How to Train a Viscount
Table of Contents
HOW TO TRAIN A VISCOUNT
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
OTHER BOOKS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HOW TO TRAIN A VISCOUNT
Do you want to be a viscount?
Adam is shocked when his employer unexpectedly becomes a viscount, but he is more shocked when his employer is murdered. When the killer spots Adam, there's only one thing Adam can do: flee. Fortunately, he has his employer's papers with him, including a boarding ticket to England. Less fortunately, everyone is eager to introduce him as a new viscount. If Adam is going to avoid imprisonment for impersonating a nobleman, he needs to convince people he actually is one. The only problem... He doesn't know anything about being an aristocrat.
She'll make a viscount out of you.
Pretty, intelligent Lady Isla McIntyre knows everything about being an aristocrat. She was supposed to become a duchess, until her fiancé brazenly eloped with another woman. Now she has plenty of time on her hands and is eager to distract herself from her new status as an ostracized spinster.
Training Adam was supposed to be a diversion, but it was never supposed to involve her heart.
PROLOGUE
Cape Colony
1819
Had it been another day, Adam might have lingered on the veranda. He might have watched the sun shift from orange to red, and he might have sketched the animals.
Giraffes and zebras sauntered along the horizon, and the rich land of the Boland was wide and wonderful and stretched before him. The world didn’t tilt anymore, and animals ambled everywhere, unhidden by stormy waves.
Now, though, he needed to speak with Randall.
He glanced at Thabisa, confirming she was following. The last thing he desired was for his monkey to become lost on Randall’s farm. Thabisa was only a few months old.
Adam marched toward his employer. Randall crouched a few feet away, directing his rifle at an antelope and marring the peaceful landscape. Randall’s lips were drawn into a smirk, and his carefully plucked eyebrows furrowed in a rare concentration. Randall reveled in shooting, and most people would declare Adam a fool to interrupt.
“Excuse me,” Adam said.
Randall’s carefully placed rifle jerked. A shot fired, and the sound roared over the fields. The shot hit a tree, and the antelope scampered and receded into the distance. Thabisa squealed, and Adam picked her up and stroked her silvery fur to calm her.
“Blast it.” Randall swung the rifle toward Adam, and the curls of his white wig lurched. “I was going to get that antelope.”
“Naturally.” Adam gave a slight smile he hoped Randall would interpret as wonder at Randall’s hunting abilities, though it didn’t matter if Randall was unconvinced. The letter would change everything.
Adam may never have met a nobleman before, but he knew what viscount meant. Randall would join the House of Lords, have an estate and mingle with dukes and earls.
“You must read this letter.”
“Nothing could exceed that shot in importance.” Randall glowered and waved his hand, as if Adam were one of the cluster flies which hovered near windows, eager to experience light, yet lacking the bravery to venture into the world. Randall’s thick gold ring flashed underneath the bright sun.
Adam unfolded the letter. He’d already read it three times. “I shall read it aloud.”
Randall’s eyebrows rose, but plummeted rapidly, as if he’d found the effort to keep them at a higher perch exhausting. He patted beads of sweat from his forehead with a perfumed handkerchief, and Adam’s nostrils flared. But then, unlike Randall, who wore a white wig and ruffled shirts, Adam was a commoner. He cleared his throat.
Dear George Randall,
I regret to inform you that your brother, the venerable Cyril Lancaster, Viscount of Tremont, has died.
Adam raised his head. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Haven’t seen him since he left India to become viscount after our cousin died.” Randall scowled and put new ammunition into his rifle.
Your other brother, Martin Randall, succumbed in a carriage accident shortly after.
Randall jerked his head up.
I must apologize for the delay in imparting news of your siblings’ death. We struggled to locate you. Adam continued reading aloud, even though he probably could recite the letter.
You are next in line to the title and the substantial estate, including Tremont House and its grounds. I trust you will return to Britain promptly and report to our offices in Kensington. Once we establish your identity, we will give you your estate and fortune. The property will revert to the Crown if we do not hear from you.
Yours sincerely,
Richard Gilroy of Lancaster, Lancaster and Gilroy
Randall didn’t direct his rifle at another antelope. Instead, he lifted his head and stared at Adam. “Give me that.”
Adam handed him the letter, and Randall perused it. Finally, Randall raised his head. “I’m a viscount. I’m an aristocrat.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Randall corrected, though his lips were spread into an uncharacteristic beam.
“Yes, My Lord,” Adam said hastily.
“Who would have thought I’d become a viscount?” Randall’s words were filled with wonder. “To think they’re all dead. Mirabile visu.”
Adam didn’t understand Latin. Adam’s mother had taught him what she could, but Randall had been raised in India with tutors, men whose entire occupation had been to train Randall and his brothers.
“Write the man at once,” Randall instructed. “Tell him to expect me.”
“Very well, My Lord,” Adam said. “Then you’ll return to England permanently?”
“Nonsense,” Randall said. “I will arrange for the solicitor to sell the estate and give me the funds.”
“There are probably tenants on the estate,” Adam said.
“Then they must find new homes. I’ll have him sell the art and furniture. I can buy a lot of land for that kind of money. Cyril never sent me any.” He scowled, the news of his brother’s death not lessening his abhorrence. “I might even acquire some coal mines in Yorkshire. And think of the ivory I could get! Both the white and black kind.”
Adam stiffened, not succeeding in masking his revulsion.
“Book me a passage on the next ship,” Randall continued. “Bring my papers to the shipping office with some money. They’ll tell you what they need.”
“Very well,” Adam said reluctantly.
Randall narrowed his eyes. “But if you steal a penny from me, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“I won’t.”
“And tell no one,” Randall said. “Can’t trust anyone here.”
“I’ll be discreet,” Adam said.
Randall gave a smug smile. “I’m the most important person on the Cape Colony now. Think of that! Pecuniate obediunt omnia.”
Adam took Randall’s doc
uments from the desk in his office and rode into Cape Town. Black faces gazed at him warily. The British were not a more pleasant addition than the Dutch, no matter the flourish with which the British draped the red, white and blue flags of their empire over every building of significance.
He purchased a journey at a ticket office for Randall on The Princess Sapphire to Brighton. From there, Randall could travel to the solicitor’s office.
Adam then hastened from the town. The ship left tomorrow, and he’d have to pack for Randall.
The light grew dimmer as he returned to the house, and even the animals seemed to disappear, as if wary of the approaching darkness.
When he arrived, Adam led the horse to the stables and fed it. He ran a brush over the horse’s coat and then returned indoors. Banging sounded from Randall’s office, and Adam sighed. Becoming a viscount unexpectedly hadn’t bestowed a better mood on the man.
He strode toward the study. The floorboards shuddered beneath him, as if already exhausted by the hot African sun.
Later he might term it premonition.
The house was silent. Evidently, Randall had not invited a crowd of the other British in the area, so he could practice having them be subservient to him, thanks to the unexpected elevation of his position.
Adam quickened his steps anyway. He knocked on the door of Randall’s office. “I’ve purchased a ticket for your passage to England.”
There was no response.
Adam sighed and entered the study. Darkness confronted him, and his eyes struggled to adjust.
“Randall?” he called again. He remembered the man’s new title. “My Lord?”
Only silence greeted him, and Thabisa whimpered, sensing his unease. An odd metallic scent wafted through the room, perhaps coming from the breeze wafting from a window. He lit a lantern, and a golden light glowed before him.
And then he saw him.
Randall.
Just where he should be, at his desk.
But this wasn’t how he’d seen him in the past. His head hung from a sharp angle, and the man’s eyes were wide open. The sight was unnerving, but didn’t absorb his attention.
Blood.
There was blood everywhere, and it all came from Randall. A red stain sprawled over Randall’s shirt.
Adam’s stomach plunged, and bile invaded his throat. Blood wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, but there had been no battle, no war.
Yet the crimson liquid was unmistakable, and Randall’s cold stare was also unmistakable.
Adam’s heart thundered, and Thabisa hugged Adam’s leg.
Someone had killed Randall.
Randall was supposed to be alive. He was supposed to sit in his armchair, grumble at something or other, and Adam was supposed to assist him.
Adam had imagined sometimes that Randall might die, but he’d imagined it might be a misfire of one of his weapons or because of his propensity to be out on deck even when the sea was stormy and irritated sailors told him to return to his cabin.
Had one of the Boers attacked Randall? The Boers were bitter about the British arrival in the Cape Colony. The Dutch had sided with Bonaparte in the war, and when Bonaparte had lost, the British had insisted on getting this colony as part of their many spoils.
Adam pushed his hand before Randall’s face and closed his eyes. He moved toward the open window, conscious he needed to close it, lest any animals decide to make an entrance, lured by the already dead prize.
A door slammed, and Thabisa screeched. He clutched her in his arms.
Perhaps the murderer hadn’t left.
He needed a place to hide.
Now.
He lunged underneath the desk, still holding Thabisa. His heart thudded rapidly, as if attempting to expel air from his chest. Breathing became a challenging feat.
Thabisa panted, and footsteps hurried toward them.
Damnation.
A head poked down.
The head didn’t belong to a stranger. It belonged to Mr. Ware, the local magistrate.
The magistrate’s eyes widened, and Adam scrambled from his hiding place. Perhaps the magistrate had learned of the murder. No doubt a servant had already discovered him.
Tension eased from Adam’s shoulders.
Mr. Ware’s gaze darted from Adam to Randall’s body to Adam again.
Right. This probably does look suspicious.
The magistrate refrained from saying anything. He scowled, and his hand moved to the pistol at his hip.
Adam knew that movement.
“You’re making a mistake,” Adam said. “I didn’t kill him.”
Mr. Ware chuckled. “I didn’t think you did.”
Adam blinked.
And then he understood.
Mr. Ware had murdered Randall. His look of horror hadn’t been at seeing Randall’s body, but at Adam’s presence.
“Did you kill him?” Adam asked.
The magistrate’s grin widened.
Adam didn’t wait to find the answer. He grabbed Thabisa and leaped through the open window and landed on the wooden porch.
“Stop,” Ware hollered.
Adam didn’t stop. His heart raced, and he ran toward the stables, still holding Thabisa. He grabbed the horse and hopped on it. He missed his saddle and bridle instantly, but it didn’t matter. He had to get away.
They swept by the open plains, past the few animals sufficiently brave to graze as the sun set. Horse hooves thundered behind him, and he willed the sun to disappear more quickly so he might be surrounded by darkness.
Unfortunately, the sun favored slowness.
Adam urged his horse to hasten, conscious of Ware’s horse galloping behind. Finally, he entered the capital.
Normally Adam rode at a steady pace, one calculated to allow time to slow for the more languidly paced animals and carriages. Tonight he avoided his instinct toward courtesy. He wove through the traffic, wishing there were more carriages and carts on the road.
And yet...
Where could he hide? Ware was the magistrate, and Cape Town was not large.
Randall had been the only person he’d known in the Cape Colony. Adam had journeyed with Randall from India. And now, Randall was dead, and he’d seen the person who’d killed him.
Adam didn’t want to remain here.
He urged his horse toward the large ships that prepared to sail. Finally, he slowed, taking comfort in the long shadows of the ships.
If only he could leave.
Unfortunately, fares were expensive. He knew: he’d just purchased a fare for Randall. He had his mother’s ring, but ticket offices didn’t take them as currency, and Adam desired something to remember his mother.
He could ask for work on the ship, but jobs were difficult to obtain, and he had no experience sailing.
Except...
He had Randall’s ticket, and Randall wouldn’t be going anywhere. In fact, he had all of Randall’s documents.
He could be...Randall.
The idea was mad. He wasn’t a gentleman. Randall quoted Latin and wore elegant attire.
And yet...
The idea was tempting. He’d purchased the ticket on the dock, and no one on the ship would know he was an imposter.
Adam didn’t hesitate. He slid from his horse and then marched toward The Princess Sapphire. He climbed the gangway and approached a sailor.
“Sir?” the man scrutinized him.
“I have arrived early,” Adam said, summoning a self-confidence he did not feel.
“You’re one of our passengers for tomorrow?” the sailor asked.
“Indeed.” Adam hesitated, conscious he couldn’t undo his next statement. “I am Lord George Randall, Viscount of Tremont.”
CHAPTER ONE
When Isla’s brother, the Earl of McIntyre, had agreed to let her have a cottage by the sea rather than throw herself in the tumult of another season, he’d expected her to take a cottage in a quiet place.
He’d spoken favorably of Cornwall and the ce
rulean seas found off the coast of the remoter regions of Scotland, lauding them as scenic and isolated. He’d pontificated on the virtues of books and promised to send Isla the majority of the contents of their father’s library, even though Isla was much fonder of penny novels than the tomes describing insects and animals their father had collected. Isla suspected her father’s passion for books had less to do with the knowledge he might gain than the pleasant way their gilded letters appeared against the red leather bindings.
Her brother had most likely not anticipated she would settle in...Brighton.
Isolation was something of her past, not her future. She didn’t need to thrust herself into a season and have her worth defined by her ability to attract a man. She’d met all the eligible men of the ton already, and they held no interest. Spinsterhood was something to embrace, and Isla had found her cottage.
Well, technically the cottage was a terraced house. Still, the basic premise remained: it provided an excellent view of the ocean. When one looked out, one didn’t see a single other home. Of course, when one left the house, she would see plenty of homes. That was part of its charm. The charms of a cliffside cottage were finite. Even the town was surprisingly dull, but then, most likely that was because people were more content to parade along the coast, rather than host balls.
Isla followed Mr. Barrows’ assistant into the solicitor’s office and settled into a chair opposite the man’s desk.
“Lady Isla!” Mr. Barrows rose. “An unexpected pleasure.”
“Not so unexpected,” Isla reminded him. “As I mentioned in my letter, I wanted to discuss the purchase of the property in Brighton.”
“Naturally, but I expected your brother to accompany you.” Mr. Barrows lowered his pince-nez, as if a smudge on his lenses might have obscured Isla’s tall, handsome brother.
The man’s lenses were not smudged, and Wolfe was not present.
“My brother is recently married,” Isla explained. “He and his bride are traveling to the Channel Islands.”
She refrained from mentioning that Wolfe was visiting the Channel Islands to see his best friend, a man who’d happened to publicly jilt Isla, and his best friend’s new wife, a woman who seemed ignorant of every societal rule Isla had long ago mastered. She also did not mention she had not received an invitation. Some things did not need to be dwelled upon.