Chapter One
Scotland, 1797
Witches scared him.
Even at thirteen, King wasn’t afraid of much. Not the dark, not rats or spiders, not even dead bodies. He couldn’t think of anything he feared save poverty and the aforementioned witches. He could think of many things he disliked—the cold, the rain, the food at school, and Scotland in general. That entire list figured into the reason that he, George Oxley, the Marquess of Kingston, the eldest son and heir to the sixth Duke of Avebury, and one of the wealthiest persons in England, if not the world, was spending his night lying in the mud, rain sluicing over his damp and dirty cloak, and staring at the hovel just down the hill. The hovel was dark at this hour.
But that didn’t mean the witch slept. Oh, no. King wasn’t about to let his guard down.
Henry elbowed him in the side, causing King to let out a smalloof. “This will be easier than we thought, King.”
King (everyone called him King because of his title) grunted and blew out a breath, watching the puff of heat flow from his mouth out on the night air. On his left, Rory, a younger son of the Duke of Tralee, practically vibrated with energy. He was always tense as a violin string, but at a time like this, he all buthummed with anticipation. “Let’s go,” he said, his tone barely concealing his eagerness.
King didn’t move. He was the unofficial strategist tonight. Usually their pranks had no strategy, but if they had to cross a witch, King wanted to make sure he was in charge. So it was he who’d suggested they circle around to the back of the witch’s hovel, rather than come up the main road. He was the one who had pointed out that the cask of whiskey, half hidden under a burlap tarp, was located under the rear eaves of the abode. A rear attack made the most sense…and would hopefully keep them from being spotted by the old crone.
In the yard, two clotheslines, bare of garments, whipped in the wind and rain, and leaves tumbled down from the limbs of skeletal trees. Behind him, he heard several of the underlings who had accompanied them snigger. Their schoolmates wanted to watch the prank from far enough away to run if anything went wrong. Cowards, King thought, and lifted into a crouch. He gave a nod, and the three of them—King, Henry, and Rory—started down the slope toward the witch’s yard.
Henry and Rory elbowed each other and snickered. King glanced over his shoulder and threw them a cocky grin. It wouldn’t do to show any fear. He was King. He pummeled boys who showed fear, looking down his long, aristocratic nose at the sniveling cowards as they groveled for mercy. There was a hierarchy in school as in life, and King, Rory, and Henry were at the top. The problem, King thought now, as his boot sank into a mud puddle and cold, slimy water seeped inside, was that it took a lot of effort to stay at the top. He didn’t want to be out in the rain, darting into shadows, watching those clotheslines swing like ghostly jump ropes. He would have liked to be back in the dormitory, asleep under his thin covers. Who the holy hell had even thought up the idea to steal the witch’s whiskey?
It hadn’t been him. Had it?
He thought back to the whispered conversation at dinner. Someone had complained about the food. The food at St. Andrew’s Preparatory for Boys was abhorrent. Someone was always complaining about it. They’d had better food at Eton, and decent food at Harrow. King hadn’t even minded the food at Tonbridge. But he’d been expelled from Eton, Harrow, and Tonbridge, as well as half a dozen more boys’ preparatory schools. He’d met Henry at Harrow and Rory at Tonbridge. Together, the three of them had been tossed out of every respectable school in England.
Which was why they had been sent to the wilds of Scotland and a school whose headmaster had promised to keep them in line if only he was given free rein. King still bore the bruises on his arse from the headmaster’s last beating.
But the headmaster hadn’t been in the dining room that evening. That was unusual. He had given the boys the sobriquet of Misfortune’s Favorites. He said it was because anyone who met the boys suffered misfortune. Perhaps the man had some personal misfortune, because he’d been absent all through dinner. If the headmaster had been present, he might have sniffed out the plan before it had taken shape and snuffed it out. Then King could have done something like put a dead mouse in one of the teacher’s beds rather than go out in a rainstorm.
Now, he slipped under one of the trees whose scrawny limbs, all but bare of foliage this late in the fall, offered no protection from the rain. Was it his imagination, or had it started raining even harder? He wiped the water from his eyes and thought back to dinner.
“This is worse than pig swill,” one of the other boys had said. King didn’t know their names. He didn’t need to. The only boys who mattered were himself, Rory, and Henry. They were the sons of dukes and the highest-ranking lads at the school. And they didn’t let the underlings forget it.
“It’s worse than piss,” one of the underlings had said, shooting a look at Rory to see if he approved.
Rory hadn’t even noticed. He’d looked up from his bowl and narrowed his eyes. “Might be better if we had something to wash it down with.”
“Maybe some wine,” one of the underlings said.
“Not wine,” Henry said. “Whiskey.”
“I know where we can get whiskey,” King had said. “The witch up the road makes her own and sells it for a pretty profit.”
“She needs the coin to buy her potions and broomsticks.”
The rest of the underlings spoke up, each with a suggestion more ridiculous than the last. The witch and her sister were popular topics of conversation. Rory said they weren’t witches, just two old hags who lived near the school. Publicly, King agreed. Privately, he had his fears. And he should have kept his knowledge of the cask of whiskey to himself as well. As soon as he’d mentioned it, all the boys had made elaborate plans for how to steal it, and then King had dared one of the underlings to do it, and that boy had said no one was brave enough to steal from a witch, and King had said, “I am.”
“No, you’re not.” This from one of the underlings.
King had crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Is that a dare?”
The underlings had all oohed in unison and started banging on the table. “Dare! Dare! Dare!” they’d chanted. After one of the teachers had admonished them and slapped a few hands with rulers, King had said, voice low, “I’ll steal the witch’s whiskey tonight. Who’s with me?”
Of course, Henry and Rory had volunteered immediately.
Under the tree, King swore. Thishadbeen his idea. He looked at Rory and Henry then back at the half-dozen heads peering down from the slight rise in the road. Well, they couldn’t turn back now. King would rather be cursed by a witch than loseface in front of the others. Once you showed weakness, you were done for.
“That cask will be heavy,” Henry said.
“We’ll take turns,” Rory said. “Two at a time. The other watches our backs.”
