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Bride by Blackmail

By Debbie Lynne Costello

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Charleston, South Carolina, 1880
Charlotte Jackson maneuvered through the crush of partygoers with her sister, Nellie, latched on her arm. Having weaved through the archway, the two stepped into a spacious great hall where white walls shimmered beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers. Charlotte scanned the room for Frank as Nellie released her arm.
The room overflowed with small groups of mingling people, adding to the heat of the October day. Charlotte let out a sigh. The humidity was sure to frizz her hair and make her look like a wire-haired terrier.
She rose on tiptoes and searched the room, wishing she were taller. Dresses of every color and shade filled the room, reminding her of an array of flowers, only these didn’t give the room a smell quite so sweet as azaleas did.
“Do you see him?” Nellie turned her head in the direction of Charlotte’s search.
“No.” Her gaze swept across the room once again. “Oh! There he is.”
As if he’d heard her, Frank Sorrell turned dark eyes her way. She loved the way his black hair brushed his collar, which pushed it into the slightest curl. The full mustache he sported dropped down below the corners of his lips and covered sun-kissed skin. She glided toward him.
Frank scowled. Her heart hiccupped before plunging to her stomach and forcing her feet to a halt.
Nellie, following close behind, bumped into her. “Is something wrong?”
“I-I don’t know.”
♥♥♥
In Duncan Mackenzie’s book, Frank Sorrell was a scoundrel of the lowest kind. How dare the man snub the lass? He wished he hadn’t seen the pain that flickered across Miss Jackson’s face, for it went straight to his heart. A woman as fine as Charlotte Jackson deserved much better than that skellum. As a spy for Scotland, Duncan prided himself on reading people—and Frank Sorrell was an open book.
The stringed quartet finished their first set as a young man claimed Charlotte’s sister and the two headed off toward the veranda and away from the crowded room. Duncan grinned and proceeded toward Charlotte.
“’Tis guid to see you, Miss Jackson.” He exaggerated his bow.
Miss Jackson glanced in the direction of Sorrell. “Hello, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“Please tell me you’ve saved a dance for me.” He gave her his most charming smile.
A rosy hue filled her cheeks. “Apparently I have.”
Duncan grasped the card she held out to him and opened it. Not a single name was listed. He scrawled his name beside two of the waltzes, pleased to see the absence of Sorrell’s name. The man’s intimidation might have caused the younger bucks to steer clear of her, but it didn’t bother him—no ring graced Miss Jackson’s finger. And if one was going to be there, he might just make it his.
“Your sister seems to have disappeared.”
Miss Jackson glanced toward the open terrace. “She went outside to get a breath of fresh air.”
“I can stay with you while you await her return.”
Her lips turned up, but disappointment painted her eyes. “It isn’t necessary, sir.”
“’Twould be an honor, and some say I’m even guid company.” He smiled.
She shot another quick glance toward Sorrell. “You are kind.”
“You look beautiful tonight.”
Miss Jackson glanced down at the blue gown, her fingers skimming over the gathers. She peered in the direction of Sorrell again, then returned her attention to Duncan. Mischief sparkled in her eyes. She leaned toward him as if to conspire. “I had to sneak out of the house with it. Mama tells me it is time to hand it down to my sister.”
Duncan chuckled. “’Twas a bonnie choice. The color becomes you.” Och, this woman delighted him.
The dancers weaved in and out, playing their part in the reel. The younger Miss Jackson returned to her sister’s side. Duncan excused himself, promising to return for his dances.
Spotting Tavis Dalzell standing near the refreshment tables, Duncan sauntered toward his good friend as the song ended. Sorrell stepped into his path, blocking his way.
“I’m sure you found the coquette’s dance card empty. I haven’t seen any other man approach her.” Sorrell’s shrill laugh grated on Duncan’s nerves. “Charlotte’s in love with me, you know,” Sorrell continued. “She’s probably pining away, waiting for me to sign my name beside all the sets.”
The ladies that Sorrell left moments earlier stood only a few steps away, tittering. Sorrell glanced their way and smirked before returning his attention to Duncan. He lowered his voice. “When I catch a bigger fish, I’ll be happy to throw Charlotte to you. You, being a ship merchant, understand, don’t you, Scotty?” The man snickered.
Duncan flexed his hands into fists, fighting the urge to cause the man as much pain as he’d seen flicker across Miss Jackson’s face earlier. Instead, he straightened to his full height and glowered. “You dinna deserve a lass as fine as Miss Jackson. And for future reference, my name is no’ Scotty. You’d do well to remember that.” He turned on his heel and strode away before his impulse to hurt the man overcame him.
Duncan had seen too many of Sorrell’s crooked dealings in the months he’d been in the States to hold any respect for the man. Sorrell was an opportunist whose latest venture was an investment of substandard building equipment. Perhaps his scheme left him out of money and needing to marry a wealthy lass. Duncan ground his teeth. It would be the bonnie Miss Jackson over Duncan’s dead body.
Releasing the tension in his balled-up fists, he continued over to Tavis as a plan shaped in his mind.
Tavis slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Duncan.”
“Weel, ’tis guid to see you.” He’d known Tavis since they were boys, before they’d both ended up in the States. “I need a guid friend to keep me oot of trouble.”
“Och! I’m good at that, as we both know. I kept us out of the woodshed as lads.”
Duncan rubbed his hand along the side of his clean-shaven face. “’Tis no’ the way I remember it. As I recall, you caused us a few lashings with sticks from that woodshed. My backside stings just thinking aboot it.”
Tavis raised his blond brows. “Just toughening you up, ole friend.”
“Aye. That it did.” Duncan snatched a rose from an arrangement on a nearby table and breathed in its sweet scent before tucking it into his lapel. “I have a favor to ask of you. I’m on a mission to help a damsel in distress.”
Tavis grinned. “I’m always willing to play the gallant hero. And who is the lucky lady?”
Duncan took in his braw friend, with his blond hair, broad shoulders, and startling blue eyes—a man who could garner any woman’s attention. He shrugged. Tavis would never steal his woman.
“I’d like you to ask Miss Jackson for a couple of dances.”
Tavis rubbed his chin thoughtfully, sweeping the room with his gaze. “Which Miss Jackson?”
Duncan’s mind drifted. What was he thinking? His woman? He came to America for one reason, and that reason did not include Miss Jackson. His mission—find a murderer, a traitor to Britain, then return to his beloved Scotland with the traitor. He just wished to help the lass out, he reminded himself.
Tavis’s attention on Miss Jackson surely would knock down Frank Sorrel’s high opinion of himself. He chuckled and punched his old pal on the shoulder.
Tavis rubbed his shoulder and swept the room with his gaze. “Miss Nellie Jackson?”
Duncan glanced at Miss Charlotte. Medium ash blonde curls cascaded in waves about her face. How long would her hair be if not pulled up in back? Deep brown eyes heavy with thick lashes and distress made him wish he could bear her burden. Och! She was bonnie.
“Duncan!” Tavis’s voice brought him from his reverie.
Duncan turned back to his friend. “Miss Charlotte Jackson.”
“Isn’t she Frank’s lass?”
“Not for long.”
“You know I’m always ready to help you out.” Tavis gave him a rakish smile and headed in the lady’s direction, not giving Duncan time to change his mind.
Suddenly he wasn’t so sure that had been a good idea after all. Tavis stopped in front of Charlotte and started working his charm on her. A smile lit her lips. Duncan had to remind himself that he trusted his friend even if they had liked some of the same lasses growing up. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He needed to focus on his mission, which was finding a traitor, not winning a lass.
Getting his mind off Tavis, he moved on to explore the rest of the room. He spotted a young lad nearly a foot shorter than himself. Before striding to him, he took in the man’s measure and deduced he was shy and unsure of himself. He gave him a slap on the back. “What’s your name, lad?”
The boy had barely sprouted whiskers on his chin. Looking up at Duncan’s height, the boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ch-Charles. C-Cook.”
“Charles Cook, I have a favor to ask of you. I’d like you to go sign your name on Miss Charlotte Jackson’s dance card.”
Young Charles shuffled his feet and glanced down. “I don’t much care for dancing, sir. And if I did, I’m sure it wouldn’t be with her. I value my life.”
“You need no’ fear Frank Sorrell.” Realizing this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought, Duncan threw back his shoulders so the young lad would not want to tell him no.
“That would be e-easy for you to say, sir. No disrespect intended.”
“None taken.” Good thing he had brought some money. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out one dollar, not quite a day’s wage. Easy enough money for a dance. “Maybe this will give you the courage.”
The lad’s chin wobbled before any words came out. “I don’t think so. I won’t live long enough to spen—”
Duncan pushed the bill in the lad’s hand and nudged him forward. “Go on. I’ll see Sorrell doesn’t give you any problems.”
Charles took several steps and stopped before glancing back over his shoulder. Duncan drew his brows down and crossed his arms in front of his six-foot-three frame. “Is the lass no’ to your liking?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir!”
“Guid. Then make that two dances and be sure you keep this to yourself.” He disliked resorting to intimidation, but it had worked for Sorrell. And this was a greater cause. He’d free Miss Jackson of the scoundrel.
Charles swung back around and sped toward Miss Jackson.
Duncan hurried on to the next target. He patted the pocket that held the remaining bills and hoped all the young men didn’t require as much persuasion. Perhaps some assurance that Sorrell wouldn’t bother them would suffice. The lass was bonnie enough for most to risk the threat of trouble, although her intelligence and wit might have scared a few off.
Making his way around the room, he picked the young men he felt sure wouldn’t catch the eye of Miss Jackson, all the while refusing to ask himself why it mattered. When he’d finished his mission, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, folded his arms, and grinned as the young men swarmed around her. Yes, this should definitely make ole Frankie Boy angry.
A twinge of guilt struck him, remembering the fear on several of the young men’s faces when they’d realized they would make either him or Sorrell unhappy. One even opted to leave the ball. But Duncan reminded himself it was all for a good cause.

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