The Last Debutante
Read The Last Debutante Online
Authors: Julia London
Tags: #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Historical, #Fiction
Praise for
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Julia London’s “superbly entertaining”*
series,
The Secrets of Hadley Green
“Cleverly crafted. . . . Dangerous intrigue and deliciously sexy.”
—
Booklist
*
“Gracefully unfold[s] with the perfect amount of tension.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Intriguing, touching.”
—
Library Journal
“The strong plot and well-crafted characters envelop readers as the beauty of the romance sweeps them away.”
—
RT Book Reviews
“A well-written, sexy, moving romance. . . . It’s almost perfect.”
—
Dear Author
“Exciting and heart wrenching. . . . Julia London really won me over!”
—
Romance Junkies
“An emotional and passionate roller coaster of a story.”
—
Romance Reviews Today
“An excellent book. . . . Heartfelt and warming.”
—
Fallen Angel Reviews
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One
D
UNDAVIE, THE
S
COTTISH
H
IGHLANDS
, 1811
J
AMIE
C
AMPBELL WASN’T
alarmed when the old woman pointed her gun at his head—he was galled. He’d ridden up to her fence and had just come off his saddle when the cottage door opened and she appeared with her blunderbuss.
He’d suffered more than his fair share of vexations these last few weeks. Things had gone to hell when his brother, Geordie, had called out Cormag Brodie and very nearly killed him. Not unreasonably, that had prompted Cormag’s sister Isabella, who was Jamie’s fiancée, to cry off their engagement. That was almost enough to drive a man to the nearest bottle of barley-bree, but to finish off that spectacularly bad event, Jamie then discovered that his uncle Hamish, who was losing a wee bit of his mind every day, had given away the money Jamie had managed to save in the family coffers. That money was all Jamie had to help support his clan, who had seen their livelihoods
erode with the encroachment of Lord Murchison’s sheep onto their small parcels of land, and many had left for better occupations in Glasgow and beyond.
For the nine years Jamie had sat as laird of the Dundavie Campbells, he’d tried to lead them into the winds of change while holding on to as much of their way of life as possible. The Brodies were key to his plan, so it was all bloody well vexing—as was this woman and her gun. Jamie was descended from a long line of scrappy, argumentative Highland Campbells, men whose mettle had been tested at war, during famines, and in the throes of great change. They were not the sort of men to be put off by duels or broken engagements, or an old woman and her blunderbuss—which was shaking a little as she struggled to hold the thing up.
“There’s no call for that now, aye?” he said, pausing outside the gate. He held up both hands to show he was unarmed.
“As you are standing on my property, I’ll be the one to judge,” the woman retorted in a crisp English accent.
Sassenach.
Mary, Queen of Scots, another one. Jamie’s hackles rose.
“What business have you here, sir?”
What business had
he
here? He was born and reared here, in these very hills. He knew them all, every path, every stream, every tree. What the devil was
she
doing here?
Ach,
he shouldn’t have come. He didn’t generally act in haste; at the very least, he should have brought Duff, his cousin and right hand, along.
But Old Willie had told him that the woman who lived in this cottage on Brodie lands was the one who had used
Hamish so ill, and it had made Jamie feel a wee bit murderous. What sort of person took advantage of an old man who possessed only half his mind? Jamie was so intent on discovering the answer that he’d immediately ridden in the direction of the Brodie lands.
He sighed and looked at the neat little thatched-roof cottage. It was set back against towering firs on the edge of a small field where chickens wandered about, pecking at the ground. The cottage had been whitewashed and the fence recently mended, judging by the fresh yellow lumber. A wiggen tree, which superstitious Highlanders often planted near their cottages to ward off witches, shaded the front garden, and in one open window loaves of freshly baked brown bread were cooling.
It was idyllic, the sort of tidy vista that had lately brought Englishmen flocking to the Highlands.
The woman, however, was not what Jamie had expected. Old Willie had said she was English, but he’d not mentioned her gray hair or her rounded middle. Jamie had expected a vixen with a sultry gaze and curving figure, a woman who was a master at depriving men of their money.
This woman looked as if she ought to be waulking wool.
Jamie lowered his hands. “I am Jamie Campbell, Laird of Dundavie.” He waited for her inevitable gasp of alarm when she realized she had done the unthinkable by threatening a man of power and means.
She did not gasp. She hoisted her gun up a wee bit more. “That means naught to me. There are more Campbells roaming these hills than there are trees. Go on, then—off with you. I think it best you not be seen on this side of the hills,” she said. “The Brodies have no love for the Campbells.”
“The feeling,” he said, a little miffed that she would so eagerly embrace the Brodies’ side, “is entirely mutual. Nevertheless, I have come in search of a woman who has become financially involved with my uncle Hamish.” He cocked a brow at her, silently daring her to deny it.
“If you mean to imply that
I
am involved with him, I am most assuredly
not
.”
She was quick to deny it, wasn’t she? And a wee bit nervous, as well, which Jamie read as guilt. “Might I at least know to whom I am speaking?” He took a step closer, putting his hand on the swing gate.
“
Stop!
You are trespassing on my land!”
He snorted. “This land belongs to Gordon Brodie.”
“That,” she sniffed, “is but a small detail. He has let me this land, and therefore it is mine. Now please take your leave before I am pressed to defend myself in a most violent manner.”
If she thought she could shoo him away like a fly, she was mistaken. Jamie pushed the gate open. “
Diah,
for someone who claims no’ to be acquainted with Hamish, you are eager to see me gone, are you no’, then? Have you attended the pony races near Nairn?”
“I
will
shoot you if you come one step closer, and the Brodie boys who come round every Monday will cart your carcass off and toss it into the sea.”
“I’ve yet to meet a Brodie who was willing to expend that much effort. Much less one capable of carting me anywhere,” he said brusquely. “Madam, I shall speak even more plainly. I am in search of the Englishwoman who lives in the cottage by the old Norse cairn.” He pointed grandly
up the path he’d traveled from Dundavie to a crumbling old cairn plainly visible at the top of the hill.
He continued, “There are some who believe she has divested my uncle of one thousand pounds, a mighty sum. And while I would be the first to say a man is free to give his money to any lass he wants, I take issue when the man is no’ in his right mind. This is a man who forgets to belt his plaid and believes that he is the friend of an English lord who lives alone in the hills here. He canna remember the names of his children, yet he knows the names of the angels who visit him at night. Anyone who might take money from my uncle takes cruel advantage.”
Her cheeks reddened like a pair of apples; she cocked the trigger. “Leave me now, or die in the garden.”
Jamie frowned. He did not relish the thought of corralling an old woman and taking her gun. The best course of action was to return with Duff and a few of his men. “Very well,” he said with a shrug. “Perhaps you might be persuaded to recall your acquaintance when I bring a witness or two round to remind you, aye? Good day, madam.” He touched his hat and turned away toward his horse.
He heard the blunderbuss fire a split second before he felt the burn of lead enter his body. He fell, landing with a great
thud,
his head striking a rock—and then everything went black.
F
UNNY HOW SMALL
, chance moments could alter one’s world so completely. Daria Babcock had never really
thought of it until now. She wasn’t generally one to contemplate fate or the meaning of life; she’d never engaged in such lengthy introspection. But then again, she’d never found herself on the side of a road in the Scottish wilds, utterly alone, until today.
Well. Not
utterly,
as there was a dog, but she hardly counted him. After her initial fear of being mauled when he’d wandered out of the forest, she’d quickly discovered him to be completely useless. He was black, with spots of white on his paws and his chest, and presently had folded his legs to lie beside her trunk, his head propped against it, his eyes closed, as if he had no more pressing issues to attend to than his nap.
Mr. Mungo Brodie hadn’t seemed particularly concerned when he’d deposited her here—he’d mentioned only that her destination was “just a wee bit up the road, then.”
That “road” was little more than a rabbit trail. Into dark woods. With not a soul in sight.
Daria glanced up to the treetops and the robin’s-egg-blue sky. She guessed it was the middle of the afternoon, which meant she still had a bit of time before it turned dark.
Which in turn gave her more time to study the ridiculous twists of fate that had brought her here. For her current predicament—side of road, all alone—clearly deserved some study. “I wish I knew the moment that everything changed,” she said aloud.