Rumors Among the Heather

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Vinspire Publishing

Ladson, South Carolina

www.vinspirepublishing.com

Rumors Among the Heather

Copyright ©2013 Brenda Smathers-Bell

Cover illustration copyright © 2013 Elaina Lee/For
the Muse Designs

Printed and bound in the United
States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an
information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who
may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine,
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publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing,
LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

All characters in this work
are purely fictional and have no existence outside the
imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly
inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all
incidents are pure invention.

ISBN:
978-0-9890632-1-0

PUBLISHED BY VINSPIRE PUBLISHING, LLC

Strolling down the
back streets in the notorious area of London known as Limehouse did
not bother Matthew MacDonald, Baron Bonnleigh. The things he had
seen in foreign parts made these streets look tame by comparison.
Since leaving his home in Scotland at the age of twenty-one, he had
been a soldier of fortune, selling his skills to the highest
bidder.

He had no place to be
and plenty of time to get there. He turned onto Narrow Street as
the gaslights were lit. When the lights came on, so did the noise
and bustle. Ladies of the evening strolled the wharves, and
carriages deposited their passengers in front of gambling
parlors.

Matthew walked
steadily until he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
With an economy of motion, he pulled his dirk out of its sheath and
held it down by his side. A masked figure stepped out of the
shadows of a doorway, obstructing his passage.

A gruff voice called
out, “I’ll be relieving you of your purse, my fine gentleman.”

“My good fellow, I
have no intention of giving you my purse. Step aside and let me
pass.” Matthew started to step around the masked man. The footpad
moved to block him.

“I can’t do that, me
hearty. I’ve a pistol aimed at your person which says hand over yer
pretties,” the footpad said with a chuckle.

“If you look down,
you’ll see I have a dirk ready to cut your heart out. Now kindly
step aside.”

“Mate, I think I could
pull the trigger on this pistol quicker than you could cut out my
heart.” Matthew’s assailant did not sound as confident as before.
He glanced around the area before his gaze found his quarry
again.

Through half-closed
eyes Matthew stared back at his assailant. He watched him lick his
lips and take a step back.

“Friend, I’m a man of
my word if nothing else. However, if you look farther back to the
next building, you’ll see my man with a pistol aimed at your head.
Even if you kill me, you will not carry my purse to hell with you.
Now, you tiresome creature, step aside.”

“If that be the case,
I will be moving along. You ain’t the man I hoped to meet. Please
continue,” the scoundrel said, stepping aside and bowing.

Matthew picked up the
tune he’d been whistling before the diversion and continued his
stroll to the Blue Goose. He came to the alleyway leading to the
establishment and walked down the wooden steps. The area was lit
only by a single flambeau. Nothing in the dark alley storefront
would suggest it housed a notorious gaming parlor. As he neared the
entrance, a porter stepped out and held the door for him.

Never too far from
Matthew’s side, Ribble, his manservant, kept watch without being
conspicuous. Both men entered the bustling parlor of the Blue
Goose. All aristocratic titles were dropped at the door. Here it
would not be uncommon to place bets alongside the footpad who had
tried to relieve someone of their purse. Laughter and drunken
banter made it difficult to hear. And unlike the more reputable
clubs, no one worried about polite manners.

The high stakes
gambler made his home here. Fortunes changed hands with each throw
of the dice or turn of the cards. All manner of sport could be
enjoyed, from boxing to bear baiting. If sporting pursuits were not
your particular vice, then the occupants of a few rooms upstairs
could take care of your more pressing needs.

Harley Derrick waved
Matthew over to his table. Jostled by the tightly packed patrons,
he acknowledged several acquaintances before seating himself at
Derrick’s table.

“Bonnleigh, my old
friend, what brings you to this hellhole? I didn’t know you were in
the country,” Derrick shouted in his ear.

“Arrived yesterday
from Spain. I’m working my way home.”

“You’re looking fit, I
see. I’ve missed you, Bonnleigh. We had some adventures, eh? I
heard you were mixed up in that Austrian business. I tried to get
there, but Italy kept me tied up. By the time I was free, the
dust-up was over,” Derrick confided.

“You didn’t miss much.
It was so mixed up sometimes I couldn’t tell on which side I was
fighting. After Silesia, a treaty signed by Britain and Austria
made my position awkward. I fought officially under the Spanish
flag before Britain entered the fight. How about you? Where are you
headed next?”

“Thought I might go
over to France, see what’s going on there. I hear the young prince
is getting restless. Kicking my heels here only adds to my boredom.
I left my commission, and I’ve been trying to keep my feet on
English soil for a spell. I’ve tried, but I can’t stand it. The
same damp English weather day after day,” he said, shaking his
head. “Too blame tame by half,” Derrick groused.

“I know what you mean.
My problem is I’m tired of wars, but I can’t think what else to do.
I have business to take care of here, and then I have to go back
home to Scotland. Let me know if you go to France. I might be
interested, if I can get everything put to rights at Lark
Mead.”

“That I will. Think
I’ll wander on upstairs. Good seeing you again, Bonnleigh. Oh, by
the way, what happened to Senora Salvadorez? Is it true you fought
a duel over her? Word has it you fought in the barracks yard.”

“Afraid so, just
another reason to leave. Only wounded Senor Salvadorez, but he
didn’t take it too well. Left me with the impression that I should
leave as soon as possible,” Matthew said with a grin. Shaking his
head to erase the memory, he continued, “Oh well, it is of no
concern now, my friend. I think I’ll try my luck at cards tonight.
You know the old saying, unlucky at love, lucky at cards.”

Unbidden, thoughts
came to Matthew and conjured up the face of Senora Salvadorez. With
deep chagrin, he remembered her fiery, laughing brown eyes and
alluring body. However, the beauty had forgotten to mention she had
a husband. The appearance of Senor Salvadorez came as a
disagreeable entanglement, and the scandal that followed proved to
be even worse.

He watched Derrick
make his way across the room and up the stairs before he turned and
headed for the faro table. He hoped Derrick was wrong about the
prince. The last he’d heard, “The Old Pretender” did not want to go
forward with another rebellion, and Matthew did not relish the idea
either. However, if his prince needed him, he could not refuse to
fight for the Stuarts and for Scotland. Sadly, he shook his head
again.

Two hours passed, and
the room became hotter and more crowded. From where he lounged in
front of the faro table, Matthew watched his fellow gamblers from
beneath half-closed eyelids. He had been back on English soil for
only a full day, and already he felt restless. Filled with ennui,
he bet recklessly, almost hoping he would lose at least one
draw—anything to relieve the tedium—but he did not lose a single
hand.

There were six other
diehard gamblers around the table. Hungry gazes watched as their
stacks of chips dwindled and his increased dramatically. He
glimpsed the obsession in their eyes and wondered how anyone could
feel so passionate about anything, let alone cards. After all, a
game was just that—a game.

Feverishly, the portly
gambler with the florid complexion seated beside him placed his
bet. His rheumy eyes darted around the table continuously. He
licked his lips before downing a tankard of ale in one gulp. “Dash
it all, don’t know when I’ve had worse luck. It appears to all be
running your way, sir.”

Matthew did nothing
more than cock a derisive eyebrow in amusement. “If your luck has
indeed run out, sir, might this not be a sign that you need to try
another game?”

“I’ll be the judge of
that, sir. Besides, it’s bound to turn around soon,” he said while
recklessly placing another bet.

“Blast your bones,
Lord Bonnleigh, you’ve the devil’s own luck tonight, but I’ll wager
your luck won’t hold. It ain’t natural. Give me a hundred on ten to
win,” Lord Ashton called defiantly. “You have all our money. Your
luck is bound to change. I never saw anyone bet so recklessly and
have it come to rights.”

Each player in his
turn placed his bet. The crowd of onlookers roared when Matthew
placed all of his winnings on number seven. He waited for the
banker to pull off the exposed card and place it on the winning
pile. The seven of spades came up, and the crowd cheered with
whistles and catcalls until the manager came out to check on the
din. Depleted at long last, the remaining deck held only three
unknown cards.

“I’ll call the turn,”
Matthew spoke softly as he pushed his entire winnings of two
thousand pounds forward.

A hush filled the
room. All eyes went from the manager to Matthew and back. The
banker waited for approval. With a nod of his head, the manager
gave his permission. The banker swallowed hard, wiped his palms on
his vest, and waited for Matthew to call the cards.

“King, queen,
five.”

With shaking hands,
the banker turned over a king, a queen, and the last card turned
over was a five.

Lord Ashton lunged
across the table, his hands reaching for Matthew’s throat. Matthew
stepped back inches short of Lord Ashton’s hands and watched as
Ashton slid face down on the floor. The manager went to Lord
Ashton’s aid and helped him up. The irate lord stood up, adjusted
his clothing, and in the process of dusting himself off swung with
his right fist, and Matthew dodged the punch. This spurred Lord
Ashton to act again. When he regained his balance, he swung
repeatedly and missed each time—with room to spare.

“This is ridiculous,
Ashton. I will not fight a man who is on his way to being
completely foxed. Go sleep it off."

“You’ll not be telling
me what to do, you arrogant prig. Bloody low-down cheating
scoundrel. I’ll wring your neck with my own hands. Who’d you pay
off? I thought this was an honest gaming house. No one has that
kind of luck,” Lord Ashton spat out roughly.

He made another lunge,
flailing away like a human windmill. Matthew did his best to hold
him at arm’s length. As he dodged another left, he tripped over an
onlooker who had also lost his money at faro this night. Ashton
fell as well, managing to land on top of Matthew. Before he could
defend himself, his opponent’s hands wrapped around Matthew’s
throat.