Free The Bodyguard by Joan Johnston Page A

lost.”
    “Except the woman I love,” the earl said bitterly.
    Mr. Ambleside was easily old enough to be the young man’s father, and he sometimes played the role for effect. He had learned that manipulating people simply involved saying the right things to achieve the response one wanted.
    “What is done is done,” he said, crossing and putting a comforting hand on the earl’s shoulder. “The duke is dead. Your lady is lost. Lady Katherine is your destiny now.” He felt the young man shudder and hurried to say, “Gossip says the foolish female has agreed to marry any man in her clan who can win her heart. If you do not proceed with your courtship immediately, you may find the land stolen from your grasp by some poor Scots farmer.”
    Mr. Ambleside thought again how unfair life was. It was sheer misfortune that he was a Blackthorne bastard rather than the legitimate firstborn son. Though gossip had long since revealed the secret of his birth to the neighborhood, no Blackthorne had ever publicly acknowledged his relationship to the family.
    His mother had been an upstairs maid in the household of Alistair Wharton’s grandfather, an innocent when His Grace had taken her to his bed after a drunken party on the eve of his wedding.
    His mother had been let go from her position, of course, but in payment for her silence, the duke had given her a cottage and quarterly allowance, and had promised, if the child were a boy, to educate him at the best schools in England. His mother had told him again and again how lucky he was, that if it had not been for the duke’s generosity, he might have grown up to be a shepherd or a farmer or a footman.
    Cedric Ambleside had not thanked the duke for what he had; he had cursed the duke for what he had been denied: a legitimate birth, a father who acknowledged him, the right to the whole meat pie instead of crumbs from the table. He—not the present duke’s father—should have inherited Blackthorne Hall.
    It should all have been his: the title, the lands in England and Scotland, the immense Blackthorne fortune.
    Under Scottish law, the illegitimate son inherited equally with the legitimate one. At the very least, half of what Alastair Wharton owned in Scotland should have been his. Instead, he had nothing.
    Cedric Ambleside was merely a steward for his nephew, the Duke of Blackthorne. Because Mr. Ambleside had always been kind to Alistair Wharton on his visits to Scotland as a child, the grown-up duke believed Mr. Ambleside to be a perfectly trustworthy guardian for his Scottish estates.
    Was it any wonder Mr. Ambleside wanted something for himself? Was it any wonder he felt justified in scheming to get it?
    “I will woo the girl,” the young earl said, interrupting Mr. Ambleside’s thoughts. “But after this, I want nothing more to do with you.”
    “Very well, my lord. Marry the girl and win the castle and the land, and we are quits.”
    “What is your reward when all is said and done, Mr. Ambleside?” the earl demanded. “I know you well enough by now to understand you give nothing for nothing.”
    Mr. Ambleside smiled. It was almost as though he had produced a particularly bright child, or an obstinate pupil had finally learned his lesson. He willingly named his prize.
    “What do I get? Why Blackthorne Hall, of course.”

Chapter 5
    Mick O’Malley shook his head and muttered, “Ye’re a nodcock, Laddie. Ye should’ve let the man go thirsty. Ye should’ve let him starve. At least then ye wouldna be going hungry yerself.”
    It wasn’t the first time he had gone without supper, although Mick had gotten used to regular meals over the past year, and it was harder to do without. But the years he had spent with his belly gnawing at his back had given him enough in common with the stranger that he had not been able to resist helping. He hoped someone was offering a similar kindness to his brothers and sisters right now.
    The last word he had heard from them had come six