Her Wicked Highland Spy (The Marriage Maker #10)(2)

There wasn’t a thing Ethan—or herself, for that matter—wouldn’t do for widowed Lady Sarah, a cheerful, middle-aged soul without an enemy in the world.

But now? Most curious. “Lady Sarah?” she repeated and glanced in Stirling’s direction. “She’s a distant relation of yours by marriage now, isn’t she, Stirling?”

The man sat down at the table and helped himself to a glass of lemonade. “Aye. An aunt to my wife’s cousin, Rosalyn Beaumont. The lass lives with her now and writes to my wife quite frequently. We fear, since the loss of her husband, that Lady Sarah’s health has become quite fragile. A sea holiday at Brighton would do her good, and since Ethan’s headed to his own property there, he’s kindly agreed to host them.”

Rosalyn Beaumont…so, Stirling had found a match. Elana struggled to contain her delight. She stole a quick look at Ethan. The man didn’t suspect a thing. Priceless.

“And why are you headed to Brighton?” she queried in disapproval, lest he smell the trap. “I would never deny Lady Sarah a thing, but I worry about you so, Ethan…” A sudden thought flashed across her mind and this time, her alarm was genuine. “Surely, you don’t intend to sail that contraption across the channel?”

The devilish twist of his lip confirmed that was precisely what he had in mind. Did the man miss the danger of the service so much he had to concoct it on his own now?

“Do you not have the matter of the Clan Brodie succession to solve?”

Ethan shrugged. “I still have the advantage of three younger brothers.” Then, before she could issue another complaint, he sprinted off the veranda and headed back to the balloon.

Elana waited until he was out of earshot, then faced Stirling and said with a sly smile, “So, it’s Rosalyn Beaumont?”

Stirling chuckled. “It’s the perfect match, my dear. I have no doubt I’ll soon welcome Ethan into the family. She’s precisely what he needs, but I fear, she may be more difficult to ensnare into this scheme. I’ll need your help.”





Chapter Two


Ensnaring a Minx



“He’s a two-timer,” Rosalyn Beaumont announced with absolute conviction. She tightened her lips into a hard line as she adjusted the pearl comb in the artful array of dark brown ringlets that cascaded over her shoulders. “Hand him his hat and see him to the door. For heaven’s sake, Amelia, don’t marry the man. You can do much, much better.”

A round of sighs circled the young women seated in the drawing room around her. China cups rattled to their saucers. Fans snapped up.

“I knew it,” seemed to be the predominant theme.

At Amelia’s crestfallen expression, Rosalyn gave the girl’s hand a friendly squeeze. “I’m sorry, but at least you now know he’s a cad. Imagine how miserable your life would have become if you’d found out after the wedding?” Or before he’d managed to slip his way under her skirts, as had occurred in her case.

“So true, Rosalyn.” The young Amelia resolutely lifted her chin. “I shall tell Papa this very moment I shan’t wed the man. How can I ever repay you?”

“There’s no need, truly,” Rosalyn assured, relieved to have prevented a disaster. She watched Amelia jump to her feet and dash away with a decided sense of satisfaction.

“And who will you be investigating next?” Amelia’s sister, Anne, asked.

The young women leaned in for the answer.

Rosalyn gave her reticule strings a thoughtful tug. Investigate was too strong a word. She preferred to call herself a discreet observer of men’s habits, particularly those relating to manners, hygiene, and, of course, fidelity. She also sought to answer any personal curiosities a prospective bride might have. She was a lady’s defense, a lady’s eye, if one must name her.

This season, she’d begun to score men on an overall scale from one to ten. This season, the highest mark she’d bestowed was an eight and, thereafter, three sevens. She’d never yet observed a man worthy of a ten. Amelia’s suitor had scored a dismal zero. Lacking in fidelity was entirely unforgiveable. It firmly erased any other qualities a man might possess.

“Do tell us,” the young women urged. “Who is next?”

“You know I can’t,” Rosalyn replied primly. “Secrecy is key.”

Sighs of disappointment met her statement.

“How did she become so bold?” someone whispered in admiration.

Bold? Rosalyn suppressed a snort. She certainly hadn’t started that way.

“Is it Lady Meredith?” Anne pressed, determined to ferret out any salacious hint of gossip. “They say Lord Bramwell will propose to her within the week. Has she procured your services?”

Her services. If only someone had provided herself with such services when she’d arrived at her aunt’s London townhouse, a naive, slender debutante, dewy-eyed and filled with dreams. If only someone had warned her of George Hearne, the two-timing captain whose smooth-talking ways had charmed her into his bed.

We’re as good as married, sweeting.

Displeased to find where her thoughts had wandered, she stood. She’d had enough of Lady Preston’s May Spectacular.

“Good evening, ladies.” She ignored their pleas to remain, and left them to their devices, as she headed to the foyer to retrieve her wrap from the footman.