Provoked (4 page)

Once inside, he went straight up to his chamber where he stripped off his clothes and got into bed. There he lay, awake, reliving every second of that brief, intense, unexpected encounter, before finally falling into a fitful sleep in the early hours. By the time he woke the next morning, Murdo Balfour was long gone.

Chapter Three

“David Lauriston! Where on earth have you been this last week?”

David looked up from his books, blinking. Francis Jeffrey was sliding into the seat on the other side of the desk. Short, dark-haired, bright-eyed and smiling. A small package, Mr. Jeffrey, but a big man in other ways.

“Mr. Jeffrey, how are you?” David spoke more softly. The library was quiet this morning, but a handful of other advocates were working studiously at their desks.

“Don’t avoid the question, dear fellow,” Jeffrey replied, one dark eyebrow raised. “Where have you been?”

David busied himself marking his page with a slip of paper and closing his book. “I went away for a few days,” he said mildly. “Has anything interesting happened in my absence?”

Jeffrey cocked his head to the side like a spry little bird and stared at David for several long moments. David felt his cheeks heat but stayed carefully mute. Eventually, the other man sighed dramatically. “I can guess anyway. You went to see the execution, didn’t you?”

David said nothing, but he knew his complexion betrayed him. Inwardly he cursed his fair skin and red hair—his colouring gave rise to the worst sort of painfully red blushes.

“In a way, I admire you, Lauriston,” Jeffrey said. “But don’t imagine this hasn’t been noted.”

“I didn’t see anyone there—”

“I don’t mean the execution—though thank you for confirming my suspicions—I mean your attachment to the case.” He gave one of his twitchy little smiles. “Don’t misunderstand me. I valued your contribution very highly, and believe me, I’m mindful of how modest a fee you took. But I don’t want to see your progress at the Bar suffer more than it needs to, and the fact is, my boy, you have allowed your sympathy for our clients to show too plainly. It is imprudent to espouse such views in our profession.”

“I never espoused any views,” David protested.

“You were openly sympathetic. It is enough.”

“And so were you.”

“Ah, but I am Francis Jeffrey.” He preened a little as he said it, but it was true. He was Francis Jeffrey, the famous man of letters, still overlooked from time to time because of his Whig leanings, but with a fearsome reputation that made sure he had no shortage of cases. Not these days, anyway.

Working with him on the weavers’ case had been a privilege, even though David’s fee had indeed been modest. He’d offered his services as junior counsel on something of a whim, keen for the opportunity to work with the great man. He hadn’t considered how consuming the case was going to be. Now he urgently needed to pick up some new cases and earn some fees, if he was to pay his rent on time.

David smiled. “Thank you for your concern. But I’m fine.”

“Are you?” the older man asked, one sceptical brow raised. “I know what it’s like to be where you are now. Trying to make a reputation when it feels like no one will give you a chance. I’ve had thin years—good lord, thin
decades
—thanks to my political sympathies.”

“Well, you seem to have done all right for yourself,” David replied lightly. “If that house of yours in the country is any measure.”

Jeffrey gave his high, chirping laugh—he loved to be teased about his new house. “Craigcrook was obtained with the fruits of my writing, dear boy. And stop changing the subject. My point is this: I had years of scraping around for work, and it’s not what I’d wish for you. You’re a very able fellow. I’d like to see you get on.”

David sighed. “Getting new cases isn’t easy, but I’m not destitute yet.”

Jeffrey sniffed. “You need to play the game, boy. Get to know more of the senior chaps. If they like you, they’ll bring you into their cases and they’ll introduce you to the solicitors who instruct them.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

”I know,” Jeffrey replied. “And my reputation isn’t much help to you, I’m afraid, but some of my friends could be of more assistance to you. So here’s the thing—I mean to introduce you to some of them.”

David blinked, taken aback. “That’s very kind of you,” he said after a pause. “Thank you.”

Jeffrey looked pleased. “Excellent. So are you able to dine with us on Saturday evening? At Craigcrook?”

David paused. The idea of attending a formal dinner was unappealing, but Jeffrey was right; he had to make an effort. He forced himself to smile and answered, “I am, thank you. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Let’s say six o’clock, then. We’re a long way out of town, so we’d be pleased if you’d stay the night too.”

“Th-thank you.” David flushed, a little embarrassed by that suggestion, undoubtedly prompted by the awkwardness of David having neither a horse nor carriage to his name.

Jeffrey dismissed David’s gratitude with a wave of his hand. “So what’s this you’re working on?” he asked, peering down at David’s notes on the desk, at the hand-drawn map David had made in an attempt to understand the long-running boundary dispute he’d been working on.

David began to explain the facts of the case. The case had come from Stewart & Stewart, a solicitors’ firm he’d clerked for while he studied. Their clients were not wealthy, but the kindly young Mr. Stewart—who at seven and fifty remained very much the junior partner to his ancient father—had provided a steady stream of small instructions to David over the last several years. In gratitude, David provided his services more cheaply than he could strictly afford. He’d already ploughed five times the hours into this problem than he’d ever dream of charging.

Jeffrey was scowling over David’s map when a clerk approached the desk.

“Mr. Lauriston, I’m sorry to interrupt, sir—”

David looked up. “No need to apologise, Thomas. What is it?”

“There’s a lad asking for you, sir. He wouldn’t give a name. He’s waiting in the hall.”

David frowned. “He wouldn’t give you a name? What does he look like?”

“A young fellow. Eighteen or so, I’d say. Respectable looking.”

David’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “Would you excuse me, Jeffrey? I think it might be the clerk from Stewart & Stewart.” Even as he uttered these words, they sounded implausible to him. Why would the solicitors’ clerk not give Thomas his name?

Jeffrey waved him off, still holding the map, now comparing it with David’s handwritten notes, his dark eyebrows creased in concentration.

David left him to it, following Thomas out of the library and into the great Parliament Hall, which was dim today, illuminated only by a few flickering candles in the wall sconces. Even in this poor light, though, it was awe inspiring, the grey stone walls soaring up to a high, vaulted ceiling. Two advocates paced up and down, their footsteps echoing in counterpoint with their hushed conversation. The only other occupant was a man in the far corner. He sat, still and silent, his face obscured by the brim of his hat.

Thomas pointed at the seated figure. “That’s him.”

David thanked him and began walking towards his visitor, his boot heels clicking on the wooden floor. He tried to puzzle out the man’s identity as he drew closer, but it was only when he stood and removed his hat that, finally, David realised who it was.

“Euan MacLennan,” he said, stretching out his hand, not bothering to hide his surprise. “What brings you here?”

The young man who stood before him gave an uncertain smile, taking the hand that David offered in a brief tentative grip, his gloveless hand icy cold. He was in his early twenties, but he looked as young as the library clerk had suggested with his very fair hair and his earnest, beardless face. His ill-fitting coat added to the overall impression of awkward youthfulness; it was all wrong on his lanky frame—a mite too short in the sleeves and a mite too broad in the shoulders.

“Hello, Davy.”

Davy.
The use of David’s given name—in its most intimate form—took him momentarily aback. But of course, it was he who had insisted Euan use it. A gesture of solidarity to the weavers and their families. Jeffrey hadn’t commented at the time, but David knew he hadn’t approved. He was always
Mr. Jeffrey
to them.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling on you here?” Euan continued, a little breathlessly. “I didn’t know how else to find you.” His diction was as careful as David’s own had been a few years ago, a slight hesitance in his speech that gave away the fact that his accent was not the one he’d been born with.

“Of course I don’t mind,” David replied. “I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all.” He paused. “How is Peter?”

The briefest flicker of emotion crossed Euan’s face. He took a deep breath. “As well as can be expected. At least his sentence has been commuted. He is not to be executed now, but—”

But, Peter MacLennan was being transported. And how many convicts even survived the journey to the Antipodes?

“When does his ship depart?” David asked carefully.

Euan stared down at his hands. “Within the month.”

David laid a hand on the lad’s forearm. “He’s a strong man. And as brave as a lion. He’ll be all right, I’m sure of it.”

“Aye,” Euan whispered, but grief was etched in every line of his face. Peter wasn’t only Euan’s brother. A full decade older, he’d been surrogate father to his younger sibling. And as a time-served weaver with no wife or children of his own, he’d been able to support his brother with his studies at university.

Poor Peter. He’d been so proud of his younger brother, the university student. David remembered talking with him, late one evening before the trial.

“My brother reads Latin and Greek, Davy. Did you know that? He’s going to be a minister in the Kirk one day…”

David swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry, Euan,” he said. “I know how distressing this is for you.”

Euan shook his head and gave a determined sort of sniff. “Look at me, snivelling like a woman. You must think me an idiot.”

“Not at all.”

Euan’s cheeks coloured. “Nevertheless, you must be wondering why I’ve come to see you.”

“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me.”

They retreated to the bench Euan had been occupying when David had first come into the hall. Euan sat heavily and rested his elbows on his knees, his hat dangling from his fingertips, his gaze fixed forward, not looking at David, who settled beside him and waited for him to speak.

“I’ve been looking for the Englishman,” Euan said at last.

“The Englishman?”

“Robert Lees.”

David sat back, surprised. Lees had been a shadowy figure in the trial of James Baird and Andrew Hardie. The mysterious Englishman was believed by the weavers, whose ranks he’d joined, to be one of a number of government agents sent to Scotland with orders to stir up the brief summer uprising and flush out troublemakers. The efforts of Lees and his fellow agents had resulted in dozens of men being transported, and three—Hardie and Baird included—being executed.

And now Euan MacLennan was looking for the man? A trained agent who had already shown himself capable of the worst sort of deceit?

A lamb may as well go looking for a wolf.

“That does not sound wise,” David said. “Why are you looking for him?”

Euan frowned at the wooden floor for several long moments. “I want to confront him,” he said at last. “He’s the reason Peter’s rotting in gaol, the reason he’s going to be thrown onto a transport ship in chains. The least he can do is look me in the eye and, and—” He broke off, a muscle jerking in his cheek.

“And what?”

Euan turned his head and looked at David, grief stricken. “Tell me why he did it.”

Why.

It was an entirely pointless question, and yet David understood how it would torment the lad. He thought of himself all those years ago, writing letter after letter to Will Lennox asking why he’d broken off their friendship so irrevocably. Will had never answered a single one of those letters.

It took time for the burning desire for an answer to fade away, but fade it did, once you accepted you’d never know.

“Davy, please, I need your help,” Euan was saying now, his tone driven. “I know you care—more than any of the others. When you first came to speak to us, I saw you were different. Like us. You learned our names, and you gave us your own. And when they handed down the verdicts, I saw your face, Davy. You felt as sick as I did.”

“Of course I care,” David replied sincerely. “But I don’t understand what you think I can do for you.”

“I’ve got a lead on Lees. I think he might be here in Edinburgh, circulating in your world.”

“My world?” David shook his head. “If you imagine I can introduce you to someone who has dealings with government agents, you are very much mistaken. I have entry only to the very outermost circles of the legal world—not to the corridors of political power.”

“I know that,” Euan said. “Just hear me out, all right?”

“All right,” David sighed. “Go on.”

Euan took a deep breath and began again. “There was an occasion, weeks before the uprising, when Lees got drunk with Peter and told him about a woman—a woman he said he loved. Isabella is her name. She lives here in Edinburgh, and Lees told Peter her father is an advocate by profession—an advocate, like you, Davy! Lees said he was going to go and see her father in person to persuade him to let Lees marry the girl.”

David watched the younger man, observing his excitement and how he tried to hide it behind a calm, measured mask.

“So you see, Lees might be in Edinburgh right now. And even if he is not, if you help me find out who this Isabella is, I might be able to find out where he has gone. There cannot be too many advocates with daughters called Isabella, can there?” He finished his speech all in a rush, gabbling it out on a single breath, his voice closing up as he reached the end of his question.

The lad’s desperation was awful. This was not a lead, David thought. It was a fantasy. A delusion. It didn’t seem conceivable that a government agent would spill out secrets about his romantic passions to one of the men he was deceiving. And even if he had let something slip, he surely wouldn’t be stupid enough to go and act on it later?