School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge (2 page)

’s lips thinned. “He never even came up for air.”

A chill chased up Quentin’s spine. “And his body?”

“His clansmen were nearby, so we dared not stay to see if it was found, but he couldn’t have survived. He was unconscious when he hit the water.”

Quentin sank into a chair, overwhelmed at the thought of what his actions had wrought. The rogues had committed murder. In
his
name. For God’s sake, Ross had a mother who depended on him, and a clan that needed him…

“I take it that his clansmen found out that you killed their laird,” he said hoarsely. “And now you’ve led them right to me.”

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“No, my lord. We were careful not to be followed here, but we must leaveLondon before they find us. So we’ll need the rest of the money you owe us.”

Quentin scowled. It went against his grain to pay the rogues after they’d committed murder, but he had no choice. One word to the Ross clan about who’d been behind their laird’s death, and he was good as dead.

But at least the feud was ended. Quentin had kept his sordid family secrets, and Ross had carried whatever knowledge he had of the truth to his grave.

The Scourge would torment him no more.

Chapter One

Edinburgh

August 20, 1822

Dear Cousin,

I worry about Venetia’s trip toScotland . Yes, I know what the papers reported—that the Scottish
Scourge was killed three months ago in a fight with Sir Lachlan Ross that left both men dead.
Still, considering the Scourge’s mysterious grievance against the earl, I’d feel easier if someone
could produce the villain’s body.

Your anxious relation,

Charlotte

M
ama would have loved this,”Venetia said wistfully to her aunt, Maggie Douglas, the Viscountess Kerr. They stood in line waiting to be announced at the True Highlander Celtic Society’s masquerade ball, now near enough to hear bagpipes skirling from inside the Edinburgh Assembly Rooms. “Don’t you just adore the tartans and strathspeys and costumes and—”

“—packed streets and wretched food and ghastly accommodations?” Aunt Maggie rolled her green eyes, the same shade as her niece’s. “Not a bit. Unlike you—and my sister, when she was alive—I prefer the comforts ofLondon . Why, I haven’t had a wink of sleep since we arrived.”

“So the snoring I hear nightly comes from our baggage?”Venetia teased.

“Mind your tongue, or I’ll make
you
take the lumpy side of the mattress.”

Venetialaughed. “Forgive me. You’ve been very good to put up with it.”

Their lodgings truly were awful, but they’d been lucky even to find them. Every spare bedroom, garret, and cellar had been spoken for by the hordes that had descended uponEdinburgh to witness the first visit of a reigning English monarch toScotland in nearly two centuries. ButVenetia didn’t mind their miserable inn room. She’d waited sixteen years to return toScotland , and she wouldn’t let a flat pillow and a lumpy mattress—or a grousing chaperone—dampen her pleasure. Venetiasqueezed her aunt’s hand as the line moved forward. “You can’t know how much I appreciate
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your accompanying me. Otherwise, I would never have convinced Papa to let me come.”

“I’m rather shocked that you did. However did you manage it?”

“Oh, Papa is easy enough to handle. I only had to make one tiny promise.”

“And what was that?”

She cast her aunt a game smile. “To accept a proposal of marriage in the next year.”

“That isn’t exactly a tiny promise, my dear. And who is the lucky fellow?”

“Lord, I don’t know. Anyone I can endure, I suppose.” And anyone passing the inspection of Mrs. Charlotte Harris and the mysterious Cousin Michael, who routinely provided information about men in society toVenetia ’s schoolmistress.

“Papa worries I’ll never find a husband,”Venetia explained. In truth, she’d begun to worry the same thing.

“A lady like you will always have proposals,” her aunt said with a dismissive wave of her jeweled fingers.

“It’s not a dearth of proposals that worries him. It’s my lack of interest in any of them.” She’d promised her mother never to marry any man who didn’t rouse her senses, whatever that meant. When Mama had elicited the promise, she hadn’t said it was because of Papa, butVenetia often wondered…

“So have you any particular men in mind?” her aunt asked.

She blew out a long breath. “No, but I hope to find someone inScotland , away from the fortune hunters and dull-witted English lords. I want a Scottish laird with a venerable old name, who lives and breathes theHighlands —”

“Like the fellows in those ballads you love to collect, I suppose.”

Her aunt’s contempt was plain. “Why not?”Venetia said defensively. “Why shouldn’t I have a Duncan Graeme or a Highland Laddie who’ll carry me off to his manor in theHighlands to live in connubial bliss?”

“Because you’re about as Scottish as the Queen of England, my dear.”

“That’s not true!” she said, thoroughly insulted.

“You’ve got too many fine manners and too much English deportment for a country that thinks a good evening’s entertainment is a jar of whisky and a rough brawl. You wouldn’t last one day with a ‘Highland Laddie’ before you wanted to hit him over the head with the jar.”

That might be the case, but she didn’t feel any more comfortable inEngland . When she lost her temper, people called her “that Scottish termagant.” Too much reserve, and they said she was a “haughty Scot.”

And when Papa fell into his heavy brogue, she always had to interpret it for others. As if he were foreign, for pity’s sake!

Then there was the insidiouly superior manner of the English toward their “lesser” Scottish subjects,
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which even Aunt Maggie had adopted after her years married to an Englishman. She scowled at her aunt, who didn’t even notice.

“You’re certainly wearing the right costume for catching your ballad hero husband.” Aunt Maggie lifted her white silk mask to surveyVenetia ’s gown of simple worsted. “Highlanders practically worship Flora MacDonald.”

“As well they should. She saved Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

“Yes, yes, but it’s a pity she had to dress like a farmer’s daughter.”

“She
was
a farmer’s daughter.”Venetia adjusted her own silk mask. “And I had quite a difficult time finding the right gown, so don’t make fun.” Fortunately she and Flora both had black hair and fair skin, so they resembled each other.

“At least the color is good. You look well in burgundy.”

“So do you.”Venetia bit back a smile. “Who are you supposed to be again?”

“Don’t be impertinent. You should be glad I bothered to wear a mask. If not for that old fool, the colonel, twisting my arm, I wouldn’t even be here.”

Colonel Hugh Seton was one of the hosts of the ball and, unlessVenetia missed her guess, quite enamored of Aunt Maggie, given how he’d tracked them down at their inn after their arrival. “He’s rather forceful, isn’t he?”

“Forceful?” Her aunt snorted. “He’s mad. Why would the Celtic Society put a blustery cavalry officer in charge of a ball? Heaven only knows what nightmare of bad taste awaits us—he probably had them perch saddles on the chairs.” She scowled atVenetia , who was laughing. “What, pray tell, is so amusing?”

“You!”Venetia choked out between peals of laughter. “I thought you liked him, given how you chatted about my old school yesterday. You told him his daughter is lovely.”

“She is, but it’s no thanks to him. Charlotte Harris is responsible for
that
.” Aunt Maggie shook her head. “The fellow patted my bottom as we were leaving, for heaven’s sake!” The color in her cheeks showed she wasn’t as affronted as she pretended. “He illustrates perfectly what I mean about Highland Laddies. The impudent devil acts as if he’s his daughter’s age—”

Her aunt broke off as they reached the top, then whispered to the servant, who announced them as

“Masked Lady” and “Flora MacDonald.”

No one in the packed ballroom seemed to heed their entrance, except a tall man near the doorway who swung around to stare at them when their “names” were announced. He barely spared a glance for Aunt Maggie, butVenetia he assessed with a thorough, rather unsettling perusal. Then he lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Her “English deportment” demanded that she squelch such presumption from a stranger. But he was a particularly
attractive
stranger and she was in costume, after all. Besides, his Stuart tartan showed he was probably just playing Bonnie Prince Charlie to her Flora.

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So she acknowledged his toast with a nod…and made sure to look him over. Despite his brawny build and the jagged scar marring his high brow, he captured the royal manner to perfection. He suffered a white powdered wig with regal dignity, and he kept his posture stiff and his bearing as aloof as any monarch.

But the rich chestnut-brown eyes gazing at her through the black silk mask weren’t remotely aloof. They burned with startling fierceness. And they seemed oddly familiar, too. Before she could wonder at that, Aunt Maggie was hurrying her to the receiving line and Colonel Seton.

“Ah, you’ve come at last!” the colonel exclaimed as he seizedVenetia ’s hand, apparently recognizing the two of them despite the masks.

The widower looked rather dashing tonight in the tartan of Robert the Bruce. With his full head of steel-gray hair, his soldier’s fit form, and his brilliant blue eyes, he cut quite a fine figure for a man well past forty.

With a furtive glance somewhere behind her, he said in his usually booming voice, “Delighted to have you here, Lady Venetia. Most delighted.”

“Shh, Colonel,” she chided. “You aren’t supposed to reveal my true identity until the unmasking.”

“Right, right, forgive me. Quite a blunder, what? It won’t happen again, Flora.”

She laughed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. The place is probably filled with Flora MacDonalds and Bonnie Prince Charlies.”

“No, indeed. We have princes to spare, but
you
are the only Flora.” He leaned close with a conspiratorial air. “The other ladies preferred more ornate costumes.” He slanted a glance at Aunt Maggie, then broke into a jovial smile. “Like the fine one your companion is wearing. And who exactly is she dressed as? You didn’t mention her costume yesterday.”

“She’s a queen,”Venetia lied.

“Which one?” he persisted.

“Come now, sir,” her aunt said dryly. “It should be obvious that I’m—”

“Very pleased to be here,”Venetia hastened to say. “We both are.”

“Excellent!” He rubbed his hands together. “Have you asked her about tomorrow, the outing toHolyroodPark ?”

“Yes, and she said she’d be delighted to go.”

“ ‘Delighted’ wasn’t quite the word I used,” Aunt Maggie muttered.

“What?” Colonel Seton asked, bending nearer to hear over the din.

“She said, ‘Thank you for thinking of us, sir.’ ” When her aunt snorted,Venetia went on quickly, “It’s
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sure to be tedious in town tomorrow with no activities scheduled for the king, so we’re grateful for the diversion.”

“Splendid! But are you sure you don’t want to visit Rosslyn Chapel?”

“No, indeed,” her aunt cut in. “I promised Venetia’s father we wouldn’t stray fromEdinburgh .”

Venetiasighed. They’d arrived here by ship, so she’d barely seen any of the countryside. But the specter of the Scourge still haunted Papa and he wouldn’t take the chance of her running afoul of any “Scottish brigands.”

“ThenHolyroodPark it is,” the colonel said cheerily. “We’ll march up to Arthur’s Seat after our picnic. The view is spectacular, though the climb is hard.” He seized Aunt Maggie’s hand. “I vow to help you every step of the way.”

“I do not need your help, sir.” Her cheeks pinkening, Aunt Maggie snatched back her hand. “Nor have I given you permission to be so familiar with me.”

His jovial laugh showed he wasn’t the least put off. “Indeed you have not, Your Majesty.” He pokedVenetia jocularly with his elbow. “I hope she won’t order me executed for my impertinence.”

“Don’t tempt me.” With a sniff, Maggie turned toVenetia . “Come, my dear, we’re holding up the line.”

Laughing,Venetia followed her. As soon as they’d left the receiving line, she said, “You’ve certainly made a conquest.”

“Lord help me,” her aunt snapped, although her eyes shone brightly.

“Oh, he’s not so bad.” As they skirted the room,Venetia gestured to the masked guests swirling in a wave of tartan and splendid gowns. “You see? Despite your fears, the ball is lovely—very festive and Scottish, but tasteful.”

“No doubt the other committee members voted down his more boorish ideas.” They halted near a pillar.

“I only hope that he thought to designate a ladies’ retiring room. I have need of it. What about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll stay here.”

“Very well, I shall return shortly.” Her aunt cast her a teasing glance. “Perhaps one of your ballad heroes will float by while I’m gone.”

Venetiafrowned as her aunt walked off. Float by, indeed.

“Surely the dancing’s not so bad as all that,” remarked a husky male voice at her elbow. Venetiaturned to find the Bonnie Prince Charlie from earlier standing behind her. Speaking of ballad heroes…She tried not to stare, but he was even larger close up, a decided improvement on the original short and slender Prince Charlie. “Beg your pardon, sir, are you speaking to
me
?”

The corners of his mouth crinkled up. “Aye. You were frowning, and I wondered if it was the dancing that failed yer inspection.”

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“Not at all,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “I adore Scottish dancing.”