A Scoundrel in the Making (The Marriage Maker Book 9) Read online

  A Scoundrel in the Making

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Nine

  The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover

  Tarah Scott

  Scarsdale Voices

  This is a Scarsdale Voices romance and is part of The Marriage Maker series written by Tarah Scott and Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

  A Scoundrel in the Making © Copyright 2018 Tarah Scott The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover Book Nine © Copyright 2018 Tarah Scott

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

  Cover Design: R. Jackson Designs

  Editor: Casey Yager

  The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover

  Lady Elana Gallaway, known as master spy The Raven, has made a career of navigating enemy territory and risking her life in situations and places no gentlewoman should know exists. She possesses all the social graces and is adept at sweeping into glittering royal courts on the Continent, then vanishing without a trace after she’s ferreted out the treacherous secrets that drew her there in the name of duty. She’s equally accomplished in London and Edinburgh, or wherever the British King requires her service. But never has a mission struck so close to her heart—or proved so daunting—as finding love for four retired spies.

  These operatives have helped her many times, once or twice, even saving her from certain death at risk to their own lives. Now, they live solitary, lonely lives while surrounded by throngs.

  Elana’s career has introduced her to more than enemies. Among her close friends is Sir Stirling James, the famous Inverness marriage maker. He’s just the man she needs.

  Chapter One

  Abigail sipped her third glass of champagne and casually scanned Lady Bingley’s crowded ballroom. Extravagant balls such as this were as natural to her as breathing—if she were attending as Lady Abigail, wayward daughter of the Marquess of Buchman, or even as Carlotta Durand, daughter of Richard Durand, wealthy French merchant. Attending a ball as Lady Abigail, dutiful daughter of John Matheson, the Marquess of Buchman, was another matter.

  Here in Inverness, she was just a marquess’s daughter—well, more than that now. Six weeks ago, her cousin, the most recent Marquess of Buchman, went and died of a fever. As a result, Abigail had become the Marchioness of Buchman, heir to her father’s title, lands and money—and all the headaches that position entailed. The transition from spy to marchioness had come as a shock.

  Melancholia chilled her heart. Even after five years, she missed her father so badly her heart ached. When her cousin Daniel had inherited the title, she’d married Iain Young, intent on never returning to the memories of Lochland Manor. A year after their marriage, her husband got himself shot gambling in a hell, and then six weeks past, Daniel died. His Majesty might not insist she marry, but he wasn’t keen on the new Marchioness of Buchman risking her life as a spy. Returning home without her father present had been like plunging a knife through her heart.

  Abigail finished her champagne and searched for a waiter. At half past twelve, the night was young. The ball would continue at least till two, perhaps even three a.m. By the time she left, she very well might be drunk.

  Her gaze snagged on the lead violinist of the orchestra, a strikingly handsome man. How long since she’d indulged in anything tall, dark and handsome?

  “That is your third glass of champagne,” her friend Fanny said.

  At last, a waiter appeared. Abigail stopped him, set her empty glass on the tray, took a full glass, then waved him on.

  She faced Fanny. “Who’s counting?”

  “Clearly, not you.”

  Abigail sipped the champagne. “And I shan’t begin now.”

  “You’re worried that when you marry, your husband will put a stop to your wild ways.”

  Abigail laughed. “I have only just returned to Scotland. The last thing on my mind is marriage. Besides, my first marriage was quite enough.”

  Fanny sipped her champagne—as every lady should—and peered at Abigail over the rim of her glass. “The widow of Mr. Young may choose not to remarry, but His Majesty will have something to say about the Marchioness of Buchman not marrying.”

  Abigail shrugged. Her particular relationship with His Majesty would save her from the marriage mart.

  Fanny leaned close and whispered, “Don’t look now, but I believe the owner of your next dance is on the way to claim his set.”

  Abigail frowned. Which dance was this? The fourth. Good God, Viscount Havisham had signed her dance card for the fourth dance. Fanny nodded ever so slightly at something behind Abigail. She turned casually and caught sight of the viscount plowing his way through the crowd. God help her. Abigail faced Fanny.

  Fanny’s eyes twinkled. “I have heard that a lady who dances with Lord Havisham…well, her toes are never quite the same afterwards.”

  Abigail narrowed her eyes. “You have a perverse streak, Fanny.”

  She nodded, her expression neutral, but her eyes flashed with devilish delight. “One would think the reason was because my parents didn’t love me. But in fact, they loved me very much.”

  Abigail bit back a laugh—and a retort—for the gentleman in question had reached hearing distance. At first opportunity, she would speak with Lady Bingley. Abigail had arrived at the ball to find her hostess had filled her dance card. Clearly, Lady Bingley had taken it upon herself to find Abigail a suitable husband.

  Lord Havisham reached them, out of breath after his charge across the room. “My lady, I believe the next set is mine.”

  Abigail glimpsed laughter in Fanny’s eyes an instant before her friend dropped her gaze. Abigail suddenly had the suspicion that it wasn’t only Lady Bingley playing matchmaker. Fanny’s delight was more than mere amusement at Abigail’s expense. One would think that Fanny had better taste than to pair Abigail with a portly viscount who probably had never walked farther than the distance between his carriage and his club. Lady Bingley wasn’t the only person Abigail needed to set straight. Longing rose for ballrooms where men sought to charm their way into a woman’s bed, not drag her down the aisle.

  Abigail assumed a wilted expression and fanned her face with her hand. “Sir, it is intolerably hot in here.” As expected, his eyes brightened. He believed she intended to ask him to escort her to the balcony. The poor fool. She lowered her voice, “Would you mind very much if I asked a favor?”

  “Of course not, my dear.” He started to angle his arm toward her.

  “Would you fetch me some champagne?”

  He blinked. “I beg pardon? Champagne?” He glanced at the glass in her hand.

  She smiled. “This champagne is warm. Cool champagne does wonders for a body, do you not agree?” She leaned toward him an inch and added in a sultry voice that had yet to fail her, “It always puts me in the best of moods.”

  He straightened as if he were a puppet and the puppeteer had yanked his strings. “Indeed, my lady, it would be my pleasure.” He looked around the room for a passing waiter. As Abigail knew was the case, no waiter was visible. Indecision creased his brow.

  “The champagne in t
he refreshments room is always the coolest.” Abigail looked up at him with adoring eyes. “The party is a crush. Can you reach the refreshments room and return unscathed?”

  His indecision lingered for another instant, then manly pride surfaced. “Of course. For you, it is no trouble.”

  She sighed in genuine relief. “You are too kind.”

  He bowed, then turned and began to plow his way toward the refreshments room, located on the other side of the large ballroom.

  “By the time he returns, the set will be over,” Fanny said.

  And I will be gone, Abigail thought. There were two more parties she could attend tonight. She needn’t return home before two, if she chose. She cast a glance at the violinist. Even those broad shoulders weren’t worth Havisham’s company for the night.

  “Wherever did you learn to make such awful moon eyes?” Fanny asked. “I expected him to drop to one knee and profess undying love, then offer to slay any dragon you named.”

  Abigail finished her champagne. Glass number four. “You are one to talk. I seem to remember you insisting that Charles bring you cakes from downtown Inverness during the heat of an August day.”

  Fanny shrugged. “That was different. I was in love with Charles.”

  Abigail grimaced. “Lucky Charles.”

  Fanny narrowed her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “Indeed, I do. You wanted to see how long the poor fellow would let you torture him before he cried foul.”

  Fanny gave small shrug. “Something like that.”

  Abigail lifted a brow. “How long did it take?”

  A mischievous grin tugged the corners of Fanny’s mouth. “I’ll let you know when he does so.”

  Abigail’s gaze snagged on a woman who paused near the hallway to the refreshments room. What was Lady Elana Galloway doing in Inverness—at this party? They’d last parted in Paris. Something was wrong. Abigail hadn’t expected to ever again see the spymaster known as The Raven.

  Lady Elana turned, started down the hallway, and disappeared from view. Abigail returned her attention to Fanny. Her plans had changed. No more champagne. She would need her wits about her.

  Chapter Two

  Abigail excused herself to the retiring room, located two doors down from the refreshments room. Her greatest danger was encountering Lord Havisham. He would insist that she drink the champagne he’d fetched, even if it meant waiting for her outside the ladies’ retiring room. Her five-foot-four height easily hid her in the sea of six-foot-tall men, but it also meant she could walk past a group of men and bump directly into the viscount. Abigail opted for the safer, less direct route and followed the wall nearest the balcony. She reached the hallway unmolested and hurried past the refreshments room. By now, Lord Havisham should be on the way back to where he’d left her standing, but one never knew.

  She glimpsed a familiar face. Liam MacPherson. Her heart warmed. She hadn’t expected to see her young cousin here. Her mother’s nephew’s son was the closest living relative Abigail had left—more like a little brother than a cousin. Abigail’s father had told her many a time that Liam’s dark hair and eyes were more like her mother’s than his own mother’s. She hadn’t known he’d returned to Inverness. She would speak with him later.

  Abigail checked the retiring room, but Lady Elana wasn’t there. That didn’t surprise her. That inner sense that had saved her life more than once told her that The Raven’s presence at Lady Bingley’s soirée was no coincidence. Abigail stepped from the retiring room and found the hallway empty. She hurried away from the ballroom. An instant later, she turned a corner, then slowed. Up ahead, a sliver of light fanned across the carpeted floor from a door that stood slightly ajar.

  She lifted her skirts and crept forward. Lady Elana wouldn’t be so careless as to conduct a clandestine meeting with a door ajar. Abigail reached the room and paused to listen. Silence. She leaned closer and peeked into the room, but her vantage offered only a view of a small desk against the left wall. She inched the door open and eased around to see better. Lady Elana stood beside a tall gentleman near a low-burning fire.

  Lady Elana met her gaze. “Please, come in, my dear.”

  Abigail silently cursed. She straightened. “Forgive the intrusion, my lady.”

  Lady Elana smiled. “Not at all. We were expecting you.”

  The knowledge stung. Few people could catch Abigail red-handed. The Raven was one of those few, and knew it. Abigail slipped inside.

  “Close the door, please,” Elana said.

  Abigail pulled the door silently closed and glimpsed the satisfaction that flickered in the older woman’s eyes. The Raven valued highly the ability to move noiselessly.

  Abigail crossed the room and halted before them. She curtsied. “My lady. Sir.”

  Lady Elana tsked. “No, no, it is we who must bow to the new Marchioness of Buchman.”

  Abigail grimaced. “Pray, do not. It is bad enough that others fawn over me. I couldn’t bear if you did the same.”

  Amusement sparked in Lady Elena’s eyes. “As you wish.” She turned toward the tall, handsome man beside her. “Marchioness Buchman, please meet Sir Stirling James. Sir Stirling, Her Ladyship, the Marchioness Buchman.”

  Abigail extended her hand. He clasped her fingers and bowed over them. “My lady, ‘tis a pleasure.”

  His light Scottish accent told her he’d been raised outside of Inverness. In Sutherland, perhaps.

  “Sir.” She angled her head in acknowledgement.

  “Sir Stirling owns a shipping company,” Lady Elana said. “He has agreed to lend us a hand.”

  “Us?” Abigail inquired with a polite lift of her brows.

  “I know you are retired, Abigail, but as the new Marchioness of Buchman, you are in a unique position to help. I thought perhaps…” She gave a small shrug.

  Abigail suppressed the jump of excitement that accelerated her heartbeat and managed a calm, “I am always at your service, ma’am.”

  Elana nodded. “Did I not tell you, Sir Stirling, that we could count on Abigail?”

  He flashed a dazzling smile, and Abigail again noticed how handsome he was. “Ye did, indeed, my lady.”

  Abigail waited. Lady Elana would reveal the information in her own time. The Raven had one guilty pleasure: she enjoyed a bit of drama now and then. Her staunch patriotism gave her an almost ruthless streak that kept her impulses in check. Therefore, when the opportunity presented itself—such as rare times of leisure like now—she indulged in a bit of theatrics. She well knew that Abigail’s retirement was too recent for the thrill of the hunt to have been tamed—despite the fact that Abigail had requested this retirement.

  Memories knotted her stomach. She quickly erected the wall inside her head that separated her new life from her old. But a mental picture flashed of Victor’s face as the bullet struck his chest. He’d been a French lad fighting for his country and he’d died. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t just died. She’d shot him.

  “This is war,” Lady Elana had told her, “and war is never pretty.”

  Abigail suddenly wished she’d taken another glass of champagne. Without it, she might not be able to keep the private promise that tonight she would sleep through the night—or, at least, sleep without dreams.

  “You will introduce him into society,” Elana said.

  Abigail nodded, realizing she’d missed part of the conversation.

  “Then be…seen with him,” Lady Elana added.

  Be seen with him? Him? Careful to keep her expression neutral, Abigail shifted her gaze to Sir Stirling. “We are to conduct an… affaire de coeur?”

  “Oui,” Elana replied in flawless French. “But Sir Stirling is not the gentleman.” She cast him a wicked glance. “That is a shame, I know, but Sir Stirling is afflicted with a happy marriage.”

  Abigail returned her attention to Lady Elana and waited.

  Elana gave a small laugh. “You are superb. You never betray a hint of distress. Was I right, Sir Stir
ling? Is she not superb?”

  He smiled gently. “Indeed, she is.”

  Elana looked at her. “We are agreed?”

  Agreed to what? Pretending to be in love? Or was there more? Abigail wanted to say that there was no need to bring in this gentleman. The Marchioness of Buchman could easily insert herself into any situation. But only the direst of circumstances would induce Lady Elana to impose upon Abigail now that she had resigned from service to the Crown.

  Abigail smiled. “As you wish, Lady Elana.”

  “We shall arrange a meeting with you and our gentleman say, tomorrow evening, at Lady Tate’s soiree?” Elana turned to Sir Stirling. “Is that time enough?”

  “Perfect,” he replied.

  Abigail hadn’t planned to attend the ball, but said, “The ball is predicted to be the party of the season.”

  “A real crush,” Lady Elana replied. “Perfect for you to meet a gentleman and fall in love.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time Abigail had played the role of a love-stricken woman. At least, the appearance of a courtship would discourage the matchmaking of Lady Bingley and others.

  Lady Elana said, “I believe our work here is done, Sir Stirling.”

  Abigail realized that she had no idea what role Sir Stirling held in this intrigue, but she knew better than to ask. Lady Elana believed that information was disseminated on a need-to-know basis only.

  “We shall see you tomorrow, Lady Buchman,” Elana said.

  Abigail recognized the dismissal. “So good to see you,” Abigail addressed her. She turned to Sir Stirling. “Sir, a pleasure to have met you.”

  He canted his head and Abigail thought for an instant she read laughter in his eyes. But he said with complete seriousness, “Have a pleasant evening, my lady.”

  Abigail left, softly closed the door behind her, and strolled back to the ballroom. She might want to give thought to attending more balls than she’d originally planned. She would sort through the stack of invitations on her desk at home. A glass or two of claret would ward off the evening’s chill…and keep the nightmares at bay. If only the claret would dispel the spirits that walked the corridors of Lochland Manor, as well.