am raising the hem the perfect amount.”

  “You know I want it distressingly high.” Maggie tossed white-blonde curls. “I plan for this dress to be quite daring by the time you’re finished with it.”

  “There’s daring and there’s vulgar, Maggie.”

  A slippered foot stamped down on the decorative rose. “If you don’t take the hem up as high as I wish, I shall only have you redo it.”

  Lips pursed in disapproval, though Maggie could only see the back of her head, Rebecca yanked out the pins so she could raise the hem higher.

  Her foot still in the face of Rebecca’s capitulation, Maggie let out a gusty sigh. “Someday, I will marry a wealthy gentleman, one so rich he doesn’t care that I come with a scant dowry, and then I’ll have new gowns sewn to suit me from the start, not mother’s made over.”

  Rebecca nodded, though she doubted Maggie saw, or cared.

  “But until then, this shall have to do.” A foot prodded Rebecca’s shoulder. “And don’t think I can’t tell you’re glowering. Heaven knows why. You should be happy to take the hem up as high as I like. That gives you more scrap for your garments.”

  Rebecca nodded again and skirted around to Maggie’s side. She fingered the worn fabric. Sometimes, Rebecca despaired at receiving scraps of handed-down garments, but she bore in mind that scraps were far preferable to nothing. If her mother’s cousin, Maggie’s mother, hadn’t taken Rebecca in, who knew where she might have ended up? Even though her mother and father had been gentry, there were few places in the world for a three-year-old orphan without funds. Especially one whose only living relations were her late mother’s cousin and a distant, reputedly mad, great aunt.

  She wished she could share Maggie’s dream of marrying well, but that prospect was so far beyond Rebecca, she saw little point in such daydreams. She would never be permitted a Season, or even to join in local events. What would she attend them in, anyhow? Her patchwork gowns made her look like a poor dressmaker’s assistant, not a member of the gentry.

  Even someone who knew her well, like Charlie, the Bartons’ son, would be hard-pressed to see past her drab appearance, though she hoped someday he would. Charlie, the only person who was ever kind to her. She cherished his affection, even if it was slight.

  She cast a quick look about the parlor, as if Missus Barton might lurk nearby to read her thoughts. If the Bartons ever realized how Rebecca felt about Charlie, they would cast her out. They wished much better for their only son than his threadbare distant cousin.

  Their greed brought a fresh glower to her face. The Bartons were not impoverished. Yes, they counted money carefully, but money existed. Aside from the ancient footstool, kept more for Maggie to stand on than out of sentiment, the parlor was quite modish. Missus Barton invested every spare shilling in the appearance of the more public areas of the Bartons’ country manor. The dining room was resplendent with fine china, polished silver and sparkling crystal. The marble-floored foyer teamed with candles on the off chance a neighbor might pop by. One of the guestrooms, nearly always empty, boasted a large, canopied bed and expensive linens. Sometimes, Rebecca snuck inside and pretended the room belonged to her. Large, airy and infinitely better than her cramped, windowless room alongside the servants’ quarters in the attic, the guestroom felt like a haven.

  If they could afford all that, surely their finances were such that Charlie could marry for love. What were sconces and linens compared to happiness? Why, nothing at all.

  She suppressed a sigh. Nothing at all also described Charlie’s feelings toward her. He’d never once noticed her in that way, she was sure of it.

  Her oft-mended gown rustled as she shifted around behind Maggie. Hidden from her cousin’s gaze, Rebecca shook her head at the unseemly display of ankle. She resolved to leave an extra span of fabric. Like as not, once Magg
ie’s mother saw the hemline, she’d require the garment redone. With near certainty, Rebecca mournfully reflected that she’d have to redo her work at least once, no matter what height she set the hem.

  “Are you finished with the pins yet?” Maggie turned.

  Fabric yanked from Rebecca’s fingers. She scuttled to reclaim it.

  “I want to go look in the mirror,” Maggie continued. “And it’s nearly time to change for dinner.”

  Rebecca pulled pins free of her mouth. “I’m nearly done.” She popped the pins back between her lips, keeping one to use.

  Knocking resounded through the foyer, immediately outside the parlor. Rebecca startled, nearly spitting out pins. She glanced at Maggie. Were her cousins expecting guests?

  The knock sounded again.

  “You’d better answer the door,” Maggie said. “The maid will be helping cook. She won’t hear that racket from the kitchen.”

  Rebecca placed a final pin, piqued over the lack of a butler, who’d been let go for requesting a raise. Far from perfect, the hemline would still serve to guide her as she repinned the dress away from her squirming cousin. Another knock sounded. Rebecca shoved the extra pins into a cushion and climbed to her feet. Standing put her nearly eyelevel with Maggie, though her cousin perched atop the footstool.

  For a fourth time, someone pounded on the door. With a frown for their impatience, Rebecca headed for the foyer. She shook out her patched skirt as she walked. Behind her, fabric rustled and slippers landed on the carpet, followed by the soft swish of the dilapidated footstool being pushed out of sight.

  Rebecca yanked open the door. A blast of cold air swirled in around a short, thin man, arm raised to knock. His coat and suit were a drab brown, and spectacles balanced on his narrow nose. He lowered his arm, a satchel clutched under the other.

  Her gaze slid past him, irrepressibly drawn to the tall, black-clad gentleman standing a deferential distance behind. Not young, but certainly not old, his strong features were comely, his bearing assured. A twinkle of amusement lurked in his gaze and tugged at the corners of his mouth. He dipped his head in acknowledgement of her scrutiny.