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

  Rafe was the first to speak. “This is where you tell me what we’re thinking is madness. You are Andrew Mackenzie, aye? Not the new earl, Andrew Langston?” Scotland drifted into his consonants, as it was wont to do when he became agitated or deep in his cups. “Or has one of ma best friends been keepin’ a secret of this magnitude all these years?”

  Andrew sighed, sitting back in his chair. His gaze drifted to the fire crackling in the hearth. He dragged a weary hand over his face.

  “I didnae mean to keep it from yous,” he said, accent slipping further from crisp aristocratic to the brogue of his Scottish grandfather. “In all honestly, I never think about ma father’s English family. But, aye, I was christened Andrew Henry Mackenzie Langston.”

  His friends’ stunned silence stuffed the room, tightening Andrew’s breathing further.

  “I should have told yous years ago,” he muttered. “I just dinnae like thinking about that part of my life, tae be honest. Though it makes me right crabbit to hear that my ma’s good name being slandered so. She is a gently-bred lady.”

  “Her father was a wealthy man of business, aye?” Alex said. “Owned cotton mills and iron works and the like?”

  “Aye.” Everyone knew Andrew had been born and raised a wealthy gentleman. “My dey—sorry, my grandad—was lowly born, but he built a financial empire. My mother was his only child. My father didn’t speak much about his English upbringing. Only that he came tae Scotland on a hunting trip and never left. Said he saw my ma and that was it for him. He loved her tae distraction until the day he died.

  “I knew growing up that my pa was the heir tae an earldom, but he didn’t ken tae his family. They washed their hands of him, said they never wanted tae see him again. After that, my pa preferred to be called Henry Mackenzie, adopting my dey’s surname as his own. I followed suit, dropping the Langston name . . .” His voice drifted off.

  More silence.

  Andrew felt the weight of their judgment, that keen sense of betrayal.

  Kieran let out an explosive blast of air. “I cannae believe ye didnae tell us,” he muttered.

  “Aye,” Ewan agreed.

  Alex nodded his head.

  Rafe grimaced.

  Kieran waved a hand. “It’s as if ye hate us.”

  “Kieran,” Andrew began, “it’s not like that—”

  “Nae, it is.” Kieran jabbed a finger at Andrew’s chest. “Years! Ye have deprived us of years of teasing ye over this.” He threw up a hand in disgust.

  “Aye!” Rafe smacked a flat palm on the table.

  Kieran wasn’t done. “I could’ve been calling ye your lordship—”

  “Bowing and sich,” Ewan mourned.

  “Tugging a forelock.”

  “Always insisting on giving ye precedence,” Ewan continued.

  “You have never done that with me.” Lord Rafe looked at Ewan.

  “Och.” Kieran waved a hand at Rafe. “Your lofty lordship isnae fun to tease.”

  “Aye,” Alex agreed, “you’re no’ serious enough. But Andrew—”

  “Andrew would’ve been a dream.” Kieran looked off into the mid-distance, eyes wistful. He jabbed a finger at Andrew again. “I dinnae think I can ever forgive ye . . . yer lordship.” He gave a mocking bow.

  His friends all laughed.

  Andrew frowned.

  Not quite the reaction he had expected.

  “How are ye getting on with it?” Ewan leaned forward, snagging Andrew’s gaze. “Given your family’s acrimonious history, are ye content to assume the earldom?”

  Trust Ewan to ask a kind-hearted question. His artist’s soul always thought of people first.

  “He cannot refuse the title,” Rafe said. “English laws of inheritance will not allow it.”

  “Rafe has the right of it.” Andrew chewed on his cheek. “More to the point, I am not one to shirk my responsibilities. So even though I don’t necessarily like that I am an English earl, I will do my duty there. My father wished it and, tae his credit, he ensured I knew how tae run an estate and manage the demands of an earldom.” He shook his head. “Though, I can’t imagine living as an English gentleman is supposed tae—endless parties and empty entertainments. I’ve labored in business my entire adult life—”

  “Ye’re a cit, as the English would say,” Ewan said.

  “Aye, but I wear being a cit as a badge of worth—”

  “Nae, that’s just yer bourgeois upbringing speaking,” Kieran snorted.

  “Regardless,” Rafe said, “Father was talking about you all last week. Your Writ of Summons is taking some time—”

  “Aye, the process has been fraught. The Committee on Privilege keeps demanding more proof, particularly regarding my parent’s marriage, as ye said,” Andrew replied. “Clearly there is a faction in Lords that wishes tae humiliate me before I even arrive.”

  Even though he was the rightful heir to the earldom, Andrew still had to petition the Crown and Parliament to be recognized as the next Lord Hadley. Usually receiving a Writ of Summons—a legal document summoning Andrew to take his seat in the House of Lords—was a mere formality. But someone in Lords had decided to make the entire process fractious.

  “You are the rightful heir.” Rafe frowned. “They can make noise, but they cannot legally remove you without writing a new law. Chancery has to issue the Writ of Summons at some point.”

  “Precisely. I’m waiting tae receive an update from my solicitor.”

  Alex nodded. “I imagine a new earl, particularly one that does not come from the peerage’s exalted ranks, will always cause a stir.”

  “Aye, the ton is fascinated by you.” Rafe rolled a hand. “And by fascinated, I mean abhorred.”

  Andrew snorted. “I certainly didn’t anticipate the antipathy I would cause. Why should these unknown English dislike me so, sight unseen?” he asked. “Regardless, there is still much tae resolve with my late grandfather’s estate—”

  Rafe nodded. “I had heard that the earldom was on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  “It is,” Andrew said bluntly. “My grandfather, the old earl, made some catastrophic investments.”

  “The Caribbean Affair of ’14?” Rafe asked, referring to an investment scandal that had rocked London nearly five years ago.

  “The verra same.”

  The Caribbean Affair involved shares in a once-profitable bank based in Nassau. Heavily invested in the sugarcane trade, the bank collapsed due to mismanagement and a series of disastrous hurricanes. Many members of the ton had lost fortunes, Rafe’s father included.

  “I leave in two days tae visit Hadley Park in Sussex tae sort it all out,” Andrew said. “The earldom desperately needs an influx of cash—”

  “It’s fortunate, then, that ye’re known as the Scottish Vulcan,” Ewan said, naming Andrew’s current nickname in the newspapers.

  Mackenzie was rich as a god, they said, forging everything he touched into money. Luckily, no one yet had connected the wealthy Scottish Vulcan, Andrew Mackenzie with Andrew Langston, the new Earl of Hadley.

  “Aye,” Andrew grimaced. “I’ve already extended a hefty sum to settle the earldom’s creditors. I have faith—with enough time and effort—that I can resuscitate the earldom’s finances. It’s the relatives I’ve inherited that worry me more: a step-grandmother in Lady Hadley, and her son—Mr. Peter Langston, my heir.”

  Rafe chuckled. “Aye, I believe Lady Jane is still at Hadley Park, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Lady Jane Everard, Lady Hadley’s daughter. Before marrying your grandfather, Lady Hadley was married to the Duke of Montacute. Lady Jane is the daughter from her first marriage.”

  “No one has mentioned a Lady Jane. Are you sure she’s there too?” Andrew frowned.

  “Last I heard, she was, but it’s possible she is living with her brother, the current Duke of Montacute.” Rafe shrugged. “I have a passing acquaintance with Lady Jane, as she is a cousin of sorts. She and her mother are decidedly . . . English.
”

  Andrew grimaced. “That I believe. The brief letters I’ve received from Lady Hadley have dripped with condescension and disdain. She obviously dreads having to accept me into the family.”

  “Once a Scot, always a Scot,” Rafe nodded.

  “You will never be anything but that to them—a bawdy, clownish oaf,” Alex added.

  Just what Andrew feared. It explained why he had waited so long to visit Hadley Park. Its citizens were already predisposed to dislike him. Polite Society considered him to be a barely-literate barbarian. Why foist himself on them a second before necessary?

  “What tae do then?” Andrew asked.

  “Dinnae be anything other than yerself,” Ewan suggested and then clarified. “Yer true Scottish self.”

  “And I’ll be there to support you,” Rafe said. “I have business to attend to, as my father’s demands never cease. But I should be passing near Hadley Park in about four weeks’ time. I’ll pay you an extended visit.”

  “I would welcome your company. I fear I shall need the help.”

  “That’s why I’ll be coming with ye directly,” Kieran added.

  “You’ll be coming?” Andrew asked.

  “Aye. My ship won’t be repaired for at least another month. I’m in the carpenter’s way at this point. Besides, ye’ll need assistance that only I can give.”

  “Only you?”

  “From the sound of things, yer English relations have definite opinions about ye. As Ewan said, you need tae be yer true Scottish self.” Kieran wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Why do I have a feeling you mean more than me as I am at this moment?”

  “Och, the English have already assumed the worst about ye. Just listen tae what they’re saying about yer parents. They consider Scots tae be loud-mouthed, vulgar, glaikit eejits. Nothing any of us do or say will convince them otherwise. Chancery wants to humiliate ye, and yer English relations are going out of their way tae make ye uncomfortable.” Kieran’s grin was slow and wicked. “I ken ye need to mount a proper defense against that.”

  “You’re not helping me tae feel any better about this—”

  “I say ye revel in yer Scottishness, ensure they’re just as uncomfortable as you.” Kieran pressed a hand to his chest. “Honestly, it’s practically yer civic duty tae live up tae their lowest expectations.”

  Andrew paused, thinking of the curt letters he had received from the Chancery and Lady Hadley, the cruel rumors about his mother, the abrupt assumptions made simply on the basis of his nationality.

  The problem was easily summed up: England would always look at Scotland as the troublesome scoundrel that needed to be suppressed, the scapegrace who offered endless teasing and ribald jokes.

  Nothing Andrew said or did would change their preconceived notions.

  So . . . why should he try to behave in any other way? Why not derive some enjoyment from watching his English relatives snub their noses at him? Counter the cold disdain of their English manners with his own flamboyant Scottishness?

  He grinned at Kieran.

  Scotland.

  Living up to England’s lowest expectations since 1296.

  All of a sudden, Andrew couldn’t wait to leave.

  3

  Thank ye for comin’, my lady.” Mrs. Brady curtsied to Jane.

  “I wished to greet your latest addition.” Jane handed off the basket she carried to an older child and then folded her hands primly in front of her. She gave a slow nod of her head, eyes drifting to the tiny babe in Mrs. Brady’s arms. “She is beautiful.” The baby scrunched her face, sighing in her sleep.

  Jane had escaped Hadley Park and her mother’s critical eye today. Visiting Mrs. Brady—one of the estate’s tenant farmers who had just welcomed her eleventh child—had simply been a convenient excuse.

  Mr. Brady worked hard with his older boys, but as he was missing the lower half of his right leg courtesy of Napoleon and a French mortar, his farm did not produce the yields required to support a family of thirteen. Jane tried to augment their meager rations with supplies from Hadley Park’s larders when she could.

  “We are always grateful for your ladyship’s kindness.” Mrs. Brady nodded to the basket of jams and butter. Jane had even included a portion of ham, as she knew meat to be a rare luxury.

  “Think nothing of it,” Jane replied, glancing again at the tiny baby. She longed to hold the infant, to drop a kiss atop her small head and breathe in her warm scent.

  But the daughter of a duke would never condescend to cuddle a farmer’s babe. It was simply not done. And Jane had long ago given up wishing for things that could not be.

  A few moments later, Jane was back in her pony phaeton, reins loose in her gloved hands. She clucked Thunder to walk on, guiding him down the lane toward the other reason she liked visiting Mrs. Brady.

  The Brady’s cottage was close by Rosehearth.

  And Jane adored Rosehearth.

  The spring weather had turned sunny and warm, hinting at summer. Newly-green trees rustled and sheep baaed in the distance.

  Jane wheeled through a clearing. Rosehearth came into view with its red brick facade, mullioned windows, and forest of chimneys. Medieval in structure, the house even had a small moat with a drawbridge extending out. Charming seemed too tame a word to describe it.

  Rosehearth was said to be the original great-house of the Hadley family, dating from the late Middle Ages. Once the family fortunes expanded during the reign of Elizabeth I, they had abandoned Rosehearth and built (and built and built) Hadley Park. Rosehearth had become the place to deposit superfluous relatives—typically dowagers, spinster aunts, or unruly children—keeping them out of sight and mind.

  Jane and Peter had lived there until she was twelve years old. During those years, Lady Hadley was too busy with her social life in London and house parties in the country to worry about her children. The old earl, for his part, had enjoyed showing off his young, beautiful, vivacious wife. Children were not to be seen or heard. This was more easily accomplished if the children were housed elsewhere.

  Rosehearth always reminded Jane of her carefree, younger self. Of her and Peter running wild through the garden, laughing in the kitchen with Cook, sneaking past Nanny Smith to visit the home farm, cuddling together in the timber-lined library while winter winds raged outside.

  During those years, Jane watched over Peter, bestowing on him all the love they lacked from others. She had helped him ride his first pony, walking beside him, scarcely taller than the pony herself. She had kissed his skinned knees and laughed at his silly jokes. Peter and Rosehearth had been her entire world.

  Jane nearly sighed. How simple life had been then? And she, in her naivety, had assumed that such a life would continue unaltered.

  But then came a disastrous visit from Montacute and everything had changed. Her ducal brother arrived unannounced and found her swimming in a nearby river with Peter and other children from the estate.

  As her legal guardian, His Grace had not been amused to discover his only sister in such a state. Twelve-years-old and swimming? With lower class boys, no less?

  Jane still vividly recalled the vein near to bursting in his neck, the violent bulging of his eyes. His Grace, in a word, had been incensed.

  The duke had instantly whisked her away with him to Montacute House, vowing that if Lady Hadley could not raise Jane to be a lady, then he and his duchess would take over her rearing as was their right. After all, Jane had been left in Lady Hadley’s care only at Montacute’s sufferance.

  Jane had sobbed the entire journey to Montacute House, three days of hiccupping and tears.

  She missed Rosehearth.

  She desperately missed Peter.

  Montacute House was an inhospitable place—the building and its inhabitants both echoing and cold. The Duchess had raked Jane from head-to-toe, lips pursed, before making a scathing comment about Jane’s wild red hair, already gangling height, and freckled skin.

  Her sister-in-law dripped ar
istocratic hauteur—hard eyes, clipped tones, and not a hair out of place. Jane could not imagine the duchess had ever smiled, much less splashed with abandon in a river.

  Montacute and his duchess had been pitiless. Since Jane’s unfortunate hair and height would never win her admirers, her only hope of ever marrying lay in cultivating elegant comportment and manners.

  And so they fumed over Jane’s behavior. Her table etiquette was atrocious, her posture abysmal. She could scarcely execute a proper curtsy when called upon, much less competently preside over a tea service.

  Jane could not stomach it, quite literally. She refused to eat for nearly a week in protest.

  Finally, Lady Hadley was summoned. Peter, she reported, was distraught without Jane. Separating the children was proving difficult for both families.

  A truce was reached.

  Montacute relented to placing Jane back into Lady Hadley’s care, with the caveat that Jane be molded into a perfect lady, as benefited the daughter of a powerful duke. Montacute would inspect Jane’s progress on an annual basis.

  Lady Hadley, embarrassed and wishing to stay in Montacute’s good graces, readily agreed. For her part, Jane would have consented to anything in order to be reunited with Peter.

  As Lady Hadley led Jane from Montacute House, the Duchess had her parting shot:

  “You must stamp out your tendency toward base behavior and speech, Jane. No gentleman will ever align himself with a hoyden,” the Duchess said, peering down her nose. “Become a lady, in every sense of the word. Remember—no one will want you otherwise.”

  Jane heeded that warning. The threat of being permanently separated from Peter loomed large.

  She rooted out that wild girl running amok in the woods around Rosehearth, diligently excising the base parts of her psyche.

  Every year, the duke would summon Jane to Montacute House where she would be subjected to a week of meticulous examination, her every breath scrutinized for less-than-perfect behavior.

  The first couple years had been abysmal, but by her eighteenth birthday, Jane had even earned the duchess’ distant nod of approval. Since then, Jane had not been required to present herself for inspection. It did not escape her notice that the visits had ceased only when Jane herself had become a woman like the Duchess of Montacute—cold, haughty, and colorless.