Contents (25)
If you want to read more about the outrageous Princess Caraboo (and I encourage you to do so), look online for Caraboo: A Narrative of a Singular Imposition by John Matthew Gutch. Written in 1817, it gives a detailed account of how she came to be the darling of society, and how her deceit was unmasked.
I hope you enjoy learning about Princess Caraboo as much as I did. She’s a fascinating creature in the footnotes of history.
All best,
Karen
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
A letter dated two weeks ago from Mary Hurst to her brother Michael.
The Hurst men are scattered to the winds. You’re being held by a horrid sulfi who won’t release you until we deliver the mysterious onyx box you purchased, which he fancies; William is braving the seas on his way to attempt to free you; and Robert is—(A large ink blot mars this portion of the letter.)
To be honest, we don’t know where Robert is. The last we heard, he was chasing a beautiful redhead through the wilds of Scotland in an attempt to unravel a mystery.
Oddly enough, of the three of you, I’m most worried about Robert.
Bonnyrigg, Scotland
July 16, 1822
Mr. Bancroft stepped onto the wide stone terrace and sighed at the thick mist that swirled about the trees and low lake. “Scotland!” he puffed out in disgust as he bent to wipe fat droplets of water from his shoes yet again with a handkerchief already limp from the damp air. “Who on earth would wish to live in a climate like this?”
Sighing, he reached into his pocket for a cigar, imagining the blessed warmth about to envelop him. He pulled out the cigar and frowned at the feel of it. “It’s damp! Damn this sodden, wet, thick-misted, sopping mess of a—”
“Softly, my dear Bancroft.”
The banker spun in surprise. “Mr. Hurst! Why—I—I—” The banker cast a glance at the house. “You’re a bit early. The sale doesn’t begin until this afternoon, and we’re not yet ready—”
“Let me guess. Things aren’t yet displayed, some aren’t even unpacked, the cases aren’t yet lit, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” Robert Hurst hung a silver-topped cane over his arm and removed his gloves. “Am I correct?”
Mr. Bancroft nodded, silently admiring Hurst’s perfectly fitted overcoat. It made Bancroft uneasily aware of his own inexpensive, ill-fitting coat.
Hurst leisurely withdrew his monocle from his left breast pocket and viewed the house that rose behind them from the mist. “So this is the famed MacDonald House. A pity it’s not for sale, too.”