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  “Was he blackmailing you, Moira?”

  The gentle words filled Moira’s heart with such longing that tears filled her eyes. If only she could tell Robert, explain things, lean on him, trust him. But she already knew the cost of trust—and she couldn’t take the risk.

  She pulled her wrist from Robert’s grasp, turning away to swipe the tears from her eyes. “Don’t be foolish. . . . I don’t know anything about your precious onyx box. If I did, do you think I’d be here?”

  A flicker of something crossed his face—was it disappointment?

  He shrugged. “You must have thought it might be here, or you’d never have come.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t believe you . . . Mrs. MacJames.” He almost spit the name.

  “You don’t like it? MacJames is a time-honored name that—”

  “I doubt you know your real name anymore, but I do. It’s Moira MacAllister—Hurst.”

  “An entertaining romantic battle of wits . . .

  [a] humor-rich historical.”

  —Chicago Tribune on Scandal in Scotland

  Praise for

  The Hurst Amulet Series

  “Known for her quick-moving, humorous, and poignant stories, Hawkins begins the Hurst Amulet series with a keeper. Readers will be delighted by the perfect pacing, the humorous dialogue, and the sizzling sensual romance.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “A lively romp, the perfect beginning to [Hawkins’s] new series.”

  —Booklist

  “Couldn’t put it down. . . . Ms. Hawkins is one of the most talented historical romance writers out there.”

  —Romance Junkies (5 stars)

  “Charming and witty.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An adventurous romance filled with laughter, passion, and emotion . . . mystery, threats, and plenty of sexual tension, plus an engaging premise which will keep you thoroughly entertained during each highly captivating scene. . . . One Night in Scotland holds your attention from beginning to end. . . . ”

  —Single Titles

  “With its creative writing, interesting characters, and well-crafted situations and dialogue, One Night in Scotland is an excellent read. Be assured it lives up to all the virtues one has learned to expect from this talented writer.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  The MacLean Curse Series

  “Delightfully humorous, poignant, and highly satisfying novels: that’s what Hawkins always delivers.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A delicious flirtation. . . . Humor, folklore, and sizzling love scenes lend [Much Ado About Marriage] the perfect incentive for not wanting to put it down.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief (Florida)

  “The Laird Who Loved Me is delightful in every way.”

  —Reader To Reader

  “Fast, sensual, and brilliant. . . . To Catch a Highlander is romance at its best!”

  —Romance and More

  “How to Abduct a Highland Lord is laced with passion and drama, and with its wonderfully romantic and thrilling ending, it’s a story you don’t want to miss!”

  —JoyfullyReviewed

  and Karen Hawkins

  “Always funny and sexy, a Karen Hawkins book is a sure delight!”

  —bestselling author Victoria Alexander

  “Karen Hawkins writes fast, fun, and sexy stories that are a perfect read for a rainy day, a sunny day, or any day at all!”

  —bestselling author Christina Dodd

  “Karen Hawkins will make you laugh and touch your heart.”

  —bestselling author Rachel Gibson

  All the titles in the Hurst Amulet series and

  The MacLean Curse series are also available as eBooks

  ALSO BY KAREN HAWKINS

  THE HURST AMULET SERIES

  One Night in Scotland

  Scandal in Scotland

  THE MACLEAN CURSE SERIES

  How to Abduct a Highland Lord

  To Scotland, With Love

  To Catch a Highlander

  Sleepless in Scotland

  The Laird Who Loved Me

  CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  Talk of the Town

  Lois Lane Tells All

  OTHER

  Much Ado About Marriage

  Available from Pocket Books

  Pocket Books

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  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 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 © 2011 by Karen Hawkins

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition November 2011

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

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Cover illustration by Alan Ayers, hand lettering by Ron Zinn

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7594-1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7602-3 (ebook)

  For my husband, aka Hot Cop, who knows me well

  and loves me still.

  You are the heart of my heart.

  Dear Reader,

  In this book, there is a reference to a woman named Princess Caraboo who was one of the most notable shysters throughout history. In 1817, she managed to convince many people—some of them quite high in society—that she was a lost princess from an exotic land who’d been kidnapped by pirates. According to “Princess Caraboo,” a title given to her by her avid supporters and an even more eager press, after weeks of imprisonment, she’d escaped the pirates’ evil clutches by jumping overboard and swimming to shore, where she was found wandering through the parish of Almondsbury, near Bristol.

  There’s not enough room on this page to give the details of her entire deceit, but suffice it to say that she was not a princess, nor had she ever been kidnapped from an exotic land by pirates. The impostor’s real name was Mary Willcocks Baker, and she was the daughter of a very poor family and had spent most of her life wandering from job to job and practicing the art of deception.

  If you want to read more about the outrageous Princess Caraboo (and I encourage you to do so), look online for Caraboo: A Narrative of a Singular Imposition by John Matthew Gutch. Written in 1817, it gives a detailed account of how she came to be the darling of society, and how her deceit was unmasked.

  I hope you enjoy learning about Princess Caraboo as much as I did. She’s a fascinating creature in the footnotes of history.

  All best,

  Karen

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4


  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  A letter dated two weeks ago from Mary Hurst to her brother Michael.

  The Hurst men are scattered to the winds. You’re being held by a horrid sulfi who won’t release you until we deliver the mysterious onyx box you purchased, which he fancies; William is braving the seas on his way to attempt to free you; and Robert is—(A large ink blot mars this portion of the letter.)

  To be honest, we don’t know where Robert is. The last we heard, he was chasing a beautiful redhead through the wilds of Scotland in an attempt to unravel a mystery.

  Oddly enough, of the three of you, I’m most worried about Robert.

  Bonnyrigg, Scotland

  July 16, 1822

  Mr. Bancroft stepped onto the wide stone terrace and sighed at the thick mist that swirled about the trees and low lake. “Scotland!” he puffed out in disgust as he bent to wipe fat droplets of water from his shoes yet again with a handkerchief already limp from the damp air. “Who on earth would wish to live in a climate like this?”

  Sighing, he reached into his pocket for a cigar, imagining the blessed warmth about to envelop him. He pulled out the cigar and frowned at the feel of it. “It’s damp! Damn this sodden, wet, thick-misted, sopping mess of a—”

  “Softly, my dear Bancroft.”

  The banker spun in surprise. “Mr. Hurst! Why—I—I—” The banker cast a glance at the house. “You’re a bit early. The sale doesn’t begin until this afternoon, and we’re not yet ready—”

  “Let me guess. Things aren’t yet displayed, some aren’t even unpacked, the cases aren’t yet lit, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” Robert Hurst hung a silver-topped cane over his arm and removed his gloves. “Am I correct?”

  Mr. Bancroft nodded, silently admiring Hurst’s perfectly fitted overcoat. It made Bancroft uneasily aware of his own inexpensive, ill-fitting coat.

  Hurst leisurely withdrew his monocle from his left breast pocket and viewed the house that rose behind them from the mist. “So this is the famed MacDonald House. A pity it’s not for sale, too.”

  “The new viscount would have sold it if it hadn’t been encumbered. As it is, he will have to be content with selling the contents.” Bancroft sent a sly look at Hurst. “I’m not surprised to find you here, sir. There are many interesting artifacts from ancient Greece, Egypt, Mesopotamia—”

  “I know exactly what’s to be sold,” Hurst said drily, his dark blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “I received your letter last week and you were quite thorough in your catalogue, which I greatly appreciated.”

  Bancroft chuckled. “I shouldn’t have given you such an advantage, but we’ve worked together so often that I felt it only fair.”

  “I am honored,” Mr. Hurst said gravely, swinging his monocle to and fro from one finger. “Just as the Earl of Erroll was honored to receive his copy of the exact same letter.”

  Bancroft’s smile froze in place. “M-my lord?”

  “And Lord Kildrew, Mr. Bartholomew, and God knows how many others.”

  “Oh. I didn’t—That is to say, I never meant anyone to think—”

  “Please, there’s no need to explain things to me,” Hurst said in a soothing tone. “You only wished to ensure a good number of bidders, which will be difficult in this godforsaken part of the country. Scotland is so . . . Scottish.”

  The banker gave a relieved chuckle. “Yes! That’s it, exactly!” Feeling a sudden warmth at his visitor’s understanding air, Bancroft placed his hand on Mr. Hurst’s arm. “I promise you that if I’d had my way, I would have only notified you, sir.”

  Mr. Hurst raised his monocle and eyed the hand upon his arm.

  Face aflame, Bancroft quickly removed it.

  “Just so.” Mr. Hurst lowered his monocle and tapped it gently on his palm. “It’s a pity your letter came to the attention of so many. While I didn’t allow such an egregious error to discourage me from attending, others weren’t so unaffected.”

  Mr. Bancroft tried not to look as crestfallen as he felt. “Indeed, sir?”

  “My new brother- in- law, the Earl of Erroll, was adamant that he had better things to do than attend.”

  “Oh. Oh, no.”

  “Yes, indeed. Lord Yeltstome swore he’d never come to another of your auctions unless dragged there by wild horses, which I thought quite overstated.”

  Mr. Bancroft pulled out his damp handkerchief and wiped his even damper brow.

  “Kildrew, Bartholomew, Childon, Maccomb, Southerland—all said similar things. I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “Thank you,” Bancroft said in a faint voice.

  Mr. Hurst pursed his lips. “Now that I think on it, I may be the only buyer attending from London.”

  Mr. Bancroft cast a gloomy look at the thick fog that roiled knee- high across the lawn and now broached the terrace. He’d been at this house for two weeks and, other than two hours one glorious afternoon, had yet to see the sun. He didn’t think his spirits could handle the weight of the disappointment that surely awaited him at this afternoon’s sale. “The viscount has been relentless in demanding action, and that pressed me into acting hastily.”

  “That’s exactly what I told the others. ‘Count on it,’ I said, ‘Bancroft was forced to write those foolish letters. He would never be so devious as to trick us into thinking we were all his favorite client.’ ”

  “Of course not. At least you came, sir. I am quite content with that.”

  “I came with gold in my pocket, too.”

  Bancroft brightened. Mr. Hurst was one of the premier buyers and sellers of antiquities in all of England. It was hard to credit that the handsome, fashionably dressed man was the son of a lowly vicar, as well as being an employee of the Home Office. It was yet another example of how times had changed in the last twenty years.

  It used to be that men of fashion treated their civic obligations with disdain and one knew what to expect. Now it was almost required that every member of society have a cause, which meant that men of good breeding frequently mixed with their lessers. Certainly, twenty years ago it would have been unusual for the son of a vicar to win the label of “leader of fashion,” and yet that was a very accurate description of Mr. Robert Hurst.

  Of course, it had been rumored for years that Brummell himself had been the son of a valet. Brummell’s true origins were shrouded in mystery, as he’d had the good taste not to flaunt them. Hurst and his siblings, on the other hand, seemed quite easy admitting their humble parentage. And astonishingly, despite having little to no dowries and no connections to society, Hurst’s sisters had all married into the peerage. Of course, the Hursts were blessed with good looks and a seemingly unlimited amount of good taste, qualities often lacking in those born to the velvet.

  Bancroft cast a surreptitious glance at Mr. Hurst, whose air quite rivaled that of the banished Brummell. Hurst was perhaps a bit more approachable, which was a benefit to men like Bancroft, for Hurst could be a valuable acquaintance.

  “Mr. Hurst, I’m glad you made the trip to see the sale. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I’m prepared to be pleased.”

  “Excellent.”

  “However, the sale is not the reason I’m here today. There were actually two reasons I’m standing before you. One is that I’m looking for a specific item.”

  Bancroft perked up immediately. “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “I’m seeking a small onyx box of some antiquity. I don’t suppose you h
ave any in your warehouses in London?”

  “Not that I am aware of, but I will check my inventory the moment I return. Do you have details on the piece?”

  “I have an excellent rendering. I’ll have a copy sent to your office. Should you find the box, I assure you that I will be most generous.”

  The cold, misty day was already looking brighter. “I will be vigilant in finding your object. In the meantime, I hope you’ll find some equally interesting objects at this sale. The late viscount was quite the collector.”

  “So I’ve heard. I saw him at many auctions, but I was never quite sure what he was attempting to collect. At one auction, he purchased a very boring Gilpin, and then a French silver set at the next. It will surprise me if there’s anything I might wish to buy.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be happy with some of the artifacts. If it will convince you of their quality, I’ll allow you a quick look at the items. My assistant is even now putting them on display.”

  Hurst’s gaze warmed. “Ah, yes. Miss MacJames, isn’t it?”

  “Mrs. MacJames,” Bancroft said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. “She’s worked with me for only a week, but she’s very knowledgeable.”

  “Ah. I will take a look at those artifacts, thank you. Mrs. MacJames can assist me if I have any questions while you stay here and enjoy a cigar. I insist you try one of mine, from America. It’s the finest tobacco to be had.” Hurst flicked back a lace cuff, reached into his coat, and withdrew a small silver case. He snapped it open, removed a tobacco leaf, then handed a perfectly rolled cigar to Bancroft, its fragrant aroma tickling the banker’s nose. “The loose leaf keeps the moisture in the case at the proper level.”

  The banker sniffed the cigar and rolled it between his fingers, sighing with pleasure. “I don’t normally smoke while working, but it’s so blasted cold here.”

  “I completely understand.” Hurst returned the case to his coat and then touched his hat brim. “Enjoy your cigar. I shall return shortly.”

  “Please take your time! I’ll just wait here and—” But Hurst had already crossed the terrace and entered the house, the door clicking closed behind him. It wasn’t until Bancroft had almost finished the cigar that he realized that Hurst hadn’t shared the second reason he’d made the trip from London.