Betrayed (8 page)

Sarah chuckled at his effortless repartee and wondered how many exotic places he'd been. She was still battling the giggles when the mayor reached them.

“Thank you for the invitation, Elliot. Delighted to meet you.”

“I'm sure,” Michael replied, sending Sarah a puzzled glance.

By way of weak explanation for penning the invitation to Fordyce in Michael's name, she said, “Everyone is eager to welcome the Complement.”

Fordyce bowed. “Good evening, Lady Sarah. You're lovely, as always. That's a Tremaine gown, is it not?”

The sapphire-blue silk was a design created by the exclusive Viennese modiste. Agnes had sent it to Sarah last summer on their birthday. She was saved a reply when the innkeeper led them to a private salon off the public room.

An extraordinary fire roared in the wall hearth, and the table had been formally set for three. A pair of crossed Lochaber axes embellished one wall; the others bore landscape paintings done in the Dutch grandeur style. Sarah chose the chair facing the door. Michael took the seat nearest the fire, leaving the mayor to view the ancient Highland weapons.

“A refreshment before dinner?” the apron-garbed innkeeper asked.

Michael turned to Sarah and lifted his brows. “My lady? What is your pleasure?”

Continued good luck throughout the evening was her first request. Being allowed to speak directly to the innkeeper and have him answer to her was her second wish. She cursed the man who had begun the ridiculous custom of making women speak to one man through another. “Tell him I'll have the claret, if it's smooth,” she said to Michael. “If not, I'll have Johnson's newest ale.”

“For a certainty, sir. 'Tis the very same wine the Complement drank last night.”

Michael said to Sarah, “You're fortunate there's some left.”

“Why is that?”

“Some of my friends took a liking to it last night.”

The jovial proprietor slapped his thigh. “Which ain't to say the Complement didn't make a bonny affair of it after you retired, sir. That new fellow you broke in—little of him was seen above the table, except his nose. After that, he lay still from necessity.”

“I'm sure he has an aching head for it today. What will you have, Fordyce?”

The mayor held up his empty glass. “I'll venture upon a few more drops of wine.”

“A bumper of claret, then,” Michael said. “And leave the door open.”

Most considerate, Sarah thought—especially so, minutes later, when Count DuMonde and his mistress took a table in the main room directly in Sarah's line of vision. DuMonde sat with his back to Sarah,
but she did not need to see his face to know he was smiling fondly at his mistress. Their shared joy was obvious in the lady's eyes.

Sarah felt oddly discomfited. She'd seen that adoring look many times before: her stepmother gazed at Lachlan MacKenzie in that very way; David Smithson mooned over Lottie at every occasion.

“Is something wrong?” Michael asked.

“No, everything is delightful.” According to Notch, Lady Winfield was DuMonde's mistress. But that was obvious, now that Sarah had seen them together.

“I was just about to broach the subject of the weather with Mayor Fordyce,” Michael said, his brows lifted in entreaty to Sarah.

“It's been cold of late,” she said.

“Much more so than in India, I assure you.”

They chatted amiably over a feast that began with succulent lamb flavored with thyme and costly cracked pepper. Between courses, Sarah continued to sneak glances at the couple in the next room.

Envy filled her, but not because she wanted to take Lady Winfield's place. Oh, she liked the Frenchman; he was gay and entertaining—too much so to be considered seriously as her lifelong mate. Sarah's jealousy stemmed from her own romantic yearnings, which DuMonde did not inspire. She coveted the love shining in Lady Winfield's eyes. DuMonde's lover looked like a woman assured of a place in paradise with the man of her choice.

The Frenchman should marry his mistress, Sarah decided, and vowed to tell him so.

“We're boring Lady Sarah,” Michael said pointedly. “I doubt she's entertained by the king's business.”

She had heard their conversation on the English rule in India; she could listen and observe at the same time. Should she expound upon the subject? Yes. A perfect way to distract him. With her thumbnail, she absently raked bread crumbs into a pile. “English expansion is a prickly subject to a Highland Scot.”

Michael set down his wineglass. “Are you a Jacobite?”

“No, not in the traditional way. The Bonnie Prince is too old now to take the throne, even should the populace want him, which they do not. He failed in his duty to continue the Stewart line.”

The mayor pushed his plate away. “He sired a daughter by another woman and legitimized her.”

A noble move, Sarah had to agree, but easily arranged when one's brother is both a cardinal and the duke of York. “Since Lady Charlotte cannot take the throne from the Hanoverians, the point is moot. What's troubling to me is that we looked to Hanover at all for our monarchs. Wouldn't it have been better if our royal family were born of this land and spoke our language?”

“Interesting.” Resting his elbow on the table, Michael propped his chin in his palm. “What language would he speak? Scottish, Welsh, Irish, or English?”

He had a keen mind for issues, a trait she valued. “Touché. But I think once on the throne, he or she should have the courtesy to learn to converse intelligently with his or her subjects.”

Mayor Fordyce belched loudly. “Pardon. George the Third speaks the king's English.”

“Three generations into Hanoverian rule? A bit tardy to my way of thinking.”

“She has a point, Fordyce. It's not too much to
expect in return for wealth beyond tallying and a place in the history of the greatest nation on earth.”

His area of interest engaged, the mayor scooted closer to the table. “Raising taxes and spending money are his watchwords. He should look elsewhere than Scotland to fill the royal coffers.”

“He has,” Michael was quick to say. “Since losing the American colonies, he's determined to have India completely under his thumb.”

Sarah jumped in. “But he will not respect the culture of the people he chooses to rule in these isles. The Scots lost their plaids and bagpipes for thirty-six years, the Welsh lost everything, and the Irish lost the right to wear their green.”

Michael turned up his palm. “That's how the English or any other ambitious country prevails. Subjugation is the first rule of conquest.”

Sarah knew only what she'd read in books and newspapers. “What has our government taken from India?”

“Her trade. Her wealth. Her singularity in the world.”

“Do you oppose the king?” Sarah asked.

“No, I support him fully. Objective governance is necessary in India to keep the many religious factions from destroying themselves.”

“You speak of religious freedom,” Sarah said, “an odd concept for the first officer of the Complement. Your benefactor, Henry the Eighth, made a mockery of our faith. Sir Thomas More stands as martyr to that.”

A teasing half-smile signaled his slight retreat. “Perhaps the crown has learned from past mistakes.”

Fordyce dropped his fork onto his plate. “Where
did
the server go for more of that wine? All the way to Burgundy?”

Michael winked at her. “We're boring Mayor Fordyce with our talk of kings and chancery. I think he prefers the subject of collecting taxes.”

Not since leaving her family had Sarah enjoyed a livelier discussion. But she'd come here to further a cause, not to involve herself in a lengthy exchange of ideas with Michael Elliot. The other man was her foremost quarry for now. “My apologies, Mayor Fordyce.”

The innkeeper returned with the wine. Michael took the flagon and refilled the mayor's glass himself.

Fordyce said, “Lady Sarah, didn't you know that Elliot's resigned from the Complement? They saluted him till moonset, or so the innkeeper said.”

He didn't look the worse for a long night of merrymaking.

“That's why they came here—to escort him home,” the mayor added.

She didn't for a moment believe retirement was Michael's sole mission. Her dowry was what he wanted. How far would he go to get it? “Truly?” she asked. “Is that why you've returned to Edinburgh at this particular time?”

“Yes, well . . .” With his thumb and forefinger on the stem, he twirled his glass. “I've done my duty to king and country.” Turning to Sarah, he added, “No matter on which continent his majesty's interests lie.”

“Cleverly phrased,” she murmured.

“How delightful that you think so.”

She was tempted to rest her hand on his sleeve. Lady Winfield had touched DuMonde just so, and with great success, for the Frenchman appeared completely
at her disposal. If Sarah could disarm Michael Elliot, she stood a better chance at winning over the mayor and the owner of the customs house. She had made progress, for they were conversing easily.

The servants cleared the dishes and returned with a plate of figs, cherries, and oranges. DuMonde and Lady Winfield quit the inn. From the adoring gaze in the woman's eyes, Sarah knew where they would go.

“Do you care for fruit?” Michael asked.

She'd eaten more tonight than was proper for a lady in public, but the conversation had stimulated her appetite. She chose a plump fig and cut it into quarters while she prepared her first verbal attack. Both accomplished, she put down her knife and looked at Michael, who popped a cherry into his mouth.

“Are you aware, Michael, of our mayor's concern for the growing number of children who are abandoned on the streets of Edinburgh?”

Around a mouthful of orange, the mayor said, “Any above one is a sorry number.”

Michael didn't spare a glance at Fordyce. “An honorable concern.”

As the object of his curious gaze, Sarah felt the weight of her responsibility grow, but she would win this fight. “Most of the poor souls are under the age of ten. The church never provides more than twenty-five pairs of shoes in a given year.”

The unsuspecting mayor plucked an orange seed from his mouth. “There are other organizations to help. The Ladies' Benevolent Society collects what they can.”

She knew the moment Michael sensed she was up to something other than idle chat, for his now-probing
gaze darted from her to Fordyce. Suddenly doubtful, she placed her hand on his arm. “Our good mayor's efforts are gallant, but unfortunately they fall short of the mark.”

Fordyce grasped her purpose, too, and his expression turned cool. The issue of turning the customs house into an orphanage was a sore matter with the mayor.

Suddenly defensive, he said, “I
am
a compassionate man.”

She charged ahead. “An understatement. Your charity knows no bounds.”

With finality, he said, “I beg to differ, my lady.” He dipped his hands into the water bowl and reached for a napkin. “Complaints from the window tax alone kept me busy the whole of yesterday. I'll be a year straightening it all out. Yes, it is a priority.”

So what?
her conscience grumbled. “If last year is any indication, ten children will be buried in the Penny Cairns by Christmas next. What will you have done to prevent it?”

“Penny Cairns?” Michael asked, staring at her hand.

The velvet of his sleeve felt soft and warm beneath her fingers, and the inquiry in his eyes gave her pause. Had she gone too far? No. She applied a gentle pressure. “Shallow graves topped with a pennyweight of stone rather than a proper cairn of rock.”

“But the ground
is
consecrated?”

Tears thickened her throat at the cruelty visited on the poor. “Not always.”

Fordyce put down the unfinished orange. “This is hardly the proper place to discuss the dead or the customs house.”

Sarah's passion stirred; retreat was impossible. “Not the proper place? Even if one of the dead is most likely a child who'll never know a third birthday? Don't you see?” She looked from one man to the other. “A small part of the collected tax will buy the customs house.”

“Out of the question!” the mayor snapped. “Seek private subscriptions if you must. The city hasn't the money. The lord provost told you so.”

Her preparation saved her. “I have collected other support. I've spoken to the carpenters' guild. It offered to make some of the needed cots. The mercers in Bull Close will give the blankets and linens. Saint Margaret's will donate the school desks we're already using, and the stonemasons have promised new slates.”

“You'll be decades getting enough money from common folks.”

Yes, thanks to the countess of Glenforth and her cruel vengeance, the titled families no longer included Sarah in their social events. The citizens at large had been Sarah's source. “I never thought to do it alone,” she admitted. “But someone must give it a start.”

Into the fray, Michael said, “How much is the property worth?”

Sarah rejoiced; he did not know who owned the building, and he was sympathetic to her cause. “As is, three thousand pounds—an outrageous amount. It's tumbledown from top to bottom. The plaster's falling off the walls, and most of the floors are rotting. The back stairs are passable. The main staircase hasn't a bannister.”

“How much will the renovations cost?”

The mayor looked justifiably puzzled.

“Nine thousand pounds,” Sarah said. “That includes food for a year. It's not so much money, but just enough to do the job properly. Once the property is donated, I'll even learn to hammer a nail myself if necessary.”

“You must understand, Elliot,” the mayor rushed to say. “ 'Tis a bad idea from the beginning. We ought not think about new furnishings and a staff to keep the place up—even if the building is handed over, which it will not be. Apprenticeships are good enough for the children. Imagine,” he scoffed, “orphans having servants and a house of their own.”