Amy Jarecki's Blog

Chapter One

 

Fifth June 1819

“Why the devil did you purchase a sapphire ring?” Kenneth Davenport mused aloud, noting the date on the invoice from Phillip’s Jewelry Store happened to be one day prior to his brother’s death.

Alfred, the seventh Viscount Berwick had perished in his bed nearly a fortnight ago, thus rendering Kenneth the eighth viscount. The attending physician had deemed the cause of death asphyxia brought on by intoxication, which was further confirmed by the coroner. But Kenneth believed differently. Not that Alfred didn’t enjoy his liquor. Quite the contrary. However, the former viscount wasn’t merely one-and-thirty, he had been fit and well in control of his faculties. Alfred had a passion for horse racing and had acquired the Kiedler Equine Estate in northern England, one of the foremost horse training facilities in the Kingdom. He was an accomplished rider and could handle a team as well as any coachman running the mail up the Great North Road. The former viscount had been shrewd, determined, and imposing.

Seated at his brother’s writing table, which was now Kenneth’s writing table, strategically placed by the south-facing window to take best advantage of daylight, he set the invoice for the sapphire ring onto the pile deemed “of interest” opposed to the pile which was not. He then tugged the bell pull.

Brown stepped inside and clasped his hands over his black coat, clearing his throat. “You rang, my lord?”

Kenneth shuddered. Never in all his days did he anticipate answering to “my lord.” The title of viscount had fit Alfred so well. “I’m surprised to see you’re still here,” he replied dryly.

The butler’s… or soon to be former butler’s hedgerow of eyebrows slanted inward. “Sir?”

“What with your inheritance, I thought you’d have your valise packed by now.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Are you planning to remain in service?” Kenneth asked, unphased by Brown’s baffled expression. Alfred had bequeathed the man with a rather handsome sum. Though it wasn’t unusual for an employer to provide their elderly servants with a pension, the former viscount had been exceedingly generous in this instance, which had moved the butler to the top of Kenneth’s list of murder suspects.

“Service, sir?”

“Surely you cannot tell me you haven’t plans for your inheritance?”

The man’s shoulders fell as he sighed. “I’ve scarcely had time to consider your brother’s generous bequest. Besides, I have no intention of doing anything with the coin until you are comfortably settled and content with my replacement.”

Interesting, though such selflessness did not remove Brown from the list, especially since after a bit of investigation, there appeared to be no other servants who might have had a motive to dispatch their employer. “Tell me,” Kenneth said, probing for any sign of guilt, “if I were to find a butler with whom I am satisfied in the next fortnight, what would you do? Where would you go?”

“Well, sir, as you are aware, I’m getting on in years and have always thought it would be nice to retire to the country— to Surrey where I spent my childhood. Perhaps purchase a small cottage and a dinghy.”

“Dinghy?” Kenneth asked.

“For fishing.”

A rather unpretentious endeavor over which to commit murder. But that wasn’t why Kenneth had rung the bell. Honestly, he’d thought Mrs. Fielding the housekeeper would have answered his call, but that was neither here nor there. He gestured toward the invoice at the top of his “of interest” pile. “Were you aware Alfred purchased a sapphire ring the day before he died?”

Again, Brown appeared to be utterly bewildered. “A ring, sir?”

“That’s what I said.”

“For whom?”

Kenneth clenched his chair’s armrests. “You’re not aware? You served my brother for years, for heaven’s sake.”

Brown tapped a gnarled finger against his chin. “He did attend a great number of balls this Season. Far more than usual.”

A-ha, perhaps he’d happened upon a tidbit of a clue. “Do you know if he was courting any young ladies?”

“It wasn’t my place to pry, sir. And you are aware of how private His Lordship was. He rarely told me the specifics about where he might be off to, day or night. Only by his attire and the reports in the newspaper did I surmise where he had been.”

“What about Alfred’s valet? He was not among the servants I interviewed upon my arrival in London.” Which was a fortnight ago. As soon as Kenneth had received word of his brother’s passing, he and his manservant hastened for London. And once he arrived, he hadn’t a moment’s rest what with the funeral arrangements and all the rigmarole necessary for assuming a peerage.

“He sailed for America six month’s past,” Brown replied.

“Did he depart service in good standing?”

“Quite good, I’d say. I believe the former viscount gave him two months’ severance.”

“Generous of him.” Kenneth drummed his fingers. “Have you heard from the valet since he set sail?”

“Yes, sir. He wrote a fine letter to His Lordship, which he gave us to read below stairs. The chap met a woman on the ship and married her— purchased a bit of land in Delaware.”

Clues be damned. “Did anyone step in as Alfred’s valet?”

“I did, sir. After all, I was the valet to your father before I was promoted to butler.”

Kenneth knew this, of course. And as far as he could recall, Brown had been a most loyal servant to the viscountcy. “Did doing so not deter you from your duties?”

“Not really. Lord Berwick the former only required the attention of a valet in the mornings and when he was planning to go out in the evening. He preferred to be left alone once he returned from his social engagements— if he returned. Moreover, since Lord Berwick the former was a bachelor, he rarely entertained. Things have been rather quiet since your parents were laid to rest and the two of you flew the nest, as it were.” Brown leaned forward as if he had a secret. “May I speak freely, sir?”

Hoping for a declaration of guilt, Kenneth leaned in as well. “Yes, please do.”

“This whole unfortunate turn of events just doesn’t seem plausible, does it? For your brother to perish in his bed— a man full of youth and vitality. I cannot understand it.”

Neither could Kenneth. Hence the very reason for sifting through his brother’s correspondence. And was why he critically was examining the character of the servants who had been in the employ of the viscountcy for years. “Hypothetically, let us assume skullduggery is afoot.”

Brown gave a discerning nod while jowls reminiscent of a bloodhound jostled.

“Can you think of anyone who might have benefited from Alfred’s death?”

The butler puzzled for a moment, then straightened and clapped a hand over his heart. “Surely, you do not think I had anything to do with His Lordship’s passing?”

Kenneth narrowed his gaze. Why had Brown jumped to such a sudden conclusion? True, he had known the butler all his life and the man had served his family well. But no stone could be left unturned. “Were you aware Alfred had included you in his will— you and not one of the other servants?”

“No, sir. I had absolutely no idea until you told me yourself. Surely, you recall how astonished I was at the time of the reading— after all, it was only yesterday,” Brown replied, his face utterly blanched.

True, the butler had been unduly shocked, or at least it appeared that way. Now Kenneth wasn’t entirely convinced. “I wonder… ” he said, drumming his fingers against his lips. “Did my brother have a mistress?”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“No one of whom I was aware.”

“Yet you are also unaware as to whether or not he was courting a young lady?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Very well.” Kenneth picked up the next bit of paper— an invoice for the stabling of Alfred’s horse at the Epsom Derby which had been held in Surrey. “I was surprised to read in the papers that Venom didn’t win the Derby this year. He was favored, was he not?”

“Yes, he was, sir. And I’ll say His Lordship was very out of sorts afterward. Horses were one thing the viscount loved to discuss, especially when taking his breakfast.”

Kenneth couldn’t argue that, what with Alfred’s purchase of Kiedler Equine. “Did you travel to Surrey for the race?”

“I did, at His Lordship’s request.”

Kenneth watched the butler’s expression as he casually replied, “What a good opportunity to enquire about properties for sale.”

A pinch formed between Brown’s eyebrows. “I do not believe the viscount was looking to buy property.”

“I wasn’t referring to my brother— what with you planning to retire to Surry with a dingy and whatnot.”

Brown again clasped his hands over his coat, his white gloves pristine. “I assure you I had no prior knowledge of the monies bequeathed to me. We are all bereft. Perhaps you might feel better after a warm brandy or— ”

“No. Thank you.” For a moment, Kenneth mulled over whether or not to dismiss the butler forthwith and send him off to Surrey but decided against doing so. Of course, he could make do as he always had with his manservant, Welch. But until he uncovered the true cause of Alfred’s death, he needed Brown close at hand, under close surveillance as well.

After the butler was dismissed, Kenneth locked the items from the “pile of interest” into the top drawer of the writing table. He then took it upon himself to rifle through every nook and cranny of the town house in search of the sapphire ring. When all else failed, he lowered himself to his hands and knees and peered under Alfred’s enormous four-poster bed. To his chagrin, the cavern beneath was too dark to see a thing.

He stood and turned full circle, eyeing the copper bed warmer propped against the enormous black-marble hearth. He swiftly removed the wooden handle, then keeled again and swept the tool in an arc beneath the bed, first toward the headboard, and then toward the foot.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, sweeping a velvet box out from beneath the edge of the coverlet.

Kenneth’s fingers trembled as he opened the oval box, the sight making every muscle in his body clench, his face burn with fire, and his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “Alfred’s death was no case of asphyxia.” He enclosed the empty box in his fist. “And this bloody proves it!”

Lady Modesty MacGalloway gathered Poseidon’s reins in her left hand before climbing onto the mounting block.

“I think it is time for ye to start racing against an opponent,” said Mr. Willett, her trainer— a man she had met at the Epsom Derby, and the only person she trusted to keep her secret— aside from her lady’s maid, whom Modesty trusted with everything.

Before she mounted the bay thoroughbred, she glanced through the stable’s long corridor, lined with stalls on either side, each one containing a prized racehorse. An opponent? “Are you training other women?”

“No, ye’re the only one.”

She bit her bottom lip. Modesty would give her right arm to race beside a proven jockey. But then again, allowing anyone aside from Mr. Willett to know her secret bore a monumental risk. “Do you reckon ’tis safe?”

“There are one or two fellas I trust, but aye. There would be a small fee, of course.”

It was Sunday. At noon. Not only did jockeys rest on Sundays, all the stable hands took their nooning at the Lion’s Den down the road a wee bit. This was the only day of the week upon which Modesty could train. The only hour as well. Women weren’t allowed on the track. Not that anyone would know she was a woman by her snug-fitting white breeches, red silk shirt, and jockey’s cap, which was tied beneath her chin with ribbon because she had far too much hair for the wee bonnet to fit snugly.

“Besides,” said Mr. Willett, giving her knee a slap. “Ye look like a jockey. Ride better than most as well.”

Modesty beamed. Ever since she had been given a pony at the age of five she had been enamored with horses. But only when the patriarch of the family, Martin MacGalloway, the Duke of Dunscaby, allowed her to accompany him to the track in Surrey did she realize she was already in love with racing. “Just dunna tell my brother— or Mama, for that matter. When it comes to behavior befitting young ladies, they both have no sense of humor whatsoever.”

“I doubt I’ll ’ave the honor. The only nobility who visit the practice track are those who are in the ’orse trade— though they mostly give their ’orses a cursory glance before leaving them in the hands of their trainers.”

Modesty slipped the toes of her wellingtons into the iron stirrups. “Well, I endure my fill of nobility quite enough aside from our noon hours on Sundays.”

“I imagine you do.”

She raised the reins and cued Poseidon to walk on toward the track.

Mr. Willett kept pace alongside them. “What shall it be today? Eight Furlongs? Six?”

“The Derby is one-and-a-half miles,” she said.

“One mile, four furlongs, and ten yards,” Mr. Willett corrected.

She tossed her head. “Which is one-and-a-half miles, mind you.”

“It is at that, milady.” As they stopped on the track, he wrapped his fingers around Poseidon’s bridle. “Tell me, what is the one thing upon which you need to focus?”

There were many things, actually, the first being not to fall off her tiny saddle, made smaller to keep the weight Poseidon must bear to a minimum. But Modesty’s seat was sure. “Heels down, crouch low so the wind glides over my back, eyes straight ahead, and… ” She chewed her bottom lip. Even if she was wearing jockey’s clothing, it wasn’t proper to speak of certain parts of one’s anatomy.

“That was several things, all of which ye’ve mastered. If ye want to ride like the wind, keep your backside up.” Mr. Willett smacked her hip. “I’ll tell ye true, every jockey who ’as learned to raise his arse in the air increases his odds tenfold. Ye’re training to be a jockey, are ye not?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then ye’d best ride like one else you may as well go back to your sidesaddle and parade through ’yde Park with the ladies.”

Modesty chuckled to herself. The man always talked as if she actually did have a chance to become a jockey. She was certainly small enough. She didn’t even need to bind her breasts because her corset took care of making her bosoms appear flat— unless she was dressing for a ball, at which time her lady’s maid managed to miraculously produce cleavage. But small breasts or nay, she had engaged Mr. Willett to indulge in something for herself— something she’d dreamed about, something aside from the endless parade of balls, tea parties, soirees, recitals, the opera… though Modesty did find Shakespeare riveting.

Nonetheless, things had grown rather disconcerting when both she and her closest friend Kitty were introduced at court for the commencement of their first Season. It seemed everyone considered Kitty to be one of the darlings of the ton while the only callers Modesty had received were parasites on the hunt for an easy fortune. Well, she had no intention of allowing some ne’er-do-well to take her dowry and lose it at the card tables in a horrid gambling hell.

At the practice track, all thoughts of her rather disastrous first Season blew away on the wind as she took Poseidon through his paces, warming up with a trot, gradually urging him faster until he transitioned to a canter. By the time the horse was ready to gallop, Mr. Willett had marched across the paddock to the half-mile mark, Modesty’s cue to ride to the starting line.

Even without any competition, the thoroughbred snorted and tossed his head, skittering sideways in his excitement to break into a run. “Easy, laddie,” she said, patting his neck and holding the reins firmly to prevent him from lurching forward.

With his pocket watch in hand, Mr. Willett blew his whistle while Modesty dug in her heels and slapped her crop, leaning over Poseidon’s withers as she had been taught. Her eyes teared up with the force of the wind at her face but, by the stars, it felt liberating. Riding on the back of a horse with no restrictions and no hampering conventions was the closest thing to unabashed freedom Modesty had ever experienced. Years of lessons in etiquette sloughed away. The shackles of her highborn birth didn’t matter. The circumstances of being the youngest of eight children was momentarily forgotten as the thrill of commanding the fastest animal ever to set hooves onto a racetrack rushed through her blood like a sip of whisky on an empty stomach (which she had nipped once from her brother’s decanter).

“Get your arse up!” hollered Mr. Willett.

Jolting with her trainer’s correction, she pushed her heels down, taking all her weight onto her thighs, the motion making her lurch so far forward, Poseidon’s wind-blown mane tickled her chin.

“That’s it!” he shouted as she thundered past, the thrill of his compliment bolstering her confidence, making her demand more speed.

As they galloped around the bend and headed down the straight, a man stepped onto the track— not a worker, but a man dressed like a dandy— Wellington top hat, gleaming hessians over a pair of skintight pantaloons, and a double-breasted coat with tails.

Gasping, Modesty slowed Poseidon, though it was impossible to immediately make him stop. After her initial tug, she eased the reins, allowing the horse to naturally slow to a canter and then to a trot while Mr. Willett marched back across the paddock, fists tight at his sides. “What the devil are you doing Modesty— ah, er… Master Modistie,” he improvised, obviously flummoxed at seeing the gentleman who so rudely interrupted her lesson.

Modesty clamped her lips shut and shrugged as she inclined her head toward the unwanted visitor.

“I beg your pardon, I hope I am not interrupting your practice,” said the intruder. Was that ginger hair peeking beneath the rim of his hat? “I couldn’t find anyone in the stables and I’ve come to enquire about my late brother’s horse.”

She pulled the brim of her cap lower as Mr. Willett slipped his watch into the pocket of his waistcoat. “If ye tell me the name of the ’orse, I might be able to ’elp ye, sir.”

“Venom.”

Modesty emitted a high-pitched gasp before she thought to hold it in. The gentleman shifted his gaze her way as she clapped a hand over her mouth. His eyes were pale blue, the intensity of his stare rather disconcerting. But then again, everyone knew this man’s brother had recently passed away. Breaking the polarizing connection between their gazes, Modesty glanced to the black mourning ribbon around the man’s arm. The papers had reported Alfred Davenport was survived by a younger brother.

So, this is the new viscount? He certainly is not as handsome as the former had been.

But the man’s appearance aside, she had attended the Derby— and it was won by an outsider. Furthermore, the papers reported rumors indicating there might be skullduggery afoot, which were heartily refuted by the Jockey Club.

Mr. Willett bowed with a flourish. “Forgive me, Lord Berwick. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you. Alfred’s passing was met with quite a shock.” His Lordship gestured toward the stables. “May I see the horse?”

“Of course, sir. Straightaway.” The trainer leveled his gaze at Modesty. “I’m afraid we’ll ’ave to cut your lesson short, mil— er— Master Mod— er— ah— istie.”

Wonderful. Mr. Willett had suddenly turned into a numpty of the highest order. Unless she held forth with a modicum of confidence, every member of polite society might be made aware that a woman was seen putting a racehorse through his paces. “Aye, sir,” she said, affecting a deep, masculine voice.

After waiting for the men to enter the barn first, Modesty made quick work of returning Poseidon to his stall. She removed the saddle— something always done by the grooms at home, though a task she loved doing herself. In truth, Modesty often felt more at ease in a barn than she did in a parlor or at a ball. Horses didn’t judge a person by their appearance, they judged them by their character, and whether or not the beasties deemed their humans worthy of respect.

Fortunately, she and Poseidon had struck up an immediate bond as if he knew she was his human from the moment they’d said hello. When they were introduced, she didn’t try to mount him or take charge, she just accepted the lead line from the groom and breathed in the horse’s scent, whispering a hello, and complimenting his beauty. As Poseidon began to relax, she had rested her forehead against his shoulder, spending at least an hour stroking him, whispering compliments all the while.

After stowing the saddle, Modesty donned a leather work apron and set to brushing her horse while the conversation Mr. Willett was having with Lord Berwick carried through the walls.

“He’s a beauty. My brother was confident he’d win the Derby.”

“’Twas a fluke if ye ask me. Ye are aware the former Viscount Berwick asked the Jockey Club stewards to perform a tooth check after the race to confirm the winner’s age.”

Modesty’s brush stilled. The papers hadn’t elaborated about the specifics of His Lordship’s concern. They’d merely insinuated the winner was an unknown and a last-minute substitution— which was enough cause for consternation in itself.

“I had no idea,” responded the viscount, his voice quite deep, stirringly resonant as well. “How did the stewards respond?”

“They swept ’is Lordship’s request aside— said it was bad form and whatnot.”

“I’ll wager Alfred wasn’t happy to be refused.”

“Furious ’e was, so he sacked Venom’s jockey.”

“Truly?” A heavy pause hung in the air. “Tell me, who owned the outsider?”

“That would be Mr. Ward Crockford— proprietor of Waiter’s Gentleman’s Club on Bolton Row. Do ye know of it?”

Modesty had certainly heard of the men’s-only haunt, run by a corrupt and deceitful fiend— according to the Lady’s Magazine.

“A gambling hell?” asked the viscount, his inflection filled with disdain.

“Aye, but an ’ighbrow one. ‘Crocky the Shark’ was the son of a fishmonger— grew up among the squalid surrounds in Temple Bar but ye’d never know if ye ’ad a peek at the finery of Waiter’s. I reckon ’tis as fancy as Carlton ’ouse.”

While the men’s conversation lingered on, Modesty slipped into her full-length pelisse and fastened the buttons, then removed her cap and replaced it with a bonnet. Once again dressed as herself, she hastened outside to a waiting hackney, which was driven by a man whom she paid handsomely to ferry her to and from the racetrack every Sunday. His payment, of course, was in lieu of his silence.

Before the hack got underway, however, Lord Berwick appeared on the footpath. Again their gazes met. Her initial gasp was quickly replaced by a schooled purse to her lips, and rather than allow His Lordship to stare, Modesty closed the curtain and blocked the man from her sight.

End of Chapter One

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Happy Holidays Everyone and Welcome to the Cookie/Recipe Hop!

I made this for Thanksgiving and it wasn’t only super easy it’s absolutely delicious! Credit to Lil’ Luna

Pumpkin Dump Cake RecipeBy: Lil’ LunaSimple and delicious pumpkin dump cake preps in minutes. With all of these earthy flavors, it’s perfect all fall long!Servings: 15Prep: 5 minutes minsCook: 1 hour hrTotal: 1 hour hr 5 minutes minsIngredients▢ 1 (30-ounce) can pumpkin puree canned▢ 1 (16-ounce) can evaporated milk▢ 1 teaspoon ginger▢ 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves▢ 1 cup sugar▢ 4 eggs▢ 2 teaspoon cinnamon▢ 1 (15.25-ounce) package yellow cake mix▢ 1 cup chopped pecans▢ 3/4 cup butterInstructionsPreheat oven to 350°F.Mix pumpkin, milk, ginger, cloves, sugar, eggs, and cinnamon in a large bowl. Pour into a greased and floured 9×13 pan.Sprinkle cake mix and chopped pecans on top.Cut butter very thin and cover all over the cake mix.Bake for 1 hour and serve warm with whipped cream. ENJOY!My latest series is The MacGalloways comprised of Scottish Regency stories about the children of a dukedom and how they find love. Click the image below to find out more:

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Thank you for participating in the Holiday Hop and I hope you get a whole bunch of fantastic recipes!

Hop back to the HISTORICAL ROMANCE COOKIE HOP! https://fb.me/e/5Tf0zslib

 

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Captain Gibb MacGalloway might adore women, but he does not allow them aboard his ship…

Females are too distracting for his crew—and too distracting for him, truth be told. But when his brother, the Duke of Dunscaby, asks him to provide safe passage to Miss Isabella Harcourt, the daughter of an old family friend, Gibb has no choice but to bend his rules. However, it is not until the lass comes aboard that he realizes Miss Harcourt is the lovely wallflower he’d tricked into giving him a wee kiss only the day before.

Isabella Harcourt expected to spend her days as a spinster…

Until her father announces he has arranged her marriage to an American silver miner who is over twice her age. She might be disappointed at the news, but she accepts her fate and boards the ship, her life in tatters. Worse, things grow even more daunting when she meets the blue-eyed stare of the man who’d imparted her first kiss only one day prior—a very passionate, bone-melting kiss. Now they must endure a voyage across the Atlantic, pretending there had never been an attraction between them, pretending they’d never met. After all, she is promised to another, and he is married to the sea. By the time the ship arrives in Savannah, will this star-crossed pair be able to say their goodbyes?

Read an Excerpt:

“What sort of wager?” she asked as they stopped at the quivers of arrows. She picked up a bow and tested it for tautness.

She released the string and let it twang. “I beg your pardon? What sort of gentleman wagers a kiss? I hardly know you.”

“You ken me well enough. I like Roman history and dislike crowds. What else is there?”

“A great deal more, mark me.”

He handed her an arrow, then caught her by the wrist as she took it. “What say you, lass?” he asked, gazing into those enormous black eyes. He was a sea captain first, and though he’d been raised as the “spare son” in a ducal house, he’d never completely embraced the rules of etiquette—unless he could use them to his advantage. “I’ve issued a challenge. Have you the courage to accept?”

Licking her lips, Miss Raven Hair cast a nervous glance toward the house. “A-a small peck, perhaps? And no one must see.”

“Verra well.” Gibb liked that just fine—no meaningful kiss ought to be imparted in public. “And you, madam? What do you wager?”

The lassie’s nostrils flared as she looked him from head to toe. “If you win, I should like to know your name, sir.”

A wry grin stretched his lips. There this woman stood, completely aware that he’d sidestepped every convention of propriety, and yet she would only know his name if she won their competition. Perhaps a wee bit of mischievousness smoldered in the heart of this history-reading bluestocking?

“Why were you sitting alone?” he asked.

She loaded her bow and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I have a great deal on my mind.”

Gibb smirked. She most likely had a younger sister in the group of scavenger hunters who was as much of a hellion as Grace or Modesty. Miss Raven Hair released her arrow. It fell short of the target by a good yard. She immediately turned, blushing most adorably. Ah yes, with a bit of color, there was a striking elegance to her look. “Of course, you’ll allow two shots for practice.”

He let his gaze dip down the length of her muslin day gown and back up. “Inventing rules as we go along?” he asked, his tongue slipping to the corner of his mouth.

“Not at all.” She tossed her head, oblivious to his appreciation. “I’ve never used this bow before.”

“I’ll grant you that.” Gibb bowed. “Two shots for the lady.”

“You may have two as well.”

Her second arrow hit the edge of the target, but nowhere near close enough. He rubbed his hands, pleased to see his kiss might just be a certainty.

Except there seemed to be a bit of a hullaballoo in the Summerhouse. Had Mama spotted him?

“Ready?” he asked, trying to hurry the lass along.

She pulled back the string and homed in on the target. “Best of three?”

“By all means, but you must shoot all three arrows now.”

“Are you suddenly in a hurry?”

In a word, aye.

“I think the lassies are nearing the end of their hunt in the stables,” he said.

The woman fired her three arrows, one in the bull’s-eye and the other two outliers. She offered him the bow, smiling as if happy with her result. “Your turn, sir.”

Two footmen were now in conversation with Mama. He’d best hurry. “Three arrows,” he said. He loaded one and hit the bull’s-eye, then quickly dispatched the other two, much the same as the first.

“Unbelievable.” The lady stood with her fists upon her hips. “I daresay you are a far better archer than you let on.”

“I dunna recall saying I was unskilled.” But Gibb was a sailor, and he was no stranger to wagering or winning. He always wagered to win. Accepting a bet with questionable odds was fool’s play. A grin played in one corner of his mouth as he grasped Miss Raven Hair by the elbow and escorted her into the thicket behind an enormous oak. “I wish I had time to dally about, but it appears my attention will soon be commanded by my brother, or my mother, and quite possibly my sisters.”

Gibb placed his palms either side of her face—silken skin, a warm thrumming beneath. “Och, ye are lovely, lass.”

Dipping his chin, Gibb moved his lips toward her pert, upturned mouth. There was no time to prepare her with sweet words. Closing the distance, he took her mouth, intending a quick, gentle peck. He didn’t plan for anything more than a hasty caress, long enough to ignite a spark, but short enough not to be caught.

And then Miss Raven Hair sighed—a soft, barely audible, quivering sigh.

Holy mother, the sound was like an arrow thrust into his heart. Gibb caught it with his mouth and pressed his lips tighter to hers—to her closed lips accompanied by her rigid posture. Did this woman truly abhor kissing, or did she have absolutely no idea what a kiss was?

Inhaling the scent of vanilla from the south seas, Gibb intended to find out. He moved his arms around her and pulled her petite, luscious body close, imparting a wealth of kissing expertise and sweeping his tongue across those lovely, pouty lips, requesting entry while he slid his fingers upward and kneaded the silken hair at her nape.

With her next sigh, she opened for him, not terribly wide, but far enough for his tongue to slip inside and stroke deeply, sampling the taste of lemonade and something sweeter—perhaps an iced tea cake?

Miss Raven Hair melted against him, kindling an odd flicker in Gibb’s chest—a feeling he’d never before experienced—a feeling he’d like to explore.

“Lord Gibb?” one of the footman hollered. By the sound of his voice, the man was approximately fifteen paces away.

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First Kiss – Well, sort of…

Lady Charity, raised her fists and hopped from one foot to the other. “Is this right?”

Harry crossed his arms while rubbing one hand over his mouth to stifle himself from laughing aloud. Though Her Ladyship was most likely the loveliest opponent he’d ever faced, she was about as fierce as a butterfly with all the ribbons and lace bouncing in tandem with her efforts. “Mayhap, if you’re dancing a jig,” he said, hoping not to dash such admirable enthusiasm.

“Och, nay.” The woman stopped abruptly, her hands flopping to her sides. “Please, will you not show me how to defend myself? Even a sheltered lady such as I never kens when she’ll face a scoundrel.”

Harry took a step back and stroked his fingers down his stubbly chin—as usual, scarcely three hours after he shaved this morning, his ungainly whiskers bristled. At first he hadn’t thought her serious about giving a demonstration, but once she mentioned defending her person, he realized Her Ladyship hadn’t been jesting. “I reckon the best defense for a woman such as yourself is a smart pair of walking shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Yes, practical shoes that allow you to run. And perhaps a parasol.”

“Do explain the latter.”

“I’ve always imagined in the right hands, a woman can do a great deal of damage with a parasol.”

“Not her fists?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, not unless you’re facing someone of similar size and strength.”

Lady Charity picked up a stick and addressed him as if it were a fencing sword. “Since I’ve left my parasol in the house, will this do for a wee demonstration?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned a weapon. “That looks to be about the right size.”

“What do I do, wallop you over the head?”

“Me?”

“Well, an attacker. How should I strike him?”

“I must reinforce that eluding scoundrels is the absolute best action you can take, but if avoiding a confrontation is not an option, I might go for a jab to the solar plexus.”

Using one hand, Her Ladyship thrust the stick forward, missing Harry’s stomach by a fraction of an inch. “Like this?”

“Something like that, but I’d advise you to use both hands.”

“Both? Are you certain?”

Perhaps a demonstration might be better served to prove his point. “Use one hand and come at me again, and this time, don’t pull up short.”

“You mean for me to strike you?”

“Yes, madam, that is exactly what I mean. Give it a go with one hand as you did afore.”

A pink tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth while she eyed his midsection as if she intended to skewer him. With a feral growl she lunged. Harry stepped aside and took the weapon from her grasp by bending the shaft toward her thumb, a surefire maneuver to relieve any attacker of their weapon.

Except there were two problems.

The first, he could easily contend with, but rather than deliver a kick to the snarling dog gnawing on his heel, he chose to ignore Muffin. As for the second, Harry’s sensibilities seemed to be confounded to the point where he froze in his tracks, holding the stick aloft like a daft idiot. How in all of creation did a mere brush of this woman’s fingers render him not only speechless but immobile?

“Ow.”

Lady Charity’s single utterance jolted him back to his senses. With a flick of his heel, Harry dislodged Muffin’s teeth from his boot. “Where are you hurt? Please forgive me. I merely meant to show you how important it is to wield your weapon with both hands.”

Rubbing her wrist, she dipped her chin with a shy smile. “It is all right. ’Twas more of a surprise than anything, I suppose. One moment I was worried about hurting you, and the next my stick completely disappeared from my hand.”

Her Ladyship took in a breath of air, her lips slightly parted as if she were about to say more. But with her hesitation, she shifted her gaze to the stick—or was she looking at Harry’s hand? Those captivating blues narrowed as if appraising a heifer at market, and as they traveled up his arm and fixated upon his chest.

No, she decidedly was not looking at the stick. “My, you are an exceptionally strong brute, are you not?”

“You think me brutish?”

“Not a brute, per se, but you did just relieve me of my parasol with hardly any effort on your part. In my estimation that makes you one braw butcher or fighter or…ah…roofer.” Blast it if she didn’t intentionally brush her fingers over his as she took back the makeshift parasol and addressed him, once again like a fencer. “Two hands, did you say?”

“I did.”

“Then I suppose I ought to give it another go, och aye?”

Harry nodded while flicking his fingers and preparing to defend another strike. “Come again.”

Rather than attack, Lady Charity glanced down to the dog. “Stay. I will not tolerate any hostilities against Mr. Mansfield.”

Her words were spoken with such authority, Harry shifted his attention to Muffin. Obviously elated with the attention, the dog sat with his tail beating away the leaves and debris within a one-foot radius.

“Oof!” Caught completely unawares, Harry doubled over from the jab of an unforgiving and inordinately hard stick.

“Argh!” The woman shrieked, slamming said weapon across the back of his neck.

“Ugh!” Harry bellowed, throwing out his hands to break his fall while his hat tumbled away and dozens of stars danced across his vision.

“Och, nay!”

As he rolled to his back, blinking and doing his best to clear his vision, the vicious stick wielder dropped to her knees beside him. “Oh my goodness, are you all right?” She scooted her knees beneath his head and brushed the softest fingers he’d ever felt in his life across his forehead. “I’m so verra sorry.”

Harry knew he ought to stand, pick up his hat, and pretend that she hadn’t nearly knocked the wind from his lungs, not to mention just about bludgeoned him to death, but instead he didn’t move. No, she rendered him completely immobile, especially when he gazed up into a pair of inordinately captivating dark-blue eyes. This close, he marveled at how sparkling crystal threaded through them with a fascinating ring of solid blue around the outside. When she blinked, her irises grew smaller, almost instantly becoming larger as she focused.

On him.

Her Ladyship’s face was only a hand’s breadth away from his, her cool breath soothing his forehead while those lithe fingers swirled through his hair. “I do hope I havena done any serious damage.”

His mouth turned up. “I rather doubt it. I’ve endured far worse in the ring.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.” She whispered in a sultry tone, smoothing her hands along the bristles on his face, then lightly scratching her fingernails through his stubble as if she were enjoying the coarseness of it—at least keen to explore the feel of his late-morning whiskers. “Please forgive me. I just figured that after you so easily disarmed me the last time, I had no chance of actually striking you.”

Harry tipped up his chin, nearly sighing while she scratched beneath and trailed down to his neck. “Not once but twice.”

“I must apologize for the second strike as well.” She cradled his cheek and stared into his eyes. “I have no idea what came over me.”

“I reckon you have good instincts.”

“I do?” she asked, her lips pursing with the O and remaining puckered and…

Dash it all, he couldn’t help himself.

With a clench of his stomach muscles, Harry rose up high enough to steal a kiss—not really a kiss, but the tiniest of pecks.

“Oh.” Lady Charity sat straighter, moving her fingers to her lips. “I suppose one does unpredictable things when one has been bludgeoned by a parasol.”

Purchase your copy of Her Unconventional Earl today:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B095RQRXMN

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Her-Unconventional-Earl-MacGalloways-Book-ebook/dp/B095RQRXMN

Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/Her-Unconventional-Earl-MacGalloways-Book-ebook/dp/B095RQRXMN

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Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/her-unconventional-earl/id1569726421

Books in the MacGalloways Series:

A DUKE BY SCOT – Martin MacGalloway, Duke of Dunscaby

HER UNCONVENTIONAL EARL – Charity MacGalloway and Harry Mansfield (aka, Earl of Brixham)

THE CAPTAIN’S HEIRESS – Gibb MacGalloway and Miss Isabella Harcourt

KISSING THE TWIN – Andrew MacGalloway

A PRINCESS IN PLAID – Grace MacGalloway

TOO BUSY FOR LOVE – Philip MacGalloway

UNTITLED – Frederick MacGalloway

TAMING THE RAKE – Modesty MacGalloway

Hello historical romance hoppers and welcome! I am a keto/paleo/GAPS diet enthusiast and have a healthy peanut butter cookie recipe to share this year. I hope you like Paleo Peanut Butter Cookies!

2 cups blanched almond flour

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/3 cup honey

3/4 cup peanut butter with no additives

1 extra large egg

1 tablespoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 350F. In a large mixing bowl whisk together the dry ingredients. In a smaller bowl use a mixer to combine the honey, peanut butter, egg and vanilla. Combine the wet ingredients with the dry. Spoon dough onto parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake for 7-10 minutes until golden.

BOXING DAY (from history.com)

Most of us are aware that the Commonwealth countries celebrate Boxing Day on December 26th. The term is of British origin, and the Oxford English Dictionary traces its earliest print attribution to 1833, four years before Charles Dickens referred to it in “The Pickwick Papers.” The exact roots of the holiday name are unknown, but there are two leading theories, both of which are connected to charity traditionally distributed to lower classes on the day after Christmas.

One idea is that December 26 was the day centuries ago when lords of the manor and aristocrats typically distributed “Christmas boxes” often filled with small gifts, money and leftovers from Christmas dinner to their household servants and employees, who were required to work on December 25, in recognition of good service throughout the year. These boxes were, in essence, holiday bonuses. Another popular theory is that the Boxing Day moniker arose from the alms boxes that were placed in churches during the Advent season for the collection of monetary donations from parishioners. Clergy members distributed the contents of the boxes to the poor on December 26, which is also the feast of St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr and a figure known for acts of charity. (Ireland celebrates December 26 as St. Stephen’s Day.)

Although the practice of almsgiving on December 26 has faded with charity now being given in the weeks leading up to Christmas, the Boxing Day name has endured. These days, December 26 is a popular holiday in the United Kingdom and Commonwealth countries for watching sports such as soccer and cricket, shopping and visiting friends.

Interestingly, the hero in HER UNCONVENTIONAL EARL is a boxer (and a butcher). The book is scheduled for release on January 25, 2022 and I think you’ll find it to be an “unconventional” Scottish Regency romance!

Lady Charity MacGalloway likes little dogs, long country walks, and summer cloudbursts, but she wants absolutely nothing to do with the Season or balls or the pompous heirs trolling the marriage mart.

Harry Mansfield is not only the town of Brixham’s butcher, he’s also a boxer, and he’s about as far removed from polite society as any man can be. But when Lady Charity steps into his shop, she manages to take everything he thinks he knows about women of quality and turns it upside down.

Her Ladyship not only employs him to repair her stable’s roof, she cunningly negotiates an agreement where Harry’s sister receives reading lessons in exchange for very surreptitious boxing lessons. All goes well until Charity is spotted attending one of The Butcher’s fights. Immediately, her family shuffles her to London to mitigate any hint of scandal.

As a new Season begins, Charity does not ally herself with the hopeful young ladies looking for a match. Neither does she want flowers, sonnets written in her honor, nor carriage rides through the park. She desperately desires Harry Mansfield, regardless of if he labors as a butcher or a boxer, and she will stop at nothing to make him hers.

Preorder your copy of HER UNCONVENTIONAL EARL here: https://books2read.com/u/38dZg7

Back to the Holiday Hop!

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I’m so excited about the first book in The MacGalloways series and hope you will be too! Here’s a wee peek at Chapter One:

Release date October 19, 2021Chapter One

En route to Newhailes, Musselburgh, Scotland, 27 February 1811

“Jules Smallwood here,” announced Lady Julia St. Vincent in her deepest, most masculine voice. The effort grated her throat, though she had no choice but to grow accustomed to it.

She blew on her gloved hands while a puff of grey mist billowed about the interior of the carriage. After an unbearably long journey via the mail coach from London to Edinburgh, she’d hired a hackney to ferry her to Newhailes, one her new employer’s many residences.

With a shiver, she tugged her great coat about her shoulders. And though she’d been wearing it for the better part of a week, the coat still felt too large, swallowing her petite frame in the folds of the thick woolen weave.

Having no other option in the matter, Julia had altered a number of her father’s castaways. The suits of clothes were a tad dated but, as a working man, she doubted anyone would scoff overmuch. Still freezing, she also tightened the wool scarf around her neck. But nothing helped. Scotland was bitterly frigid, every bit as unpleasant as her father’s butler, Willaby, had said it would be.

“Jules Smallwood,” she repeated, her mind recounting the details of her fabricated past as she had done every five minutes since the entire solution had been concocted with dear old Willaby. Indeed, the Brixham butler was the only other person privy to the truth.

And it must remain as such.

Her hands shook, and not from the cold. Her journey was near its end and Julia was actually going through with this. Again, she’d had no choice. Well, in truth there were two options—go hungry while her father’s health continued to deteriorate or take a position that would pay enough money for her to eventually settle her father’s gambling debts and provide for his care. With luck and the right physicians, the Earl of Brixham’s health would recover soon as well.

And then what? Papa will change his ways?

“Pshaw!” Julia loved her father, but in two and twenty years of trying, she’d never been able to change him. Moreover, he had not only borrowed money from the despicable Silas Skinner, as collateral her father had given the scoundrel the deed to Huntly Manor which had been the home to the Earls of Brixham for generations. With the Papa’s collapse from biliousness and their lack of funds, the estate had begun to crumble, leaving her no other option but to personally take matters in hand lest Mr. Skinner make good on his threats and cast them out.

As the hack rolled to a stop, Julia’s stomach lurched. For a moment she sat immobile, unable to breathe. This was the hour of truth. Once she stepped out of this carriage there’d be no turning back.

“We’ve arrived sir,” said the driver, to the sound of the man hopping down and pulling out the steps. Of course, he didn’t open the door or offer a hand, yet another thing to which she must grow accustomed.

Julia wiggled her toes, burrowing them into the lambswool used to fill out her father’s shoes. They were positively enormous on her slender feet. But there had been no time and no money to have a proper pair made.

With a trembling hand, she pulled on the latch, gaining her first peek at her new place of employment.

This is his “wee cottage”? At least that’s how Mr. MacCutcheon, the barrister who’d hired her, had phrased it. During her interview in London, Julia had also learned that the Duke of Dunscaby, her employer, owned an enormous castle on a seaside estate on the northern tip of mainland Scotland. In addition, His Grace enjoyed a hunting lodge in the Highlands, owned numerous smaller properties throughout Great Britain, and kept a sizeable town house in London. But despite his vast estates, Newhailes was the duke’s favorite…although he’d had little time to arrive at such a decision.

Still leaning forward and gaping, Julia instantly gained an affinity for the house. Though not a castle, any English manor would pale in comparison—a Roman façade, dual and opposing staircases curving upward to the front door, three stories, and more windows than she cared to count. Before she did something entirely inappropriate like swooning, she drew in a reviving breath and climbed out of the carriage. The tip of her shoe caught on the lower rung, making her stumble forward, her too-large beaver hat slipping over an eye.

Quickly recovering, Julia straightened her brim, gripped her lapels, and cleared her throat, glancing to the porch to ensure the entire MacGalloway family hadn’t filed outside to witness her inelegance. “It seems four days of travel has made me a tad clumsy,” she said in her practiced masculine voice. “Ah…would you mind fetching my valise, if you please?”

For a five-mile trip out of the city, the driver had insisted on payment up front, but still held out his palm when he handed Julia her case, chock full of altered clothing and a few necessities.

She dug in the pocket of her greatcoat, forced to bend down to reach her small stash of coins. Pulling out two pence, she deposited them in the man’s hand. “Thank you.”

With a smug grin, the driver tipped his hat and the coin disappeared. “Good day, sir.”

As the hackney drove off, Julia turned to the house, her eyes taking in the iron grillwork, the foreboding black door, the enormity of the estate. In an instant, rather than the vast, welcoming home she’d first envisaged, the manor seemed to lean forward and snarl as if it were a monster with fangs.

So many windows.

Clutching her valise to her chest, Julia whipped around. “Driver!” she called, cringing at the high pitch of her voice. Moreover, the man and his coach were already headed out the gates and down the long, sycamore-lined drive.

Still alone, she watched as the hackney grew smaller, turned right, and eventually rolled out of sight.

“For what I am about to undertake, may God have mercy on my soul,” she mumbled under her breath as she shifted her valise to one hand and tightened her grip, for a self-respecting man would never clutch his valise in front of his chest, no matter how heavy it may be.

At the top of the stairs, a brass knocker in the shape a lion’s head greeted her. Or at least it warned her. Looking over her shoulder once again, contrary to her wishes, the hack had not returned. Before she lost her nerve, she inhaled deeply and gave the lion’s mouth a good, solid rap.

The door eventually opened to a tall, gaunt butler peering above her head. After she cleared her throat, the man’s beetle brows knit while he dropped his gaze and examined her from head to toe as if she’d just flown down from the moon. “May I help you, sir?” he asked, his brogue unmistakably Scottish.

“Indeed, you may.” Julia reached inside her breast pocket and produced a calling card—one flawlessly crafted in her own hand. “Jules Smallwood, Esquire, recently appointed steward and secretary to the Duke of Dunscaby.”

The man took the card, gave it a look, and deposited it on a silver plate. “Ah, yes. His Grace mentioned you’d be arriving soon.”

“Excellent.”

“I’m Giles, I’m certain our paths will cross often enough.” The butler showed her to a parlor. “May I take your coat and hat, sir?”

“Thank you.”

“Very good. I’ll have your things sent to your rooms.”

“Rooms?” Julia asked, allowing him to take the valise as well. At Huntly Manor, no one had rooms unless they were family. Though her father was an earl, she had acted as his steward and secretary for the past five years. Before that, Papa had employed solicitors to take on such responsibilities.

“Aye,” Giles explained. “A gentleman of your station is allotted a sitting room and bedchamber—adjoining His Grace’s library.”

Of course, the steward to a duke, a member of the gentry, would have rooms. “Ah, yes.” She could have kicked herself if it weren’t for her oversized shoes. “Thank you.”

Once alone, she paced. The walls were adorned with family portraits and on one side of the parlor stood a marble hearth with a gilt mirror above the mantel. Even higher was a portrait of a dour man wearing a gauche periwig, his cheeks flushed, his brow stern, and his mouth brooding as if his frown had been painted for the sole purpose of accusing her of impersonating a man.

Julia held up a finger and looked the painting in the eye. “You may know my secret,” she whispered. “But I’ll tell you here and now, I can perform my duties as well as any m—”

“Mr. Smallwood,” interrupted the butler. “His Grace will see you now.”

Good heavens that was fast. She gave the painting a fierce glare before turning to the man. “Excellent.”

After leading her along a corridor festooned with more frowning portraits, Giles opened the door to an enormous library with volumes of books on shelves wrapping around the entire chamber from floor to ceiling—aside from the windows, of course. Great streams of light beamed through the glass panes while dozens of candles flickered above, supported by two opulent crystal chandeliers.

“Smallwood,” said a kilted man climbing down from a ladder with a book in his grasp. “I didna expect you before the morrow.”

The man skipped the last rung and hopped to the Oriental carpet. Dropping the book onto a table, he grinned, his teeth white and healthy, one incisor slightly crossing over the other. Before she was properly announced, the man marched across the floor and thrust out his palm. “Welcome to Newhailes.”

This is His Grace?

Good Lord, the duke wasn’t only enormous, his blue eyes sparkled like seafoam. Julia’s knees wobbled as if they’d suddenly become boneless mollusks while she stifled a gasp. Had she ever seen eyes so light and intense? Realizing she was staring, she gave herself shake, squared her shoulders, and took the offered hand. “Thank you…ah…you’re His Grace, the Duke of Dunscaby?” she managed in her manly voice.

He splayed his fingers and pushed up the black mourning band around the arm of his doublet. “Och, do you find it all that hard to believe? I may have recently taken on my father’s mantle, but I assure you I’ve been groomed for this role my entire life.”

Julia dipped into a hasty bow. “Forgive any impertinence, sir, I entertained no such assumptions.”

“Good.” The duke turned to the butler. “Thank you, Giles.”

When Dunscaby’s disarming gaze again met hers, he stroked his fingers along his jaw as if not quite certain what to do with her. “Do you fancy a refreshment? A glass of wine? A wee tot of whisky?”

Good heavens, whisky? Because too much drink was the cause of her father’s ill health, she cared never to allow a drop of liquor pass her lips. “Perhaps a spot of wine for warmth. ’Tis quite cold here.”

Rather than ringing for a footman, the duke moved to a table, pulled the stopper from a decanter, and poured two glasses with his own hand. “Aye, February is rather bleak. ’Tis even colder in the Highlands.”

“My thanks,” Julia took the offered glass. “Mr. MacCutcheon said your books of accounts are in quite a state.”

“Unfortunately, aye.” He gestured to a chair by the fire and took the opposite, crossing his legs, making his kilt ride up his well-muscled, hairy thigh. “My father wasna one for change.”

“Oh?” she asked, forcing her gaze to shift away from his legs. For the love of God, he was only a man. Very un-duke-like, though. Were all Scottish nobles so…casual? “Mr. MacCutcheon also said the estate has been without a steward for two years.”

His Grace swilled his wine, gazing at her from above his glass. “Closer to three, is more apt.”

“But why did the former duke not appoint another?”

“As I said, Da didna care for change. Also, I believe he was ill for far longer than he let on.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

Dunscaby sighed and stared at the coal smoldering in the hearth for a moment. “My father was a good man. Far better than me, I’m afraid.” He glanced up, his expression forlorn. “Aside from the records being a shambles, the estate is sound with the backing of one of the oldest, most established families in Scotland, but I’ll be counting on you to sift through and set the books to rights as well as ensuring rents have been collected and the delegation of the servants’ duties are equitable. Of course, Giles oversees the male servants and the housekeeper oversees the female. They will both report to you now.”

“As I would expect.” Julia moved to the edge of her chair. “And I assure you I have ample experience, Your Grace. I’ve brought letters of reference from the Earl of Brixham.”

“Aye, MacCutcheon advised that your references are impeccable.” Dunscaby narrowed his gaze and drummed his fingers on the stem of his glass. “But tell me, why the devil did Brixham let you go?”

Julia bit her lip. It wasn’t proper to speak poorly about one’s betters. But then again, the duke deserved to know the truth. At least as much of the truth she was able to tell. “I’m sorry to say the earl fell upon difficult circumstances.” The words tasted like bile on her tongue. Though her father had well and truly lost his fortune, she preferred not to discuss his failure with anyone aside from Willaby.

“I see. Too much drink and gambling.”

Julia’s gaze dropped to her folded hands. “’Tis not for me to say.”

“Indeed. You may be aware that, I’ve just spent the past few years enjoying bachelorhood in London.” A faraway look filled His Grace’s eyes as he sipped his wine. “Needless to say, Brixham’s name was mentioned a wee time or two.”

“Mm-hmm.” Of course, Julia was woefully aware of the rumors. The gossip papers enjoyed blackening her father’s name. Not that Papa hadn’t done plenty to bring on the besmirching. “To explain in a few words, I found myself in need of employment just about the time Mr. MacCutcheon’s advertisement appeared in the Gazette.”

“Fortunate for me, then.” Dunscaby stood. “Well, Smallwood, you must be weary from your travels. I’ll have Giles give you a tour of Newhailes. He’ll acquaint you with the servants as well. After you’ve had a wee bit of time to familiarize yourself with the ledgers, we’ll chat.”

Find A DUKE BY SCOT at your favorite retailer:

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/4jAggo

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B092373G13

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Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Duke-Scot-MacGalloways-Book-ebook/dp/B092373G13

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