Excerpt of The Husband Hunt by Jillian Hunter

Chapter One

Devon, England

1814

Catriona Grant hoped that the rumors of Viscount Rutleigh's reputation had not been exaggerated; only a man with a tarnished reputation could overlook the life she had led.

There was a ring around the moon on the night she finally reached Rutleigh Hall. She stopped at the edge of the woods and wondered whether this was a sign that she should turn back. For most of her life, she had been chased from fine houses such as this, or else smuggled up the backstairs to the curtained bed of a dying person while her mother worked her healing charms in the candlelight.

From what she had just learned, however, the English lord who owned this estate was not known for welcoming visitors, except for the London ladies who had shared his bed in the past. Apparently, the viscount had run a bit wild in his younger years, but war had tamed him somewhat, and whatever questionable behaviors he now indulged were done so in secret.

She liked the look of his estate, though, an elegant two- story, H-shaped house of sandstone set in its own parkland. The foundations of the ancestral manor had been laid in Elizabethan times of stone quarried from the nearby moor in the deepest roots of which lived His Satanic Majesty. A few local folk believed that the influence of these accursed stones had turned the Rutleigh men into something of demons themselves, dueling, womanizing, gambling, until holy wedlock had put a damper on their dark desires. But in Devon, the devil was thought to have a hand in many things.

All this helpful information about Lord Rutleigh had been imparted to Catriona less than an hour ago over a pint of inferior ale in a local inn by no less reliable a source than the village barmaid.

"He's kindly to his sister, though," the woman had been forced to admit. "Give the devil his due -- mercy, my dear, you're not hoping to ask charity of 'im?" she had asked in alarm. "If it's work you want, I say go elsewhere. Better to work in a textile factory than to fall prey to his charms."

Catriona had straightened her slender shoulders. "I am a relative, not a charity case." Actually, it was through his lordship's brother-in-law that she claimed a fragile thread of kinship.

"You -- related to that family? Do tell."

Catriona frowned now, recalling how the barmaid had scoffed at her claim of blood relationship to the house. And what was so amusing about herself? she wanted to know. True, she hadn't made a proper toilette in several days, and her cloak was snagged with burrs and briars. And while the gown beneath might not be the height of style, not anything a young lady might admire in good society, it was of quality wool and decently tailored.

"Sir Lionel Deering is my cousin," she had said in a dignified voice.

"Sir Lionel?" There had been an awful pause during which the woman's amusement evolved into an air of pitying astonishment. "But he's been dead for almost three years, dear. Didn't anyone tell you? Sir Lionel was killed in battle."

The floor had seemed to dissolve beneath Catriona's feet. She couldn't have come all this way for nothing; she couldn't have pinned all her hopes on the generosity of a cousin who had died without her ever knowing.

"His wife is still alive, though," the barmaid had added gently, distressed by the young woman's sudden pallor. "That's Lady Deering, the sister I told you about. She has a soft heart, that one, which makes it all the stranger that the viscount is such a difficult man."

Well, it was too late for her to return to Scotland now. She had shamed her brother by running out on the party celebrating her own engagement to a widowed laird in his sixties who had five unruly children. She had also run out of funds and had no means to make the journey back. Her future had hinged on the casual invitation of her late cousin, who had said, "If you should ever need anything, come to Devon."

Now she glanced at the short, raw-boned Scotsman standing beside her, his face as seasoned as a Celtic battle shield. "What do you think?"

"I dinna feel right about this. I think they've been expecting us."

"How could they know we had arrived when they are probably unaware that I even exist?"

"Someone could have warned them," he said mysteriously. "There are those who saw us leave the castle and might remember your connection to your cousin."

"We cannot cower here in the bushes all night."

"We canna walk into a trap," he said firmly, refusing to budge.

"I am not afraid of Lord Rutleigh, Thomas. I expect he isn't nearly as bad as that barmaid exaggerated. At any rate, I am obliged now to introduce myself."

His craggy face softened. "Aye, ye were always the brave one, even from the day we found ye alone on the moor, howling yer wee heart out with the indignity of it all. A lady rescued by ruffians, ye were. Aye, blood shows."

Catriona paused. Somehow, being reminded of that day, of her preadolescent self tumbling out of a tree into a dead bramble bush and having her rough-handed uncle pluck splinters from her bum, did not give her the composure she needed to face the notorious Lord Rutleigh.

"Thomas, I would prefer simply to knock at the door and introduce myself."

"Not until I'm sure there isna a trap about to spring. Fergan's lured the dogs away."

Catriona glanced uneasily around the darkened estate. Fergan was the castle deerhound and her companion on cold lonely nights since she had found him limping on the moor years ago, as lost as she. He was a tough old dog but perhaps not a match against the well-trained mastiffs that patrolled the viscount's grounds for intruders.

"Aye," Thomas said in a low voice, "there's someone watching from the house. I tell ye, they're lying in wait. I feel it in these weary old bones. My blood is all a- tingle with anxiety."

"Not to mention several pints of ale," she said wryly. "Besides, who would have written to warn him we were coming?"

"Yer half-brother, mayhap. The one whose castle ye ran away from. The one who had arranged yer marriage to one ancient laird who is probably having heart seizure at the altar as we speak."

She bit her lip. "Aye, so. But would James be angry enough to have me shot on sight, I ask you?"

"The English do things in queer ways, lassie. Mark my words. We're in hostile territory now."

A flicker of light from the house interrupted their whispered conversation. She looked up at the long gallery windows of the ivy-draped manor house. A man in elegant evening attire had paused to look outside, candlelight emphasizing his powerful frame. She stared up at him in wonder, at his fine muscular figure. Surely his silhouette was deceiving, as exaggerated as the talk of him. Surely he would not appear so arresting on closer inspection.

She brushed a red-gold curl from her face, squinting to see better. "That must be Lady Deering's brother, the viscount."

"How can ye tell?"

"It's a man I saw in the vision." Besides, she added silently, he certainly looked like a man who had seen the more interesting side of life.

"Aye? Well, yer visions I willna argue with. Here." He placed a heavy pistol in her hand. The tips of her fingers went numb with cold fear.

"What is this for?" she whispered in alarm. "I've come here to ask his mercy, not to murder him."

"He's an Englishman, lass. They're unpredictable."

"Be that as it may, I am not going to kill the man."

She glanced up again at the house, disappointed to see that the intriguing male figure had disappeared. She had been fascinated by her glimpse into the world she imagined he inhabited, of duels fought at dawn and glittering ballrooms, of late-night parties and self-indulgent pursuits. It was certainly a contrast to the inelegant life she had led, being shuffled from relatives to boarding schools back to relatives again.

"Oh," she said softly. "He's gone. I thought he sensed we were here."

"Aye, 'tis why I'm worried. I swear to ye, he's watchin' fer someone. Now, I'm headin' around the house to the stables. When I give the signal -- "

He wheeled spryly toward the path as the baying of dogs resounded in the oak woods that surrounded the estate. Sometimes Catriona thought that he lived for blood- stirring moments such as this. She, on the other hand, would be very happy to settle down to a more sedate existence.

As she waited for him to return, she closed her eyes, an unspoken plea forming in her heart. Please, please, just for once, let me find a place to belong.

The tallest man at the table threw down his hand of cards as unearthly howling rose from the woods that encircled his estate. His lean face registered more annoyance than alarm at the commotion.

"What poor creature have those damn dogs cornered now?" he wondered aloud, lounging back in his chair.

"Not one of our guests on the way home,I hope," the man beside him said. Lanky, fair-haired, light-hearted, he was the antithesis in temperament and appearance of his host, Knight Dennison, Viscount Rutleigh as of last year when his older brother had passed away after a brief illness in India. Having also recently inherited, Wendell Grenville, the Duke of Meacham, was a darling of the ton to Knight's devil, an elusive favorite among the marriage-minded mamas and debutante daughters the members of this private house party sought to escape.

"You've wrecked the game now, Knight," grumbled another guest. "I was winning, too." The third man at the table, a portly local squire who dealt in lace, gave a good-natured sigh, folded his hands over his paunch, and promptly fell asleep.

The man he had addressed only grinned boyishly at the complaint and rose to stare out into the night. A cluster of pedunculate oaks enclosed the well-tended grounds, giving way to an overgrown tangle of woods. Beyond the borders of his estate stretched the moor, a misty realm pitted with tors and megalithic boulders.

"The dogs have stopped their infernal barking," he said in relief. "With luck, it was only a badger and not Lord Jennings's carriage they were chasing."

"I hope the badger wasn't hurt," a woman said from the corner.

He glanced down with affec...