Yankee Earl Read Free

with light tan hair and piercing green eyes that missed nothing. He was possessed of a wicked wit, a fierce sense of loyalty and an absolute aversion to the state of matrimony.
           Reclining on a lyre-back chair in the dressing room of the eminent tailors Schwartze and Davidson, he observed as Jason was fitted for the clothing a new earl would need to carry him through the end of the Season. “No, no, that won't do a'tall, good fellow,” he said, waving away a bolt of fine woolen cloth.
           As the clerk scurried off, Drum emitted a sigh, then turned his attention back to his newfound friend, picking up their conversation where they had been interrupted. “You mean to say that you actually lived with Red Indians—and you without a dram of their blood?” the dandy inquired with one slim eyebrow raised to indicate amazement.
           “Yes. They're a remarkable people,” Jason replied with a grin, imagining Drum's reaction if confronted by six feet four inches of Shawnee warrior with a shaven head and roached scalplock.
           “I have a good friend from the col—er, the United States,” Drum corrected himself, “who is right now somewhere belly deep in a swamp with his cousins, who happen to be…” He paused and put a pinch of snuff on the back of one pale hand, inhaled and sneezed delicately into a snowy linen handkerchief. “Ah, yes, Muskogee—I do believe that is what Alex's tribal brothers are. I say, you would not by any chance be acquainted with Alex Blackthorne or any of those Muskogee chaps, would you?”
           Jason threw back his head and laughed. “I'm afraid you underestimate the size of the United States. The Muskogee reside in Georgia, nearly a thousand miles south of Maryland, where I lived. But I've heard of Blackthorne Shipping. The family has one of the largest and most successful merchant operations in the country.”
           “A pity you never had the opportunity to meet Alex. Lud, the times the three of us could have had,” Drum said with a sigh. Then, peering at Jason through his quizzing glass, he shook his head. “Odd, that. With your black hair and all that sun-darkened skin, you more resemble an Indian than Alex does. We really must do something about giving you a fine English pallor, my boy. Perhaps a touch of arsenic, eh? It's all the crack to whiten one's complexion.”
           Jason shuddered. There are many things I will do for my grandfather, but poisoning myself is not among them,” he replied as the tailor entered the room buried beneath half a dozen bolts of kerseymere.
           Drum's impeccable taste in fashion had induced Jason's grandfather to overlook the young rapscallion's reputation as a duelist and gambler who lived well beyond his means. In spite of his faults, he was well received at all the best clubs, including White's and Watier's. George William Beaumont, ninth Marquess of Cargrave, was determined that his grandson be accepted by the ton. There was no one better equipped to make over an American privateer into an English gentleman than the Honorable Mr. Drummond.
           When the ordeal of clothes selection was finally over and Drum announced that Jason had sufficient finery to last him until the Season ended, the two men repaired to the library of the Beaumont city house just off Grosvenor Square.
           “Grandfather is expecting me to attend a recital tonight.” Jason sighed as he handed Drum a brandy, then raised his own glass.
           “At Chitchester's?” Drum inquired. Jason nodded, and his companion shuddered. “Zounds, 'twill be the duke's younger sister Theodosia torturing the pianoforte.”
           Jason chuckled. “You are most unchivalrous for a gentleman, sirrah.”
           The gel's on the marriage mart.” He studied Jason over the rim of his Waterford tumbler with merry green eyes.
           Now it was Jason's turn to shudder. “No, thank you. If