Mia Marlowe (10 page)

“So,” MacMartin said with a satisfied smile that was purely feline. “You have met her.”

“Met who?”

“The weeping woman, of course,” MacMartin said cryptically. Then he set his cup down on the sideboard and started to head back to the dance floor.

Alex decided not to wait for a locked room. He grasped MacMartin’s lapel and swung him around, pressing the man’s spine to the walnut-paneled wall and holding him up so that his toes barely touched the ground. “What do you know about this weeping woman?”

“Not a damned thing.” Sir Darren grinned wickedly. “But I do know it’s far better that she plagues your nights instead of mine. For the rest, you’ll need to ask Farquhar.”

Alex released him since the music stopped and the attention of the party was no longer riveted on the dance floor.

MacMartin adjusted his jacket and smoothed down his waistcoat. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I believe the next number is a waltz. I intend to dance it with the lass who got away.”

“Capital party, what?” Clarindon said as he joined Alexander by the punch bowl. “I say, that Lucinda of yours is quite the dancer.”

Alex crossed his arms over his chest and forced himself to look away from his supposed fiancée and her current dance partner. “She’s not my Lucinda.”

“No? Well, that may be true given the way MacMartin is waltzing with her. Who knows? He may solve all your romantic entanglement problems by whisking her away to . . . hmmm.” Clarindon swiped his perspiring brow with a clean, white handkerchief and then stowed it back in his waistcoat pocket. “Desperate couples back in England hie themselves to Scotland to marry in haste. Where do you suppose Scots flee to?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s not why we’re here.” Work. That’s what he needed. Surely focusing on his mission would settle this blasted fire in his gut each time he caught Lucinda’s eyes sparkling while she danced with someone else. “You’ve been at Dalkeith Palace longer than I. What have you learned about the locals?”

“The nobles have no use for the rebellion or any of the Radicals’ causes. Interrupts trade, they say.” Sir Bertram helped himself to a spot of punch. “Weak stuff, what?” he said with a grimace, but still managed to down the whole cup in one long swallow. “No, I think we may safely conclude that the landed Scottish nobility have calculated which side of the argument best suits their interests. They’ve decided to back the Crown.”

“Even against their own countrymen?”

Clarindon nodded. “So it seems. No sense of national unity at all in Scotland, which is a boon for our side. Comes from all that clan nonsense, I suppose. Been their downfall since the time of Robert the Bruce. They’re more loyal to their own tight little circle than to the country as a whole. But they do know where their coin is minted. Frightfully practical people, the Scots.”

“Then that leaves the lesser nobility and the gentry who might give aid to the Radicals,” Alex said.

“Oh, well done,” Clarindon said with a sniff. “Now that you’re a landed baron, someone who’s
earned
a knighthood is merely a
lesser noble.
”

“I don’t mean you,” Alex said. Clarindon had been knighted after he took a bullet meant for the king’s cousin in France three years ago. It was his shining moment and Clarindon would happily untie his cravat and undo the top three buttons on his shirt for anyone who wished to see the scar near his clavicle. “Besides, let’s not get carried away by the idea of me being ‘landed.’ I’m still fully expecting to find myself laird of a place with a roof that’s open to the night sky and a flock of mangy sheep that are expected to fatten on rocks.”

“It’d serve you right.” Clarindon pulled a face at him.

“What have you learned about Sir Darren MacMartin?”

“Oh, very well. I suppose I’d ought to prove I haven’t been wasting my time drinking and wenching. Not all my time at any rate . . .” Clarindon pulled a palm-sized journal from his waistcoat pocket and flipped a few pages. “Been compiling a dossier on all the Scottish chieftains. I’ll do more research of course, but here’s what I’ve gleaned from MacMartin himself. He’s very proud of his family motto—
‘Hinc Fortior et Clarior,’
which means—”

“‘Hence stronger and more illustrious,’” Alex finished for him. “Thank you, Clarindon. I too studied Latin.”

“Yes, yes, I was there at Eton with you, but I didn’t think you were attending much at the time. As I recall, you were too busy devising ways of sneaking out to visit the girls in the nearby village after the headmaster and his minions were abed.”

“And as I recall, you never turned down a chance to come with me. Now go on.” Alexander ground his teeth as Lucinda and Sir Darren turned and dipped past them. “Why was MacMartin knighted?”

“That’s the odd thing. He didn’t bring it up. Most do, you know. When I tried to broach the subject, he turned the conversation in another direction.”

Clarindon shifted to allow Lord Rankin to join them. “Good evening, milord. I was just saying to Mallory how well this first meeting with the local nobility has turned out. No doubt the credit redounds to you.”

Lord Rankin puffed up under Clarindon’s praise like a toad during its courtship season. Alexander’s friend had a knack for flattery that bordered on genius. He’d often tried to teach Alex how to do it, but Alex proved a less than apt pupil.

“Yes, the evening does seem to be going well,” Rankin said. “Of course, that blighter Lord Arbuthnott was trouncing me in a chess game earlier, but after this little break for dancing, I’ll figure a way out of the trap he’s set for me.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure you’re merely allowing Arbuthnott to win,” Sir Bertram said.

Alex thought that was doing it a bit too brown, even for Clarindon.

Rankin harrumphed a couple of times. “Don’t breathe a word of it and he’ll never know I threw the game. After all, we are here to establish a foundation of goodwill for the king. It’s just as I explained to Lord Liverpool,” Rankin said, reinforcing the fact that he had the prime minister’s ear. “If we are seen to honor and even embrace the Scottish traditions, their politics can’t help but fall more in line with our own. I count on you two to jump in with both feet when it comes to ingratiating ourselves to the Scots.” Then he skewered Alex with a glare. “But if you ever leave me with Hester MacGibbon again, you’ll be on the first boat back to London, whether you’re a Scottish laird or no.”

Is that a promise?
danced on Alex’s tongue, but the waltz ended and he began to excuse himself so he could collect Lucinda from Sir Darren.

“No, stay a moment, Mallory. I want your opinion on something,” Lord Rankin said. His tone was genial, but it was an order nonetheless. “I’ve arranged a special exhibition of the very thing I was talking about—a celebration of Scottish culture. Of course, I have it on good authority that it’s a display of noble savagery, but the king is a devotee of Rousseau. If this demonstration goes well, we’ll have them perform for His Majesty when he comes.”

The bagpipes started up with a mighty wheeze that blossomed into a bone-chilling squeal. The hair on the back of Alexander’s neck lifted. There was something both otherworldly and strangely familiar about that sound, as if it belonged to the realm of dreams. Or nightmares.

Or another lifetime . . .

Three kilted warriors entered the hall, two of them bearing a pair of long claymores each. The third appeared to be unarmed save for a wicked looking dirk at his waist.

“I thought we outlawed weapons in the palace,” Alex said.

“We did,” Rankin agreed. “But these blades are ceremonial.”

“The edges look well-honed enough to ceremonially kill someone,” Alex said dryly.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Mallory. Trust is the oil which greases the wheels of diplomacy.”

Clearly, Rankin had lost sight of their directive from Lord Liverpool. They were supposed to search out and bring to justice any remaining Radicals, not join hands with the Scots and sing around a Maypole.

Alexander narrowed his gaze at the fellow who bore the dirk. His reddish-brown beard had been trimmed and his hair was clubbed back into a neat queue, but Alex still recognized him.

It was Lucinda’s brother, Dougal.

 

 

Lucinda hissed a breath over her teeth. It was one thing for Dougal to tend the horses in the stable or prune the roses in the garden at Dalkeith. No one marked the humble servants who did those jobs. But it was quite another for him to stride into a ballroom wearing a belted plaid that had until very recently been illegal while gripping the hilt of a wicked-looking dirk.

He was bound to be recognized as one of the leaders of the Radicals, if not by the English, surely by the Scots. She’d told Brodie earlier that no one would turn him in.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

As they waltzed, Sir Darren had told her everyone wished to make themselves agreeable to the English. What better way to do it than to turn in a wanted man who happened to be a Scot?

Dougal stood off to one side while the other two men laid out their claymores like prone crosses on the polished hardwood floor. Then they began leaping and dancing from one quadrant of the crossed swords to the next, their feet flying in perfect tandem, their arms raised in triumph.

“Ah, the sword dance,” Sir Darren said at her side. “I haven’t seen this performed since I was a boy.”

Lucinda had never seen it. The masculine beauty and grace of the dance and the terror of naked blades so close to unprotected ankles fairly snatched her breath away. The agility, the strength, the stamina it took to dance with the blades and take no hurt boggled her mind.

As soon as the sword dancers made their furious finish, Dougal loosed a full-throated war
cry
and leapt into the center of the ballroom, brandishing his dirk.

“I’ve heard of the dirk dance.” Sir Darren leaned toward Lucinda to whisper in her ear. “It’s supposed to be the most primal thing a man can do short of actually killing somebody.”

Lucinda feared she might be sick. All of Dougal’s movements were stylized feats of arms, slashing and turning, leaping and thrusting. It was as if he fought an invisible foe in time with the wild squeal of pipes.

Dougal sparred with the air, hacking and plunging. After a particularly harrowing series of turns, feints, and parries, the audience burst into spontaneous applause, even though the dance wasn’t finished yet.

“Word is, come summer, they’ll be performing these dances for the king,” MacMartin said.

Lucinda bit her lower lip. So that was Dougal’s plan. He’d be armed. He’d be close to King George. The crowd was so mesmerized by the dirk dance, Dougal could be on the king before they realized it wasn’t part of the performance.

And as Brodie had predicted, Dougal didn’t plan to live to tell the tale.

She swayed uncertainly on her feet.

“Are you well, Miss MacOwen?” Sir Darren asked solicitously. “You’ve gone quite pale. Come. I know of a little terrace off the ballroom. We’ll step out and get you a breath of fresh air.”

He shepherded her through the crowd and into a short corridor that led toward a set of French doors. Behind them in the ballroom, the screech of pipes went on, building to a frenzy.

Lucinda imagined how it would all play out when the king arrived next summer. Dougal’s fine strong body would whirl in a dance of stylized death, and as the music built to its frenetic conclusion, he’d make a desperate leap toward the king to deliver the fatal blow.

Even if no one in the English contingent was bearing arms, they’d tear Dougal limb from limb before their sovereign’s body grew cold. Lucinda swallowed back the rising bile.

“How could he even think about doing such a thing?” she mumbled. She and Sir Darren pushed through the French door and onto a slate-floored terrace. It was hedged about with a stone balustrade overlooking the expansive gardens, now pruned back and asleep for the winter.

“I know what you mean,” Sir Darren said. “The sword dancers were pulse-pounding enough. That fellow with the dirk certainly seemed the dangerous sort. But he was only dancing, so don’t let yourself be troubled by it.”

“Aye, I’d expect you’re right,” she said. Better that Sir Darren think she was upset by the raw aggression of the dance than by what she suspected her brother was going to do with it. And while she was at it, she needed to keep the fact that Dougal was her brother from Sir Darren as well.

She leaned both palms on the stone balustrade and breathed in the crisp night. It was chilly enough that they wouldn’t tarry there long, but the cool air blew away her queasiness. Light snow began to fall. It was the sort that melted as soon as it touched the ground, or a dry leaf, or an eyelash, but felt more than a little magical on its way down, as if each flake was the kiss of a frost faery.

Sir Darren came to stand beside her and rested his hand on the balustrade close enough to hers that they touched, lightly as the brush of a feather.

“Did you know that until an unfortunate incident on the voyage here, I was Lord Bonniebroch?”

“Really?” She’d figured she was well rid of a man who was reckless enough to chance losing so much on the turn of a card. Somehow, she’d never imagined the previous Lord Bonniebroch might be as young and engaging as Sir Darren.

“I was a fool to be drawn into that benighted card game,” he said without looking at her.

“A man who can admit to foolishness is on the path to becoming wise,” Lucinda said.

“Doesn’t feel wise,” Darren said with a snort of disagreement.

His attention seemed to be directed to the dormant garden, so she was free to study his profile.

MacMartin had a fine straight nose and deep-set, soulful eyes. If he’d kept the title, Lucinda supposed she’d have been grateful he wasn’t the toothless, hairless wretch her sister Aileen had predicted for her and been satisfied to meet him at the altar.

If she’d never stumbled smack into Lord Alexander Mallory’s arms.

“Well, then, it seems we would have been betrothed but for your lack of skill at the gaming table.” She turned around and leaned the small of her back against the balustrade.

“It wasn’t lack of skill. I—” He clamped his lips shut and his brows knit together as he obviously rethought what he was about to say. “I only want you to know if I’d met you beforehand, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so quick to offer up the title and estate in a poque game. That English fiend Mallory doesn’t deserve you.”