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  Praise for Sabrina Jeffries

  and her sparkling, sexy series

  The School for Heiresses

  Never Seduce a Scoundrel

  “Jeffries carries off this cat-and-mouse game of mutual seduction so cleverly that you’ll be turning the pages at lightning speed…. Warm, wickedly witty and brilliantly plotted, this is a must for anyone who just wants a fast, intelligent read.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Jeffries delivers lively lovers in an entertaining, sensual historical romance.”

  —Booklist

  Acclaim for Sabrina Jeffries

  and her previous works of fiction

  “Anyone who loves romance must read Sabrina Jeffries!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

  The Royal Brotherhood Series

  One Night with a Prince

  “Jeffries not only beguiles readers with scenes of passion and vivid characters but steadily builds the story’s tension to an exciting conclusion. The details of gambling, mistresses, and scandalous conduct further enrich the tapestry against which this emotionally satisfying story plays out. Jeffries’s readers will be royally pleased.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  To Pleasure a Prince

  “Jeffries’s sparkling dialogue takes center stage in an emotional, highly sensual and powerfully romantic story…. All the characters have such depth they simply leap from the pages.”

  —Romantic Times

  “[The] parallel courtships of the Tremaine and North siblings engages throughout. Readers will eagerly await the third brother’s story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  In the Prince’s Bed

  “A traditional Regency told with sparkle and energy…. The chemistry among all the characters—not just the hero and heroine—ensures that there’s never a dull moment in this merry romp…. Fans of historical romances will find the simple pleasures of this novel irresistible.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Delightful, sensual, and poignant, Jeffries’s latest brings humor and pathos to a richly peopled tale. This is a delightful start to a new series featuring a trio of heroes to die for.”

  —Romantic Times

  Also by Sabrina Jeffries

  The School for Heiresses

  (with Liz Carlyle, Julia London, and Renee Bernard)

  Only a Duke Will Do

  Never Seduce a Scoundrel

  One Night with a Prince

  To Pleasure a Prince

  In the Prince’s Bed

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas ,New York, NY10020

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

  Copyright © 2007 by Deborah Gonzales

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas ,New York, NY10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-6154-4

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Dedication

  To Dougie MacLean, Capercaillie, Keltik Elektrik, Peatbog Faeries, Ashley MacIsaac, and countless other Scottish bands and musicians whose music inspired me through the writing of this book.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Sally Avelle, for her invaluable

  travel books and first-hand tales of Scotland .

  I used every single one doing my research.

  Prologue

  London

  May 1822

  Dear Charlotte,

  I hear that your former pupil, Lady Venetia, has once again refused a perfectly good suitor. Speaking as a disinterested observer, I believe the lady may have taken your rules for heiresses too much to heart. If she isn’t careful, it will gain her nothing but a lonely spinsterhood.

  Your cousin,

  Michael

  Daughters are a plague upon men.

  So thought Quentin Campbell, the Earl of Duncannon, whose twenty-four-year-old daughter was giving him fits. He’d hoped that Mrs. Charlotte Harris’s School for Young Ladies would teach Venetia to be malleable, but it had just made the lass more impudent. Apparently she’d inherited not only her mother’s lovely features, but also her stubborn temperament. And he’d damned near had enough.

  He found her in the kitchen of their London town house, preparing that vile medicinal concoction she loved to pour down his throat. “How dare you refuse the viscount’s suit after I gave him leave to court you?” he blustered.

  Cool as a Highland loch, Venetia continued pounding a purplish flower into powder. “If you’d consulted me before you gave him leave, Papa—”

  “Consulted you! And given you a chance to pick apart yet another fine fellow?” He stifled an oath. “What offended you this time? His charming manner? His too broad smile? His well-groomed appearance?”

  “I don’t like him,” she said with her usual maddening half-smile.

  “Don’t like him! He’s fashionable and handsome, with fortune to spare—”

  “So is my reticule.” She poured the purple powder into a glass of water and stirred. “Unfortunately, it also has more personality, and nearly as much intelligence.”

  This was the trouble—his daughter’s wit ran men off.

  “My lord?” said a voice from the doorway.

  He glanced at his butler. “What is it?”

  “A Mr. Sikeston and some other men are asking to see you.”

  He tensed. Sikeston and his men were here, in London? Something must have gone horribly wrong. “I’ll meet with them in my study.”

  As the butler hurried off, Quentin shot his daughter an exasperated glance. “You’ve gained a reprieve, lass. We’ll discuss the viscount further at dinner.”

  Concern shone in her eyes. “Are these men here about the Scottish Scourge, Papa? You know what the physician said—you mustn’t let yourself be provoked.”

  “Physicians, ha! Fools, all of them. What do they know?”

  “They know enough.” She held out the glass. “You should drink your tonic before you see anyone.”

  “I don’t want my tonic, damn it!” She was always trying to coddle him. He needed to be firmer with her, as he hadn’t been with her late mother, but on days like today, when she reminded him so powerfully of Susannah, it was damned hard. “Leave the men to me, ye ken? And don’t be worrying your head over them.”

  She turned stubborn. “At least let me help you up the stairs.”

  When she tried to take his arm, he wrenched free, horrified by the very thought of his pretty daughter going near the blackguards awaiting him. “It has naught to do with you, so stay out of it!”

  His vehement protest made her wince. “Fine, do as you please.”

  He started to apologize, then caught himself. This was important. He couldn’t let her stick her nose in his business this time.

  Pausing every few steps for breath, he made his slow way up the stairs. Damn Sir Lachlan Ross and his shenanigans—why couldn’t the divil leave him be?

  He should have known he was in trouble from the day Ross first appeared in London . The young baronet had demanded what he thought was due his family and the Clan Ross, and Quentin had dismissed the laird’s claim, determined never to reveal the ugly secrets of his past, to Ross or anyone else.

  Since then, he�
��d paid dearly for his silence. The insolent young clan chief had begun riding the roads as the Scottish Scourge. Stirring up trouble, Ross was, trying to force Quentin’s hand. He robbed Quentin’s friends when they strayed into Scotland, telling them to turn for recourse to “Lord Duncannon.” Though he’d repaid their losses, it was humiliating that he couldn’t explain why the man might be robbing them, not without raising questions he refused to answer.

  Quentin had endured five years of this, hoping Ross would eventually tire of the game. Then Ross had brazenly robbed Quentin’s own factor on his way to deposit the rents. His rents provided half his income, for God’s sake! At this rate, the man would bankrupt him. So he’d hired Sikeston, an action he already regretted.

  Entering his study, Quentin surveyed the grim faces of the men assembled there. “I told you never to come here.”

  “We had no choice,”Sikeston said. “We’re fleeing for our lives.”

  That took him aback. “From whom?”

  “Sir Lachlan’s clansmen. They’ve been dogging us since we left Rosscraig.”

  Ross’s estate. Damn. He should never have told them who he thought the Scourge really was. “You were supposed to catch him in the act and beat some sense into him so he’d stop this nonsense. Not waylay him among his own people.”

  “We tried, damn it!”Sikeston cried. “But he didn’t take the bait, no matter how much of your gold we spent or how many inns we went to, bragging of being your friends on holiday.”

  “We think he has an accomplice,” another man put in. “Someone in London who knows your friends and tells him who to attack and when.”

  “Or else he’s canny enough not to fall for fools pretending to be gentlemen,” Quentin snapped. He should have hired more sophisticated men, but how was he to find them? He’d had enough trouble finding these.

  “We didn’t have an easy time at his estate, neither. His clansmen don’t seem to know that their chief is the Scourge,”Sikeston said. “They worship the man and will go to the death for him. We couldn’t even discover where he spends his nights, though it’s not at Rosscraig. He’s like a wraith, slipping in and out of that estate, always surrounded by his men—”

  “That’s why I haven’t gone to the authorities. His clan would close ranks about him.” No matter how convinced Quentin was that Ross was the Scourge, proving it wouldn’t be easy. With Ross being Quentin’s neighbor, the authorities would assume their quarrel stemmed from a property dispute. And if anyone started investigating and discovered the truth…

  He shuddered. “So you couldn’t lure him out.”

  “We did,”Sikeston put in. “But only by blackmailing a clansman to find out where he’d be. Then everything went to hell once we caught up with him.”

  Quentin glowered at him. “Because he set his clan on you?”

  “No. We gave him the beating like you paid us to do.”Sikeston exchanged an uneasy glance with his men. “But…um…well—”

  “Spit it out, man, for God’s sake!” Quentin snapped.

  “We killed him, my lord. Sir Lachlan Ross is dead.”

  It took a moment for the words to register. Then Quentin felt the room sway around him. Surely he couldn’t have heard right. “You killed him?”

  “It wasn’t our fault,” another man said. “When we jumped him on the bridge, he was armed with a knife. If Johnny here hadn’t laid a cudgel to his head—”

  “A cudgel!” Quentin thrust his face in Sikeston ’s. “I told you I only wanted him roughed up a bit!”

  Sikeston glared at him. “Indeed you did, my lord, but you weren’t there. Ross is built like an ox and fights like one, too. He also used to be a soldier, something you forgot to mention when you hired us.”

  Quentin had been afraid they would refuse the job if he told them. Biting back an oath, he stared at Sikeston . “So the blow killed him, did it?”

  “If it didn’t, then the water did. After the man was struck, he fell over the rail and into the loch.”Sikeston’s lips thinned. “He never even came up for air.”

  A chill chased up Quentin’s spine. “And his body?”

  “His clansmen were nearby, so we dared not stay to see if it was found, but he couldn’t have survived. He was unconscious when he hit the water.”

  Quentin sank into a chair, overwhelmed at the thought of what his actions had wrought. The rogues had committed murder. In his name. For God’s sake, Ross had a mother who depended on him, and a clan that needed him…

  “I take it that his clansmen found out that you killed their laird,” he said hoarsely. “And now you’ve led them right to me.”

  “No, my lord. We were careful not to be followed here, but we must leave London before they find us. So we’ll need the rest of the money you owe us.”

  Quentin scowled. It went against his grain to pay the rogues after they’d committed murder, but he had no choice. One word to the Ross clan about who’d been behind their laird’s death, and he was good as dead.

  But at least the feud was ended. Quentin had kept his sordid family secrets, and Ross had carried whatever knowledge he had of the truth to his grave.

  The Scourge would torment him no more.

  Chapter One

  Edinburgh

  August 20, 1822

  Dear Cousin,

  I worry about Venetia’s trip to Scotland . Yes, I know what the papers reported—that the Scottish Scourge was killed three months ago in a fight with Sir Lachlan Ross that left both men dead. Still, considering the Scourge’s mysterious grievance against the earl, I’d feel easier if someone could produce the villain’s body.

  Your anxious relation,

  Charlotte

  Mama would have loved this,”Venetia said wistfully to her aunt, Maggie Douglas, the Viscountess Kerr. They stood in line waiting to be announced at the True Highlander Celtic Society’s masquerade ball, now near enough to hear bagpipes skirling from inside the Edinburgh Assembly Rooms. “Don’t you just adore the tartans and strathspeys and costumes and—”

  “—packed streets and wretched food and ghastly accommodations?” Aunt Maggie rolled her green eyes, the same shade as her niece’s. “Not a bit. Unlike you—and my sister, when she was alive—I prefer the comforts of London . Why, I haven’t had a wink of sleep since we arrived.”

  “So the snoring I hear nightly comes from our baggage?”Venetia teased.

  “Mind your tongue, or I’ll make you take the lumpy side of the mattress.”

  Venetia laughed. “Forgive me. You’ve been very good to put up with it.”

  Their lodgings truly were awful, but they’d been lucky even to find them. Every spare bedroom, garret, and cellar had been spoken for by the hordes that had descended upon Edinburgh to witness the first visit of a reigning English monarch to Scotland in nearly two centuries.

  But Venetia didn’t mind their miserable inn room. She’d waited sixteen years to return to Scotland, and she wouldn’t let a flat pillow and a lumpy mattress—or a grousing chaperon—dampen her pleasure.

  Venetia squeezed her aunt’s hand as the line moved forward. “You can’t know how much I appreciate your accompanying me. Otherwise, I would never have convinced Papa to let me come.”

  “I’m rather shocked that you did. However did you manage it?”

  “Oh, Papa is easy enough to handle. I only had to make one tiny promise.”

  “And what was that?”

  She cast her aunt a game smile. “To accept a proposal of marriage in the next year.”

  “That isn’t exactly a tiny promise, my dear. And who is the lucky fellow?”

  “Lord, I don’t know. Anyone I can endure, I suppose.” And anyone passing the inspection of Mrs. Charlotte Harris and the mysterious Cousin Michael, who routinely provided information about men in society to Venetia’s schoolmistress.

  “Papa worries I’ll never find a husband,”Venetia explained. In truth, she’d begun to worry the same thing.

  “A lady like you will always have pr
oposals,” her aunt said with a dismissive wave of her jeweled fingers.

  “It’s not a dearth of proposals that worries him. It’s my lack of interest in any of them.” She’d promised her mother never to marry any man who didn’t rouse her senses, whatever that meant. When Mama had elicited the promise, she hadn’t said it was because of Papa, but Venetia often wondered…

  “So have you any particular men in mind?” her aunt asked.

  She blew out a long breath. “No, but I hope to find someone in Scotland, away from the fortune hunters and dull-witted English lords. I want a Scottish laird with a venerable old name, who lives and breathes the Highlands —”

  “Like the fellows in those ballads you love to collect, I suppose.”

  Her aunt’s contempt was plain. “Why not?”Venetia said defensively. “Why shouldn’t I have a Duncan Graeme or a Highland Laddie who’ll carry me off to his manor in the Highlands to live in connubial bliss?”

  “Because you’re about as Scottish as the Queen of England, my dear.”

  “That’s not true!” she said, thoroughly insulted.

  “You’ve got too many fine manners and too much English deportment for a country that thinks a good evening’s entertainment is a jar of whisky and a rough brawl. You wouldn’t last one day with a ‘Highland Laddie’ before you wanted to hit him over the head with the jar.”

  That might be the case, but she didn’t feel any more comfortable in England . When she lost her temper, people called her “that Scottish termagant.” Too much reserve, and they said she was a “haughty Scot.” And when Papa fell into his heavy brogue, she always had to interpret it for others. As if he were foreign, for pity’s sake!

  Then there was the insidiously superior manner of the English toward their “lesser” Scottish subjects, which even Aunt Maggie had adopted after her years married to an Englishman. She scowled at her aunt, who didn’t even notice.

  “You’re certainly wearing the right costume for catching your ballad hero husband.” Aunt Maggie lifted her white silk mask to survey Venetia’s gown of simple worsted. “Highlanders practically worship Flora MacDonald.”