For The Love Of My Scotsman (Complete!)

A Proper Murder...

18 December 1813, Durham, England

It's not every day that a young lady of good social standing finds a dead body.

Lottie chewed on her thumbnail as she walked along the beach, her mind racing. She recalled the altercation she had had with Mr. Farraday the night before and the way he had threatened her. How did he know? Did he actually have any evidence?

"I protected myself. How could that be so wrong? Why must I pay for the selfishness of a man who caused his own doom?" Lottie muttered. In her other hand, she clutched her little notebook of inventions so hard that the leather binding creaked. Only the night before, she had held a knife in that shaky hand, pointing it at Mr. Farraday. "There has to be a way to stop him—"

Her toe collided with something firm and she tripped forward onto the wet sand.

"Blast these skirts!" she spat out a mouthful of gritty sand and laughed ruefully at herself. Her adopted mother, the Countess of Durham, would likely faint at her foul language.

Lottie rolled over and sat up to brush off the fine blue linen of her skirts. They were already muddy and wet from the hour's walk from Lampton Castle, traipsing through the freshly fallen snow.

Then she spotted what had tripped her. Or rather, who had tripped her.

"M-mr. Farraday?" Lottie asked, touching his shoulder. "Are you alright . . .?" He was awfully pale, and his clothes were soaked, the rising tide lapping at the shredded remains of his grey coat fanned out around him on the sand. A dark red splotch stained his chest around a long, narrow cut.

Dread pooled in her gut and she scrambled backward with a scream. "Help! Somebody, help!"

But she was alone on the beach, and as her shock at the sight of a dead body drained away, a new thought made her stop shouting for help.

Someone had killed Mr. Farraday before she could.

But did that mean her secret had gone with him to the grave?

***
Two days earlier...

Lottie Atwell had two dreams in life: establish herself as an inventor and obtain a love-filled marriage. Since there were few men who could tolerate the former, she had resigned herself to give up on the latter.

Of course, there were other reasons she had given up any hope of finding a doting husband. Being betrayed by the man she fancied herself in love with and being kidnapped by the French—twice— had entirely soured her opinion of men. 

Lottie carefully sidestepped the over-eager hands of her dance partner and forced a genteel smile. "Thank you, sir, but I confess that I am quite tired from the last two reels." The country ball hosted by one of the local gentlemen of Durham, a Mr. Brighton, was quite different from the balls in London and Bath that she had attended. The men were much more careless with their manners here and tended to hold onto the ladies a little longer than necessary.

Her younger self would have enjoyed the doting attention of the handsome men who flocked to her pretty looks—and her large dowery—but Lottie wasn't a little girl anymore. She had learned the hard way that the world was not to be trusted.

Although she had been raised in America, the declaration of war between Britain and America in 1812 had forced her older sister, Fidelia, to accept the help of the British Lord William Greyville to escape a French captain who had developed an obsession with Lottie.

Now, a year later, Lottie found herself trying to play the part of a ditzy debutante at ton events, the adopted daughter of the Earl and Countess of Durham.