Rebellion & In From The Cold (21 page)

He had been six weeks in town, and spring was at its best. His own garden, one of the finest in the city, boasted vistas of lush lawns and colorful blossoms. The rain that had drummed almost incessantly as April had begun had worked its magic and was now replaced by balmy golden days that lured pretty women in their silk dresses and feathered hats into the parks and shops.

There were balls and assemblies, card parties and levees. A man with his title, his reputation and his purse could have a comfortable life here with little inconvenience and much pleasure.

He had indeed missed London. It was his home. It had taken him much less than six weeks to discover that it was no longer his heart.

That was in Scotland now. Not a day passed that he didn’t think of the hard Highland winter or of how Serena had warmed it. As he looked out at the crowded streets and the strollers in their walking coats and hats of the latest fashion, he wondered what spring was like in Glenroe. And whether Serena ever sat by the lake and thought of him.

He would have gone back weeks earlier, but his work for the Prince was taking longer than had been thought, and the results were less satisfactory than anyone had foreseen.

The Jacobites in England were great in number, but the number among them who showed eagerness to raise their sword for the untried Prince was much less. On Lord George’s advice, Brigham had spoken to many groups, giving them an outline of the mood of the Highland clans and conveying what communications he had received from the Prince himself. He had ridden as far as Manchester, and had held a council as close as his own drawing room.

Each was as risky as the other. The government was uneasy, and the rumor of war with France louder than ever. Stuart sympathizers would not be suffered gladly, and active supporters would be imprisoned, at best. Memories of public executions and deportations were still fresh.

After six weeks he had the hope, but only the hope, that if Charles could act quickly, and begin his campaign, his English followers would join him.

They had so much to lose, Brigham thought. How well he knew it. Homes, lands, titles. It was a difficult thing to fight for something as distant as a cause when you gambled your name and your fortune, as well as your life.

Turning, he studied the portrait of his grandmother. His decision had already been made. Perhaps it had been made when he had still been a schoolboy, his head on her knee as she wove tales of exiled kings and a fight for justice.

It was dangerous to tarry much longer in London. The government had a way of uncovering rebels
and dealing with them with nasty efficiency. Thus far, Brigham’s name had kept him above suspicion, but he knew rumors were flying. Now that war with France was once more inevitable, so was talk of a new Jacobite uprising.

Brigham had never hidden his travels to France, to Italy, to Scotland. If anyone decided to shift the blocks of his last few years around, they would come up with a very interesting pattern.

So he must leave, Brigham thought, kicking a smoldering log in the dying fire. This time, he would go alone and under the cover of night. When he returned to London next, it would be with Serena. And they would stand where he stood now and toast the true king and his regent.

He returned to Scotland for the Prince, as Serena had said. But he also returned to claim what was his. Rebellion aside, there was one battle he was determined to win.

Hours later, as Brigham was preparing to leave for a quiet evening at his club, his sober-faced butler intercepted him.

“Yes, Beeton?”

“Your pardon, my lord.” Beeton was so old one could almost hear the creak of his bones as he bowed. “The earl of Whitesmouth requests a word with you. It seems to be a matter of some urgency.”

“Then show him up.” Brigham grimaced as Parkins fussed over his coat, looking for any sign of lint. “Leave off, man. You’ll drive me to a fit.”

“I only desire my lord to show himself to his best advantage.”

“Some of the female persuasion would argue that to do that I must strip.” When Parkins remained stone-faced, Brigham merely sighed. “You’re a singularly humorless fellow, Parkins. God knows why I keep you.”

“Brig.” The earl of Whitesmouth, a small, smooth-faced man only a few years Brigham’s senior, strode into the room, then pulled up short at the sight of the valet. It only took a glance to see that Whitesmouth was highly agitated.

“That will be all for this evening, Parkins.” As if he had all the time in the world, Brigham crossed to the table by the bedroom fire and poured wine into two glasses. He waited until he heard the adjoining door click quietly shut. “What is it, Johnny?”

“We have trouble, Brig.” He accepted the glass, and downed the contents in one swallow.

“I surmised as much. Of what nature?”

Steadier for the drink, Whitesmouth continued. “That pea-brained Miltway drank himself into a stupor with his mistress this afternoon and opened his mouth too wide for any of us to be comfortable.”

After taking a long breath, Brigham sipped and gestured to a chair. “Did he name names?”

“We can’t be sure, but it seems likely he spilled at least a few. Yours being the most obvious.”

“And his mistress … She’s the redheaded dancer?”

“The hair on her head’s red,” Whitesmouth stated crudely. “She’s a knowing little package, Brigham, a bit too old and too experienced for a stripling like Miltway. Trouble is, the young idiot has more money than brains.”

Miltway’s romantic liaisons were the last of Brigham’s concerns. “Will she keep quiet, for a bribe?”

“It’s too late for that. That’s why I’ve come. She’s already passed on some of the information, enough that Miltway’s been arrested.”

Brigham swore viciously. “Young fool.”

“The odds are keen that you’ll be questioned, Brigham. If you have anything incriminating—”

“I am not that young,” Brigham interrupted as he began to think ahead. “Nor such a fool.” He paused a moment, wanting to be certain his decision was made logically and not on impulse. “And you,
Johnny? Will you be able to cover yourself?”

“I have urgent business on my estate.” The earl of Whitesmouth grinned. “In fact, I have been en route several hours already.”

“The Prince will do well with men like you.”

Whitesmouth poured a second drink and toasted his friend. “And you?”

“I’m for Scotland. Tonight.”

“Flight now will show your hand, Brig. Are you ready for that?”

“I’m weary of pretense. I stand for the Prince.”

“Then I’ll wish you a safe journey, and wait for word from you.”

“God willing, I shall send it soon.” He picked up his gloves again. “I know you’ve run a risk by coming to tell me when you could have been on your way. I shan’t forget it.”

“The Prince has my pledge, as well,” Whitesmouth reminded him. “I pray you won’t tarry too long.”

“Only long enough. Have you told anyone else about Miltway’s indiscretion?”

“That’s a cool way of putting it,” Whitesmouth muttered. “I thought it best to come to you directly.”

Brigham nodded. “I’ll spend a few hours at the club as I had planned and make certain word is passed. You’d best get out of London before someone notes that you are not indeed en route to your estate.

“On my way.” Whitesmouth picked up his hat. “One warning, Brig. The elector’s son, Cumberland. Don’t take him lightly. It’s true he’s young, but his eyes are cold and his ambition hot.”

* * *

The club held many faces familiar to Brigham. Games were being played, bottles already draining. He was greeted cheerfully enough and invited to join groups at cards or dice. Making easy excuses, he strolled over to the fire to share a bottle of burgundy with Viscount Leighton.

“No urge to try your luck tonight, Ashburn?”

“Not at cards.” Behind them, someone complained bitterly about the fall of the dice. “It’s a fair night,” Brigham said mildly. “One well suited for traveling.”

Leighton sipped, and though his eyes met Brigham’s, they gave away nothing. “Indeed. There is always talk of storms to the north.”

“I have a feeling there will be a storm here sooner.” The dice game grew noisier. Brigham took advantage of the noise to lean forward and pour more wine in the glasses. “Miltway confided his political leanings to his mistress and has been arrested.”

Leighton said something unflattering about Miltway under his breath, then settled back. “How loose a tongue has he?”

“I can’t be sure, but there are some who should be put on guard.”

Leighton toyed with the diamond pinned to the lace at his throat. He was fond of such trinkets, and was often taken for a man who preferred a soft life. Like Brigham, he had made his decision to back the Prince coolly and without reservation.

“Consider it done, my dear. Do you wish for company on your journey?”

Brigham was tempted. Viscount Leighton, with his pink waistcoats and perfumed hands, might have looked like a self-indulgent fop, but there was no one Brigham would have chosen over him in a fight. “Not at the moment.”

“Then shall we drink to fair weather?” Leighton lifted his glass, then gave a mildly annoyed glance over Brigham’s shoulder. “I believe we should patronize another club, my dear Ashburn. This establishment has begun to open its doors to anyone.”

Brigham glanced around idly to the game. He recognized the man holding the bank, and most of the others. But there was a thin man leaning on the table, a sulky look in his eyes, a half-filled glass by his elbow. He was not taking his losses in a manner acceptable to polite society.

“Don’t know him.” Brigham sipped again, thinking that he might never again sit cozily by the fire in this club and drink with a friend.

“I’ve had the dubious pleasure.” Leighton took out a snuffbox. “An officer. I believe he’s off to cross swords with the French quite soon, which should make the ladies sigh. However, I am told that he is not in favor with our ladies any longer, despite the romantic figure he attempts to cut.”

With a laugh, Brigham prepared to take his leave. “Perhaps it has something to do with his lack of manners.”

“Perhaps it has something to do with his treatment of Alice Beesley when she was unfortunate enough to be his mistress.”

Brigham raised a brow, but was still only vaguely curious. The game was growing louder yet, the hour later, and he still needed Parkins to pack his bag. “The lovely Mrs. Beesley is a dim-witted piece, but from what I’m told, quite amiable.”

“Standish apparently thought she wasn’t amiable enough and took a riding crop to her.”

Brigham’s eyes registered distaste as he glanced over again. “There is something particularly foul about a man who …” He trailed off and his fingers tightened on his glass. “Did you say Standish?”

“I did. A colonel, I believe. He earned a particularly nasty reputation in the Porteous scandal in ‘35.” Leighton flicked a flake of snuff from his sleeve. “It seems he quite enjoyed sacking and burning and looting. I believe that’s why he was promoted.”

“He would have been a captain in ‘35.”

“Possibly.” Interest flickered in Leighton’s eyes. “Do you know him after all?”

“Yes.” Brigham remembered well Coll’s story of Captain Standish and the rape of his mother, the houses burned, the defenseless crofters routed. And Serena. He rose, and though his eyes were cold, there was nothing of his temper in his voice. “I believe we should become better acquainted. I fancy a game after all, Leighton.”

“It grows late, Ashburn.”

Brigham smiled. “Indeed it does.”

Nothing was easier than joining the game. Within twenty minutes he had bought the bank. His luck held, and as fate or justice would have it, so did Standish’s. The colonel continued to lose and, egged on by Brigham’s mild disdain, he bet heavily. By midnight, there were only three left in the game. Brigham signaled for more wine as he sprawled easily in his chair. He had deliberately matched drink for drink with Standish. Brigham had no intention of killing a man whose faculties were less sharp than his own.

“The dice appear to dislike you this evening, Colonel.”

“Or they like others too well.”

Standish’s words were blurred by drink and bitterness. He was a man who required greater sums of money than his soldier’s pay to back his lust for gambling, and his equal lust for a place in society. Tonight his bitterness stemmed from a failure to achieve either. His offer for a well-endowed—both physically and financially—young lady had been turned down only that afternoon. Standish was certain the bitch Beesley had gone whining to whomever would listen. She’d been a whore, he thought as he swilled down more wine. A man had a right to treat a whore however he chose.

“Get on with it,” he ordered, then counted the fall of Brigham’s dice. Snatching up the dice box, he threw and fell short.

“Pity.” Brigham smiled and drank.

“I don’t care to have the bank switched so late in the game. It spoils the luck.”

“Yours seemed poor all evening, Colonel.” Brigham continued to smile, but the look in his eyes had driven more than one man away from the game. “Perhaps you consider it unpatriotic that I’m fleecing a royal dragoon, but here we are only men, after all.”

“Did we come to play or to talk?” Standish demanded, signaling impatiently for more wine.

“In a gentlemen’s club,” Brigham replied, coloring his words with contempt, “we do both. But then Colonel, perhaps you don’t often find yourself in the company of gentlemen.”

The third player decided the game was a bit too uneasy for his taste. Several of the other patrons had stopped what they were doing to look, and to listen. Other games were abandoned as men began to loiter around the table. Standish’s face reddened. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he had been insulted.

“I spend most of my time fighting for the king, not lounging in clubs.”

“Of course.” Brigham tossed again, and again topped the colonel’s roll. “Which explains why you are inept at polite games of chance.”

“You seem a bit too skilled, my lord. The dice have fallen for you since you took your seat.”

“Have they?” Brigham glanced up to raise a brow at Leighton, who was idly swirling a drink of his own. “Have they indeed?”