Free Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon

content to potter about on the family estates. He had a good deal of money—my mother brought him more—and when the Old Pretender launched his first invasion in 1715, he raised a regiment, and went to fight for king and country.”
    The Jacobites were ill-organized and badly equipped; the Old Pretender, James Stuart, had not even made it ashore to lead his troops, but had been left fuming impotently off the coast, stranded by bad weather. The invasion, such as it was, had been easily quashed. The dashing young earl, however, had distinguished himself at Sheriffmuir, emerging a hero.
    German George, feeling uneasy on his new throne despite the victory, and wishing to demonstrate to the peers of his realm the advantages of supporting him in military terms, elevated Gerard Grey to the newly created dukedom of Pardloe.
    “No money with it, mind, and only a scant village or two in terms of land, but it sounded well,” Grey said.
    “What—whatever happened?” Percy asked, curiosity overcoming his impeccable manners.
    “Well.” Grey took a deep breath, thinking where best to begin. He did not want to speak at once about his father, and so began from the other end of the affair.
    “My mother’s mother was Scottish, you see. Not from the Highlands,” he added quickly. “From the Borders, which is quite a different thing.”
    “Yes, they speak English there, do they not?” Wainwright nodded, a small frown of concentration between his brows.
    “I expect that is a matter of opinion,” Grey said. It had taken him weeks to become sufficiently accustomed to the hideous accents of his Scottish cousins as to easily understand what they were saying.
    “But at least they are not barbarians, such as the Highland Scots. Nor did the Borderers join in the Catholic Rising—most being strongly Protestant, and having no particular sympathy or common interest with either the Stuarts or the Highland clans.”
    “I suppose, though, that many Englishmen do not make distinctions between one Scot and another?” Percy said, with some delicacy.
    Grey gave a small grimace of acknowledgment.
    “It did not help that one of my mother’s uncles and his sons
did
openly support the Stuart cause. For the sake of profit,” he added, with slight distaste, “not religion.”
    “Is that better or worse?” Percy asked, a half smile taking any sting from the words.
    “Not much to choose,” Grey admitted. “And before the thing was finished, a good many more of my mother’s family were embroiled. If not actually known Jacobites, certainly tainted by the association.”
    “I see.” Wainwright’s brows were high with interest. “You mentioned your father’s involvement with the South Sea Bubble. Do we assume that this had something to do with your profit-minded great-uncle?”
    Grey glanced at him, surprised at the quickness of his mind.
    “Yes,” he said. “Great-Uncle Nicodemus. Nicodemus Patricius Marcus Armstrong.”
    Percy made a small, muffled noise.
    “There is a reason why I was christened ‘John,’ and that my brothers have such relatively common names as Paul, Edgar, and Harold,” Grey said wryly. “The names on my mother’s side of the family…” He shook his head, and resumed his account.
    “My father invested a substantial sum with a certain company—the South Sea—upon the urgings of Uncle Nick, after Sheriffmuir. Mind you, this was some years before the collapse; at the time, it seemed no more than a somewhat risky venture. And it appealed, I think, to my father’s sense of adventure, which was acute.” He couldn’t help a brief smile at thought of some of those adventures.
    “It was a substantial sum, but by no means a significant part of my father’s property. He was therefore content to leave it, depending upon Uncle Nick to watch the business, whilst he devoted himself to other, more interesting ventures. But then the Jacobite threat—” He paused, glancing at Percy.
    “How old are you, if you will