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  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Rebecca Paisley, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © 2021 Pearl Englander

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Also by Rita Boucher

  About the Author

  Miss you Mom.

  Thank you for the gift of words.

  Chapter 1

  Ian Dewey thought longingly of the silver flask in his middle desk drawer. However, the solicitor knew full well that it would require far more than a dram or two to ease the fear churning in his belly. Making a pretense of rummaging through the documents in his hands, Dewey surreptitiously eyed the man lounging before him in the leather client’s chair. There was no need to see the name upon the papers, for they were absolutely unnecessary to confirm the stranger’s identity. Just one look at that forbidding visage was sufficient.

  “You will find them all in order,” Duncan MacLean said, his voice harsh with impatience. As a former Army officer, his experience at penetrating the barriers of procrastination was vast. He had not come all the way to Edinburgh to watch a nervous solicitor twiddle his thumbs. “My mother thought that I might have need of those marriage lines someday, for she was quite sure that my father would have attempted to deny me if he could beget himself another heir. Her fears were needless it seems. Despite my father’s numerous machinations to set her aside and his proclivity for infidelities, I am Bertram MacLean’s only legitimate heir, you say?”

  “Aye, that you are, milaird” Dewey said, his voice climbing to a high pitched squeak as that uncanny one-eyed gaze focused cuttingly upon him. Hard as tempered steel, that grey eye was, and cold as a sgian dubh at the throat. “His only child in fact. Ye have the look of him, sair.”

  The waving hair, dark as a moonless midnight, framed a face that seemed chiseled from granite, weathered and timeless as the mountains themselves, a countenance that was handsome still, despite the patch and the scar. Aye, it could be none other than ‘Beelzebub’ MacLean’s spawn, for his son had the identical mannerisms as well as mien. Young MacLean had that self-same scowl that could turn a man to stone and if the line bred true, a come-hither way about him that turned women into flighty fools. “It gave me a start to see ye, if I might say.”

  “You and many others,” Duncan said, giving a bark of humorless laughter. “Resurrections are usually reserved for the saints among us. Still, I would venture to say that two years was a sufficient sojourn in Hell, even for a MacLean. Now, what is the disposition of my property?”

  “Well, milaird,” Mr. Dewey began tugging at his neck linen as if it had abruptly become too tight. MacLean’s caustic smile made the scar on his left cheek seem like a macabre extension of his mouth. Aye, Beelzebub’s get looked fit to out-devil his sire. “Ye had already been given up for daid when your father passed on. We made every effort to find an heir, but nae man came forward. My partner Mr. Cheatham even went so far as to write to your comrades in arms to see if ye had made mention of any mair distant kin, but we could find nary a one. As I stated, ye are the last living descendant of the MacLeans of Eilean Kirk.”

  “Or the last willing to admit to the name,” Duncan said cynically. “I confess myself scarcely surprised, Dewey. We MacLeans have always tended to destroy ourselves when we cannot wreak havoc on others. So tell me then, if there was no claimant to the MacLean mantle what has become of my affairs?”

  Dewey hesitated, clearing his throat several times. “Well, milaird,” he continued timorously, “your personal effects were distributed, just as ye had specified in that will be made-”

  “The bequest consisting of my ring and the collection of Blake’s work?” Duncan asked, leaning forward, his air of detachment abruptly vanishing. “What became of that?”

  “Aye, it was sent to his lordship as ye had wished,” the solicitor said, barely able to resist the instinct to scuttle his chair back against the onslaught of that piercing gaze. ”The book of poetry and the MacLean signet, although I must be saying, that it was some time before we could puzzle your will out to fulfill the terms. A hastily scrawled document it was-”

  “I wrote it just prior to the battle,” Duncan explained.

  Dewey nodded, although his look was disapproving. “Aye, irregularly done, but legal for all that. Witnessed right and tight.”

  Had it been a premonition that had prompted him to remake his last testament on that day? Duncan wondered as the lawyer droned on. In the past, some of his people had been gifted with the Sight. His spirits lifted slightly, and then fell as he realized that Marcus would likely have acted if he had comprehended the meaning of those notes in the margins and those carefully underlined Blake passages.

  His comrade, Marcus, had always been something of a pompous stiff neck, even before he had inherited his title. His integrity as an officer and a peer of the realm was absolute. He would never have countenanced the activities that had led to the deaths of so many Englishmen. Even though Vesey was Marcus’s brother-by-marriage and a fellow officer, there was no love lost between the two. Duncan had little doubt that Marcus’s senses of honor and duty would have moved him to lay charges, regardless of family ties. Nonetheless, if Marcus still had that volume of Songs of Innocence in his possession, there might yet be a chance that Duncan could prove Vesey’s crimes. Without the names and dates encoded in the margins and underlined passages in Blake’s poems, however, Duncan would never be believed.

  “I will ask you to post a letter to his lordship, Dewey,” Duncan commanded, rapidly calculating his current options. He had not reckoned on this setback.

  The only penny’s worth of fortune in this muck pile of ill luck was the fact that there were only a few people who knew he was among the living. His time in the hell of La Purgatoire had schooled him in the notion that prudence was sometimes synonymous with survival. The officer once known as the Mad MacLean would have marched into Whitehall waving a battle flag, using the news of his resurrection to light a fuse to the powder keg.

  Instead, Duncan had limited himself thus far to discreet inquiries regarding the disposition and whereabouts of his nemesis. The retrieval of the book was crucial to waging the campaign to bring the traitor down. Without the evidence in hand, Duncan could ill afford to alert Vesey to his presence.

  Given the information Duncan had discovered, it might be wise to go to ground and reevaluate his strategy until Marcus was contacted and the book was reclaimed. Fortunately, Duncan knew just the place for his covert command post. London was too much of a risk. But given the sorry state of his face and the fact that he had almost never spent any significant time in Edinburgh, there was little likelihood that anyone would recognize him in the city. “Like as not Marcus is still on the Continent. While we wait for his reply, I h
ave some business to attend to. Open up the town house.”

  “I canna, milaird,” Dewey croaked like a bullfrog in distress. “It’s been sold.”

  “What?” Duncan roared, the timeworn chair giving an eldritch creak as he leapt up and lunged over Dewey’s desk as if to take him by the collar.

  “Aye,” Dewey said, cowering in his seat. “‘Tis what I hae been trying to tell ye. All but one of the properties hae been sold. Ye canna blame us. The Home Office confirmed that ye were daid and in the absence of an heir, all reverts to the Crown.”

  “And in the meantime, I am virtually penniless,” Duncan said, seething. Bad enough that the precious book of proof was out of his hands, but this turn of events laid all his carefully made plans to waste. Although he knew that Vesey had resigned his commission, his enemy had grown more powerful. Duncan had not dared to be too specific in his inquiries, but it seemed that there was a peerage in the offing, and Vesey’s highly-placed friends would likely protect his back.

  Once he had reacquired his full battery of damning documentation, the task would be simpler, but Duncan had no illusions that the battle would be won solely on his proof. Despite his war record, his personal reputation as the “Mad MacLean” was none too savory. Certainly his credibility could not fail to be improved by the weight of wealth behind him and, he added, looking at the doddering old fool before him, the acquisition of the aid of a competent man of law. “So it seems the Crown decided to take my fortune.”

  “Nae, nae, milaird,” Dewey said, his Scots burr rasping heavily in growing uneasiness. He opened his desk drawer and searched frantically, finally pulling out a small ledger, speaking rapidly all the while. “It shouldna be too difficult to recover nearly every penny under the circumstances. A lucky thing that the wheels of the Crown have only recently begun to grind, but it still may take some time. I can arrange credit for ye easily enough. The auld laird left a substantial estate as ye can see from his accounts and we can borrow as much as ye might want upon your expectations.”

  Duncan considered that possibility and rejected it out of hand. Too many transactions might well cause news of his resurrection to travel. Until the evidence and his fortune were secure, it might be best to live modestly in relative obscurity.

  “Ye should nae have any problems securing whatever you wish. He was a canny man, your sire. If ye would but look at the last page.” He extended the book with shaking hands.

  “Aye, canny indeed,” Duncan remarked as he accepted the inexpensively bound volume, leafing through it gingerly, for the cheap paper was flaking away at the edges. Every farthing of expenditure was accounted for in handwriting so crabbed that it was almost impossible to discern. “Not many men have the wisdom to consistently wed heiresses on the verge of death,” Duncan commented, giving a long low whistle as he came to the final figures. “My father never quite gave up on the possibility of another son to be Laird in my stead.”

  “Surely, ye canna think . . . your ain father . . .” Dewey sputtered. “To speak so of the daid! ‘Tis blasphemous!”

  “Mr. Dewey, you forget that I am a MacLean. In our family our only faith is that we hold nothing sacred,” Duncan said his voice deceptively soft as he sat down once again. “Certainly no profanity would suffice to describe my father. He was a greedy, selfish man who stole land and livelihood from his crofters. He drove my mother to her death and I suspect that my succession of unlucky stepmothers were glad enough to stick their spoon in the wall upon discovering the unsavory Scots bargain they had married.”

  Duncan knew full well that nothing that had been said could be denied.

  Dewey regarded MacLean in uncomfortable silence before taking a key from his pocket and unlocking another drawer. “Ye shall be needful of some funds, I suppose,” he said, setting the clinking purse on the desk. “‘Tis but a hundred pounds, but at the least 'twill get you decent lodging and clothes. I will draw you more on account once the banks open on the morrow.”

  “I have no intention of being here on the morrow,” Duncan said, making a sudden decision as he weighed the bundle of coins in his hand. What would be the use of staying in Edinburgh without the financing to proceed with his plans? “How long do you think it will require to put matters to rights?”

  “I canna say, milaird. We hae ne’er had such a thing happen before,” Dewey replied raising his hand and beginning to count off items on his fingers. “There are volumes of paperwork to be filed. We must reverse or stop the sales of such property as we are able, and then there is the matter of dealing with the Crown. Och! It may take months.”

  Duncan clenched his fists, trying to contain his anger and impatience. Months! But he had learned at great cost, the dangers of proceeding rashly. It would be foolish beyond permission to pursue the matter without sufficient resources lest Vesey escape the net. Vengeance had waited years. Duncan could afford to bide yet a bit longer.

  “You mentioned that one property has not yet been sold,” Duncan remarked with a scowl. “I suppose that I shall live there until this mess has been undone.”

  “Ye canna, milaird,” Dewey protested. “For ‘tis the Castle upon Eilean Kirk which is why we couldna find a buyer. I even inquired from Laird Steele himself, if he knew of anyone who might find it desirable, for ye ken that many an English fool wants his ain draughty Gothic keep these days. But even if Walter Scott himself tried to find a kind word to describe the auld edifice, he couldna. The place is naught but a pile of rubble.”

  “It always was,” Duncan commented. “Even while my father lived, they say ‘tis part of the curse.”

  “It has become mair so,” Dewey said, stirring uneasily at the mention of Prince Charles’ legendary bane. “We couldna find a man willing to live on the place, so ramshackle it was. Not a penny piece did the old laird put into the upkeep. For your father, rest his soul-”

  “My father’s soul, if he had one, Mr. Dewey, is doubtless roasting in hell,” Duncan commented, his eye narrowing in anger. “I will not abide any pious pretense, for we both know what manner of man he was. I have little doubt that the few crofters who remain dance on his grave, if any troubled themselves to give him a Christian burial.”

  “He was a hard man,” Mr. Dewey murmured in understatement. “They say he haunts the castle. That was another reason that there we couldna even find a caretaker.”

  “So that is why you wish his soul rest,” Duncan said with a chill laugh. “I doubt that my father’s spirit is clanking about the place, Dewey. He abhorred crowds. If the legends are true, there are veritable hordes of ethereal MacLeans haunting Eilean Kirk that neither heaven nor hell would claim. However, if, by chance, I do meet up with my sire’s ghost, there are a few choice comments that I had always planned to make. ‘Twas his good fortune that the French deprived me of the opportunity to attend his deathbed.”

  “But surely ye willna wish to stay in that auld pile of stones,” Dewey said, chins quivering as he shook his head.

  “My man, Fred, and I are quite adept at making do,” Duncan remarked, half to himself. “I daresay that Eilean Kirk Castle will seem like Carlton House after the accommodations in the place they called La Purgatoire.”

  Dewey looked at MacLean with pity. “Ye can stay in my ain house, milaird,” he offered in a rush of generosity. “‘Tis nae fitting for a hero to dwell in a place that’s no better than a cow’s byre. Yer exploits at Talavera were the talk of Edinburgh!”

  “Aye,” Duncan admitted mockingly. “Beyond belief is it not? A MacLean in the dispatches? But then, the MacLeans of Eilean Kirk have always been the talk of Edinburgh.”

  “They say that ye near won the battle by yourself,” Dewey said, ignoring the earl’s sarcasm. “A brave thing, sair, a verra brave thing. ‘Tis a miracle that you escaped that Frenchy prison.”

  “There are no miracles, Dewey,” MacLean said his jaw setting in a hard line. “And bravery is but a label given to those who have faced terror after the fact. Eight men left La Purgatoire with me; six
of them had families, wives and children waiting in England. If miracles truly existed, those with something to live for would have come safely home. As it was, only one other endured with me, both of us men who could have perished with none to shed a tear.”

  “Will ye come with me then for the night?” Dewey offered once more.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I cannot accept,” he declined, forcing himself to be civil in the face of the solicitor’s obvious pity. Duncan found the sudden sympathy far more difficult to bear than barely concealed contempt. The solicitor’s chamber was closing in on him, stifling him.

  Blast those newspaper accounts! He had wished nothing more than to be left alone but they had insisted upon making a hero of him. Duncan wondered if it was the burden of those public laurels of heroism that had caused him to wait until he had sufficient details to fully identify the truly guilty. More than once before that fatal day of betrayal, he had resisted blurting out the truth. If he had laid his charges against Vesey without the names and dates accumulated in that book, any number of innocents would have been consumed in the ensuing scandal, including Marcus and even Wellington himself. What was it that Addison wrote about he who hesitates? And as a result of that vacillation all of Duncan’s men had been lost.

  Mr. Dewey waited his answer. No matter that the invitation was probably due to contemplation of the restored MacLean fortune. Duncan forced himself to swallow his rage and make a civil reply. Never burn a bridge you may yet have to cross again was another hard won lesson learned in confinement.

  “I am not anyone of note, despite what the papers may say. I merely survived. A cow’s byre will do quite nicely, provided the cow has no objections. Notify me at Eilean Kirk when my affairs are in order,” he said, rising to leave, “or when you have had a reply from Lord Steele so that I may retrieve the bequest. I want my return kept quiet for now. If there is any Lazarus talk about me, I will know that you are the source, Dewey. Now give me a pen and paper so that I might write my missive to Steele and I will be on my way.”