Read The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae for Free Online Page B

not.” He paused, then went on, “I’d assumed I’d have to slink around the ton’s fringes to track you, but when I reappeared in London a week ago, I discovered the ton still thinks I’m Debenham. My late father withdrew from London forty years ago. The ton has forgotten him, and the title, too. His death passed largely unnoticed down here. During the years I spent in London, I was Debenham, an English title with an estate outside Peterborough. I’d seen no reason to advertise either my Scottish background or that I was heir to an earldom—I had trouble enough beating off the matchmakers as it was. Presumably because of all the above, my succession to the earldom hasn’t registered, so as Debenham I can circulate in society, and as long as I avoid the other Scottish peers—Perth, Dumfries, all those who would recognize me as Glencrae—no one will think to connect me with the attempts to kidnap your sisters.”
    She stared at him. “Just to be clear—you are the laird? The Scottish nobleman behind these tiresome kidnappings?”
    â€œFor my sins, yes.”
    He didn’t look happy about it, yet in openly approaching her, he’d taken what seemed to her an inordinate risk. “Avoiding all Scottish peers . . . what if one of them had glimpsed you and mentioned it, and it got back to my family, as such things are wont to do? A Scottish peer of your size, coloring, and age—that’s exactly what my family have been combing the ranks for.”
    â€œLuckily for me, the majority of Scottish peers prefer Edinburgh society. If they do circulate here, it’s generally not in the same circles as the Cynsters. On top of that, most Scottish peers will by now have retired to their estates for the summer hunting. All of which left me reasonably safe hunting you here.”
    â€œWhat about Breckenridge, and Eliza and Jeremy, too? All three saw you, albeit at a distance.”
    â€œAs newly affianced couples, your sister Heather and Breckenridge, and Eliza and Jeremy Carling, are not presently gracing the ballrooms. Hoping to avoid them while tracking you was an acceptable risk.”
    â€œBut everyone in the family has heard descriptions . . .” She broke off.
    â€œPrecisely. Being tall, heavily built, and black-haired isn’t enough to raise suspicions, not when I speak without a Scottish accent and am widely known as an English viscount.”
    â€œAnd the cane.” She glanced at his left leg. “Is your injury real, or a convenient fabrication to aid your disguise?”
    He didn’t actually sigh, but she got that impression. “Nothing I’ve told you this evening has been anything other than the literal truth. My original injury was serious and long-lasting—I used a cane through all my earlier years in London. I haven’t used it for the last four years, but I recently jarred my knee, so I’ve had to resort to the cane again, at least while in society. So it’s true that I don’t waltz. But, fortuitously, having the cane only strengthened everyone’s view that I was Debenham come back.” He paused, then said, “Not even you suspected. When did you realize?”
    â€œWhen I heard your coachman’s accent.” She considered him, then said, “I have one, highly pertinent, question. Why aren’t you dead?”
    He regarded her, then frowned. “Why would anyone imagine I’d died?”
    â€œPossibly because you fell off a very high cliff when you rescued Eliza and Jeremy from Scrope.”
    His frown evaporated. “I fell onto a ledge about twenty feet down. Scrope missed it. He fell to his death, not me.” Apparently instinctively, his hand stroked down his left thigh. He noticed and stilled the hand. “It was the fall that jarred my old injury.” The black slashes of his brows drew down again. “But when only one body was found at the base