Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free Page B

aproned innkeeper who came eagerly out to introduce himself.
    “Yes, sir. And how long will you be staying, sir?”
    Long enough to wreak havoc on my father and whoever else contributed to my mother’s grief and suffering .
    But to the shiny-pated fellow he only said, “A week. Maybe longer.”
    “Very good, sir. Very good.” The man led the way to the register. “And what name shall I record here, sir?”
    “Marsh…Marshall MacDougal.”
    “MacDougal.” The man stared at him a moment. “MacDougal.”
    Marsh’s gaze narrowed. Did the man know the name? Did he know the family?
    “Is that spelled ou or uo ?”
    Marsh’s even expression hid any sign of disappointment. “It’s ou , and only one l .” He took the key the man handed him. “Tell me, Mr. Halbrecht, are there any sights hereabouts I should take in? Or perhaps particular social gatherings I ought to seek out?”
    The man gave him a quick assessing look and glanced over at Duff, who was unloading the carriage. Apparently satisfied that this customer was a gentleman and kept a manservant, he said, “We have our own subscription hall with dances every Friday. It’s not yet huntin’ season, but there’s prime fishin’ in the Tweed. Course if you want to venture off the bridge, you’ll have to apply to the stewards at the big houses. Mostly they make free with fishing along their shores. At Woodford Court they’s only particular about the stretch right along the house.”
    “And the other estates?”
    “They’s only one other close around here. It’s upstream a mile or so. Byrde Manor. Though it’s not nearly so grand as Woodford…”
    Byrde Manor! The words echoed in Marsh’s head, drowning out the rest of the man’s remarks. There was an estate called Byrde Manor. Had he this easily found the seat of his father’s family? But what else could it be? Though his heart thudded with excitement, he somehow forced himself to remain calm.
    “So you suggest I apply to the house for permission to fish their portion of the Tweed?”
    The innkeeper shrugged. “’Tis not strictly a necessity. Howsomever, I’m sure they would appreciate it.”
    No. Marsh didn’t think they would appreciate it at all, not once his true identity was revealed. But for now he would court the Byrde family’s approval and acceptance.
    He thanked the man and turned for the stairs, patting the pocket of his riding coat that held the three letters Cameron Byrde had sent to Maureen MacDougal. His time in London had been a waste, but after only ten minutes in Kelso he might have located his father’s lair, or at least have discovered a strong lead in that direction.
    But was the man in residence at Byrde Manor?
    He hesitated at the base of the stairs. Surely the innkeeper would know. But was it wise to reveal his hand so soon? In a town like this, gossip about a stranger was sure to spread quickly.
    Fortunately, when he looked back, the innkeeper attached another meaning to his pause. “If you haven’t any of your own, I’ve all the fishing tackle you need, Mr. MacDougal. You came to the right place, that’s for certain.” He smiled helpfully. “You just let me know if I can be of any assistance to you. Any assistance at all.”
    Marsh only nodded. No use to look too eager. Besides, he would know the truth soon enough. By this time tomorrow he might very well have come face-to-face with his father. Until then he needed to think on what he meant to say to the man, how he intended to behave.
    Rage rose unbidden in his chest, as thick and choking as it had been when first he’d learned the truth of his parents’ history. The confrontation was coming. He could sense it in every fiber of his being. But he had to be ready. He had to be in control.
    Then God help Cameron Byrde, for his unwanted son meant to crucify him.
     
    Sarah did not know whether to weep in frustration or shout with joy.
    “They all went up to Glasgow,” Mrs. Tillotson, the housekeeper at Woodford