Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1) Read online

  Scotland, Edinburgh, July 1822

  “Fairies! You cannot mean, sirs,” Patrick MacCarran leaned forward, knuckles pressed on the lawyer’s desk, “that a parcel of blasted fairies stands between us and our inheritance!” He glanced at his three siblings, while the two men behind the oak desk, one seated, the other standing, remained silent.

  “We need not assume ruination.” James MacCarran, Viscount Struan, gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders in good black serge. He strived to maintain an unruffled demeanor as he leaned against the doorframe of the lawyer’s study, though he felt as stunned as the others. “Let Mr. Browne and Sir Walter finish before we decide that we are done for.”

  His siblings looked grim—his sister Fiona pale but composed, his younger brothers, William and Patrick, frowning. James remained calm, preferring distance in most things, actual and emotional, which served him well today. Scarcely a farthing would come to any of them from their grandmother until the astonishing conditions of her will were met. Ruination could await all of them.

  “What could make this worse?” Patrick shoved a hand through his dark hair.

  “A few elves would complement the situation nicely,” William drawled.

  James huffed a bitter laugh. William was a quiet-spoken physician who had hoped to open a hospital with his share of the inheritance; Patrick a Signet clerk with ambitions to rise in the courts; and Fiona an independent sort with an academic bent and a knowledge of fossil rock that made her any scholar’s equal. Her research would benefit from some funds. Fiona stood now, stretching out a hand to calm Patrick, who had a strong temperament and seemed about to let his thoughts fly. Fiona smiled calmly, shaking her head.

  Their grandmother’s funds would support his younger siblings’ dreams, James knew. As for himself, he had been Viscount Struan ever since their grandfather’s death, but yet uncomfortable with a title. He was content to be a professor of geology and felt he had few needs. But what Grandmother unexpectedly, posthumously, asked of them now was untenable.

  “Lady Struan’s fortune will be divided between you when the conditions are satisfied,” Mr. Browne was saying. “Apart from modest funds she inherited after your grandfather’s death a year ago, reduced by his considerable expenditures—“

  “He helped ease the suffering of displaced Highlanders during the clearances of so many from their homes,” Fiona said. “None of us begrudge his decisions.”

  “Yes. Well. Lady Struan inherited a small amount from her husband, as I said, but she did acquire a personal fortune through her own properties and publications as well. She allowed Lord Eldin to sell off some of her properties recently, but Struan House remains. Now that she is gone, it will go in its entirety to Lord Struan, who has already inherited his grandfather’s title.”

  James leaned against the door jamb, silent. As the eldest grandson, he had assumed the title, for their father, the elder Struan’s son, had died when he and Fiona had been nine, their brothers younger. Now a titled but not especially wealthy peer, James had inherited a modest bank account but earned his daily living as a professor of natural philosophy at the University of Edinburgh. He had no ambitions to higher circumstances. He enjoyed his work and academic life.

  Lately, he had mourned his grandmother privately, concealing his grief as was natural to him. He had learned that at an early age, losing his parents so young. He had come here today hoping that Lady Struan’s fortune would ensure the future for his siblings especially. As a nearly penniless viscount, he could not adequately do for his twin or his brothers, much as he wished to help them.

  But—fairies. James felt as bewildered as the rest. He glanced at Patrick, who still seethed; Fiona, her serene air masking a willful nature; and William, brow furrowed beneath a sweep of golden hair, a physician as skilled as James at hiding his thoughts. In boyhood, James had kept himself to himself after the deaths of his parents and the separation of his siblings for fostering elsewhere. William and Patrick had gone to uncles, James and Fiona to a great-aunt. He had learned the knack of a self-imposed emotional exile, finding it useful.

  William cleared his throat. “Grandmother was fond of fairy tales and scribbled some of her own, but it is surprising to learn that she took it so seriously.”

  Fiona, sitting beside William, turned with a graceful swirl of black satin, her bonnet’s curved rim highlighting her pretty face and wispy brown curls. Gazing at his twin sister, James knew suddenly what she would say. A kerfuffle—

  “It’s a kerfuffle,” she said, “but we shall resolve it.” She smiled tightly.

  Did he often guess her words from simple logic, knowing her, or was it the mysterious bond of twinship, as his grandmother had thought? He preferred scientific reason, cool and supreme to his way of thinking.

  “More than a kerfuffle,” he said. “This is a disaster.”

  “One must wonder if Grandmother was of a capable mind when she decided these conditions,” Patrick said. “She was smart and stubborn, but quite ill in the last weeks of her life when Mr. Browne says this was amended. William, what say you?”

  “Her condition made her frail, but her mind seemed balanced. I noticed no diminished faculties when I visited. We all saw her often, as she was staying in the house on Charlotte Square.”

  “She knew her mind. I never doubted her faculties either,” James said, “but she never mentioned the will.” He rented a house near his grandmother’s townhouse; during the last months of her illness, he had grown closer to her than ever before—yet now he felt dismayed, realizing he knew nothing of her intentions.

  “I was aware of Lady Struan’s plans,” Sir Walter Scott admitted. “I regret that I was not free to confide in you.” He smiled sadly. The poet and author had been a longtime friend to Lady Struan, and though James did not know Sir Walter well, he admired the man’s genius, integrity, congeniality, and his loyalty to friends.

  “Grandmother enjoyed your visits, Sir Walter,” Fiona said. “We very much appreciate your attention to her. She looked forward to King George’s upcoming arrival in Edinburgh this summer, and enjoyed hearing about your plans for the events. It is unfortunate that she died before his visit.”

  Scott nodded. “She enthusiastically listened to my ideas for the festivities. I know she will be there in spirit for the king’s Scottish jaunt next month.”

  “And we will be there in her honor,” James said. “Mr. Browne, I suppose we should hear the rest of Grandmother’s fairy scheme, if you will.”

  “Aye,” the lawyer said, shifting the papers on his desk. “As Lady Struan’s executor, Sir Walter did consult with her, but this scheme, as you say, was her own.”

  “Of course. Go on, sir,” James said.

  “Now that the will has been read, there are a few points to discuss. Each of you has some individual conditions.” Browne turned a few pages. “Your obligations must be fulfilled. Lady Struan stipulated that if one of you fails to comply, everyone fails.”

  “What if we do not, or cannot, meet the conditions?” Patrick asked.

  “Then most of the inheritance will go to another party.” Mr. Brown took up a stack of folded and sealed letters and handed them around with Sir Walter’s assistance, the author using his cane as he limped around the desk to present a packet to Fiona, while James, Patrick, and William got letters too.

  “The conditions are explained in the letters. Once the stipulations are met,” Mr. Browne said, “you will each be entitled to a share of Lady Struan’s fortune, approximately fifty thousand pounds apiece. However, your portions will be reduced to five thousand pounds if you forego the conditions of the will.”

  In the dumbstruck silence that followed, James looked at the envelope in his hand. The Right Hon. The Viscount Struan, it read in some clerk’s hand, not his grandmother’s. She would simply have addressed him as Struan, or as James Arthur MacCarran if she had not been happy with him. He smiled ruefully.

  “You may open the letters now, or wait,” Mr. Browne said. �
�Share the contents among yourselves if you like, but keep this private otherwise. The requests must be adhered to as exactly as possible, or the inheritance reverts to the lesser amount.”

  “Well, I will not wait,” Patrick peeled open the seal, unfolded the page, and read quickly. “Ah. I am to help win back Duncrieff Castle, lost to debts ten years past. But—what the devil! I must make a love match for myself, with someone of…fairy blood.” He looked at the others in disbelief. “It’s absurd!”

  “Lady Struan asked that I advise you if needed,” Sir Walter said. “She was quite an expert on fairy lore, as you know, as she wrote several books on folklore in Scotland. Her work was quite popular and she had a fine reputation.”

  William, reading his page, folded it and slipped it into a pocket. “I’ve been asked to do something similar. James?”

  Frowning, James held the unopened paper in his hand. He did not want to open it. He wanted to leave this meeting and return to his geological studies; he had a journal article to complete on the evidence of ancient heat at the earth’s core, and a lecture to prepare for his university classes. He did not want to discuss this preposterous will any further. But he had no choice.

  After what he had witnessed and endured at Waterloo a few years earlier, he had chosen to lead as dull a life as possible—boring, lacking risk and emotional entanglement. In war, he had seen enough tragedy, drama, loss, and excess for a lifetime. He appreciated the merits of a safe, quiet existence.

  Marrying a fairy, even a pretended one—very possibly Lady Struan had required something similar of him—did not suit a dull bachelor existence. He had no desire for an adventure. This was pure madness. And he was pure logic.

  Fiona slipped her letter into her black reticule. “I am to continue the charitable work that I’ve been doing, teaching English to Gaelic-speaking Highlanders,” she said. “I am also expected to marry a Highland gentleman with fortune and breeding. Nothing to dispute there, if an unmarried fellow can be found,” she said with a smile. “The odd requirement is that I must draw fairy images from life. That’s unlikely.” She laughed. “And the letter says I must give my drawings to James. Why so?”

  Everyone looked at him. Sighing, James opened his letter, studied its contents, and felt a muscle began to bounce in his jaw. Absurd indeed, he thought. “I am expected to go to Struan House as its viscount, which is reasonable,” he began, “and complete the book that Grandmother was working on before she died. A book about fairy lore. I have read some of her work, but I know nothing about the subject otherwise. Writing fairy tales is hardly suited to me,” he added.

  “Grandmother’s big book of fairies,” Patrick drawled. “Certainly no topic for Professor MacCarran, author of thick tomes about geographic strata.”

  “What else does it say?” Fiona, of course, knew he held something back.

  “I am to, ah, marry a Highland bride of fairy descent,” James admitted. “Highland, I might manage that someday. Fairy? Impossible.”

  “Good Lord, was Grandmother truly mad?” Patrick asked.

  “Who is to judge if we meet these requirements? You, Sir Walter?” Fiona asked as the author nodded. “And if we do not succeed, who inherits the bulk of Grandmother’s accounts?”

  Mr. Browne cleared his throat. “Nicholas MacCarran, Earl of Eldin.”

  “Eldin,” Patrick growled, “that damnable, rotten, scheming scoundrel—sorry, Fiona,” he apologized.

  “The lying rogue,” Fiona continued, “who stole Duncrieff Castle away from the family after our cousin who held the property died at Waterloo. Even now he holds the estate, while we—” She stopped, looked away. James knew she still felt keen heartbreak over their cousin’s death. Archibald MacCarran had been Fiona’s betrothed. His twin’s grief had amplified his own at losing Archie, James thought. As for their cousin Eldin—he drew a sharp breath.

  “So if we do not comply, Eldin inherits all,” James said, low and flat.

  “But for the lesser funds apportioned to each of you, yes,” Mr. Browne said.

  “Why would Grandmother do this?” Fiona asked.

  “To force us to meet her conditions,” James replied.

  “Lady Struan was working on a new book about Highland fairy lore,” Sir Walter said. “She hoped her research would reveal a way to restore the legendary fairy luck of the MacCarrans, which tradition said was lost in past generations.”

  “We have never been a particularly fortunate sort, I grant that,” Patrick said. “Well, I suppose I could marry some lass and call her part fairy, and be done with it.”

  “Lady Struan wanted all of you to approach this with honest effort,” Sir Walter pointed out. “Or it all goes to Lord Eldin. She knew that would be an incentive.”

  James blew out a breath. Write a damned fairy book and find a fairy bride? He had a scholarly book to finish, and he was not interested in a wife yet. But like his siblings, he wanted to protect the funds from Lord Eldin, the only man he had ever truly despised.

  He should have shot the blackguard when he had the chance.

  “I must go,” he said abruptly, straightening away from the door frame. “A meeting at the university. And it seems I must request a sabbatical in order to do what our grandmother requested.” He snatched up his cane, turned, and limped out into the corridor.

  Chapter 2

  Edinburgh, Scotland, August 1822

  Lifting the embroidered, flounced satin of her silver-blue court dress in one gloved hand, Elspeth MacArthur moved along with a surge of overdressed, perfumed women. The very long train required of a lady’s dress on this particular occasion was cumbersome indeed, she thought as she tugged on it again. The booklet containing hints and advice for those attending the functions surrounding King George’s visit to Scotland had specified a dress train at least four yards in length.

  Easy enough for a man to declare that was necessary, as they did not have to fuss with them, she thought sourly, reaching down to twitch the wayward tail out of the way. Draping part of the slippery satin over her wrist, she glanced around searching for her cousin.

  She had lost sight of Lucie Graham in a veritable sea of silk, lace, jewels, feathers, and Highland tartan. The feathers in her own hair—nine feathers, another specification for ladies at the event—were attached to a band with pearled pins, and in danger of coming loose from her dark curls. She lifted a hand to that softness as she glanced around.

  The press of the crowd was unbearably warm and close. Perhaps she should flee entirely, Elspeth thought, like Lady Graham, Lucie’s mother, who not long ago had pleaded faintness, so that Lucie’s brother, Sir John, had escorted her out. Following them, Lucie had been swallowed in the crowd filling the room. Over two thousand ladies and gentlemen were crammed into a few rooms and corridors in Holyroodhouse while they awaited a chance to be presented to King George the Fourth, lately arrived in Scotland.

  With Lady Graham taken ill, Elspeth wondered how she and Lucie could meet the king now. Only those who had met King George previously had the right to introduce ladies to him at today’s reception for Scottish ladies.

  For a moment, she wished she could vanish like one of her supposed fairy ancestors and flee this crowd. Her grandfather had always claimed that fairy blood ran in her veins, and had bestowed wonderful abilities on her. Elspeth doubted his story. To be sure, she had more than a touch of Second Sight, but it usually proved inconvenient rather than magical. Besides, The Sight was common enough in the Highlands, fairies or none in the family.

  Her intuition should have warned her that today would be very hot and the waiting would be interminable. And the reason for attending—greeting the king—might be impossible for Elspeth and Lucie now. Still, the crowd was something to behold, and she was glad that chance had brought her here.

  Her grandfather’s business meeting had kept him away, so she had come with her Edinburgh cousins. Grandfather would have relished the event and would have dressed spectacularly in tartan of his own make, being a H
ighland laird as well as a weaver. He would also have spun entertaining tales of his early smuggling adventures and what he claimed were encounters with fairies—and likely would have soundly embarrassed their Edinburgh cousins with his exuberance. Donal MacArthur, Elspeth knew, was like strong whisky: best in small quantities.

  Instead, he had insisted that Elspeth attend with her cousins. “What other chance will you have to meet Fat Geordie?” he had boomed, using the name so many Highlanders favored for the king. With such blunt ways about him, best her grandfather stayed away altogether from aristocrats, royals, and politicians.

  But she had little hope of being introduced to the king now, she thought as she edged through clusters of women gusseted up like colorful, plumed, chattering birds, all waiting for a turn, a mere moment, to greet the king. The men were dressed in high fashion too. Many Scotsmen accompanying ladies today wore full Highland dress, belted plaids and tartan vests, coats, stockings, replete with sporrans and even traditional weapons. Other men were dressed formally in more austere black and white, while others had adhered to the dress suggested in Scott’s booklet for Scotsmen: blue frock coat and white vest and breeches to reflect the colors of Scotland’s St. Andrew’s cross. Not a flattering costume, Elspeth thought, glancing around to see several men clad that way.

  She made her way through the crowd, sidling through the throng. Everyone seemed to be surging toward the closed doors that led to the audience room. As she looked for her cousins, she found herself close to the enormous set of doors closing off the reception room designated for the royal introductions taking place today. The doors were guarded by Royal Archers in dark green, while inside, she understood, King George steadily and individually greeted a long line of hundreds of Scottish ladies, each with their escort parties.

  This would take until doomsday, Elspeth thought, sighing, longing for fresh air amid the gathering heat and press of the crowd. She wished the king would just greet all of them at once and have done with it.