Read The Devil Wears Tartan for Free Online

youth, for the most part. Like all young men, he’d spent several years floundering, searching for a reason, a purpose in life.
    From the moment he was conscious of his identity, he’d known that his older brother would be the heir to the title and would inherit Ambrose. That knowledge had ticked at him like an invisible clock hanging from his neck. That his brother would have been happier to be a scholar and not an earl was also something of an annoyance.
    Garrow’s path had been clear before he reached his twenties—he would need to do something, become something, or he would be a poor relation dependent on his brother Aidan’s charity for the whole of his life.
    Luckily, however, he’d stumbled upon a way to make money, and money, it had turned out, was the great equalizer.
    He no longer spent any time regretting the fact that Ambrose had been entailed to his nephew. Nor did he care, overmuch, that he’d never be the Earl of Lorne. Oh, there were times when he thought about it, but almost immediately assuaged any envy with the thoughtof what he’d accomplished. He owned two beautiful homes, one in Edinburgh and one outside London. His clipper ships were renowned for their speed, and his warehouses were stocked with anything an avid and wealthy shopper could desire.
    He slipped the leather straps of his brushes over each hand and vigorously brushed his silvery white hair. Like his brother, he had a full, thick head of hair. Unlike his brother, his health was excellent. But then he hadn’t spent years in the Egyptian desert investigating tombs and crating up mummies to bring home to Ambrose. Poor Aidan. Had he died of the cough he’d brought back from the last season? Or had he felt a stirring of human emotion toward the last, and missed his wife?
    Garrow spared a thought for dear Julianna. He missed his sister-in-law, but perhaps it was best that she was no longer alive. She wouldn’t be witness to the wreck her son had become.
    He leaned forward in the mirror and inspected his teeth. Finally he stood back and surveyed himself fully in the mirror, tucking a finger into his snug waistcoat. He was growing a little portly, and should take care to avoid his new cook’s sauces. But food, like good wine, was a reward for dedication and diligence. He had no intention of sparing himself his rewards.
    Perhaps he should give some thought to his own nuptials. For years he’d never considered marriage, being too occupied with his own future. But now that that was settled, and he was comfortably wealthy, perhaps he should begin to think seriously of sharing his remaining years with a wife.
    He moved to the desk and opened the top right-hand drawer, extracting a file that had come to him that very night, the messenger being unobserved in the general merriment in the dining hall. He knew exactly what the letter and the papers within the file would contain, but he read them again, just to make certain. His smile broadened as he scrawled his name to the bottom of the letter and added a sentence of instructions. The Hawthorne Rose would sail within the week, and when her voyage was done, he’d be even wealthier than before.
    He put the file in the desk, sealed the letter, and inserted it in the leather pouch. Tomorrow the same messenger, who was tucked away in one of the servants’ rooms, no doubt with a bottle of wine and a willing maid, would return to Perth.
    He was not a man who enjoyed irony. All the same, Garrow couldn’t help but be amused at the incongruity of these circumstances. His fortune, immense as it was, had begun due to opium, looked upon in some circles as necessary and in others as morally corrupting. Yet that same substance was probably the cause of Marshall’s insanity.
     
    Night had fallen, softly draping Ambrose in shadows. Here and there pockets of light and bursts of laughter reminded Marshall that his home was filled with strangers. But while his guests were still entertaining themselves, they