Have ye met any Mackenzies? Mal wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut.
Charles went on in this way for a time, and Alec, feeling Duncan’s glare, finally translated for him.
Duncan bowed when Charles finished. “I have said so all along,” Duncan answered in English. “Malcolm will be returning to Kilmorgan to speak to our father. If anyone can persuade the duke to take up the cause, it’s the runt.”
Charles looked puzzled at the last word, until Alec explained the nickname in French. Charles flashed Mal an amused look. “You call him runt when he is extremely large.”
“Not when I was a wee lad,” Mal answered. “Now only Will can top me.”
Charles again pretended to smile as he turned to Will. “You will join us, tall William?”
“Leave it to Malcolm,” Duncan said. The look he bent on Malcolm told him Mal had better do as he said or have the thrashing of his life. While this had terrified Mal when he’d been a boy, these days he had more than an even chance at besting his brother in a straight fight.
“He won’t have to go all the way to Kilmorgan,” Alec said brightly. “Father has come to Edinburgh. With Angus.”
As Duncan’s face changed slowly from weathered red to angry purple, the prince’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, then you can go to him now. All of you, including you, Lord Duncan. Bring back all the Mackenzies to swell my ranks. Go. Now.”
Duncan scowled, but erased the glower to bow to Charles. “Of course, Your Highness. At once. I can’t promise to be successful. My father is devilish stubborn.”
“You will persuade him,” Charles said. He waved his fingers in a dismissive gesture, and turned back to the tables across the room where his generals were planning whatever they were planning.
Alec flashed a grin at his older brother. “That seems to be that. Come on, Duncan. Let’s not keep Da waiting.”
Malcolm did not return home with his brothers. He slipped away and spent the rest of the night making plans.
By the time he returned home, it was daylight, and he was ready for sleep. He’d hoped Duncan would have gone again, but he heard the shouting before he reached the house. His father must have woken from his laudanum-induced sleep and found Duncan there. The duke’s rage coupled with a hangover spilled out into the street.
Malcolm tried to continue walking past the house, but Will popped out the door and cut him off. “No you don’t,” Will said. “Get in here, runt. It’s going to take us all to keep them from killing each other.”
The duke and his firstborn son faced each other in the dining room, from which Naughton had cleared last night’s mess. The table had been set for breakfast, holding candelabras and a silver coffeepot, as well as porcelain cups. Too many weapons for Mal’s taste.
Alec and Angus stood on either side of the table, buffers between Duncan and their father. The twins didn’t always see eye to eye, but this morning they’d found common cause.
“. . . because you’re too bloody young!” The duke was shouting at Duncan as Will and Mal entered. “Ye don’t remember the last uprising, do ye? Well, I do. I was there.” He banged both fists on the table, rattling the porcelain. “I was there when it all went wrong. It broke my father, and he died of grief. That’s when I knew—if God wanted a Catholic on the throne, one would be there!”
“Ye believe in God only when it’s convenient to ye,” Duncan yelled back. Mal noticed he’d left his bonnet downstairs. Wise. If the duke had seen the white rose emblem on it, he’d have thrown it into the fire, and maybe tried to push Duncan there too. “And it’s nothing to do with Catholics. It’s to do with the right of the succession. That can’t be dismissed when it’s convenient.”
“Ye don’t give a donkey’s arsehole about the right of succession!” The duke waved his arms, his loose shirt fluttering. “Ye want to strut around and be right-hand man to a prince who will hang on your every word and tell ye how splendid ye are.”
“Maybe if you’d had any use for me, I wouldn’t have to pledge my loyalty to someone else!”
The duke went scarlet from forehead to throat. A vein pulsed at this temple, and Angus stepped forward in concern.
“Any use for ye? You’re my oldest son!” The duke held on to the lip of the table as his breath came fast. “You’re to be duke after me, take over me lands. Why wouldn’t I have use for ye?”
“Aye, and become a copy of you.” Duncan said, leaning his fists on the table. “A sanctimonious, hardened, dried-up pig of a man. Ye’ve let the rest of us know it’s Angus ye love, and none other. Surprised you remember ye have more sons.”
Will’s mouth compressed. “Mal.”
“Aye.” Malcolm signaled to Alec, and the two of them went to either side of Duncan.
Duncan didn’t notice. “Ye hated me before our mum died, because I took her attention away from you. Ye hated us all after for reminding ye of her. When are ye going to notice that your offspring hate ye back as much?”
The duke reached for the nearest candelabra, spraying wax across the table as he lifted it. The man was breathing rapidly, almost choking, spittle on his lips, but he had enough strength to throw the heavy silver piece across the table at Duncan.
Alec and Mal had already yanked Duncan out of the way. The candelabra sailed across the room and clattered into the mahogany paneling, the candles guttering and falling to the carpet in a smash of soft wax.
Mal took a firmer hold of Duncan’s arm, and Alec the other, as Duncan readied to launch himself at his father. Duncan fought his two youngest brothers as they dragged and shoved him out onto the landing and down the stairs.
Duncan broke away and was walking swiftly toward the front door on his own by the time they reached the ground floor. “To hell with him,” he snapped. “I’ll get the Mackenzies behind us another way.” He snatched up his green bonnet with its white badge and turned to Mal and Alec, who stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way back up the stairs. “Join me, Mal. Alec,” Duncan said, his voice hard. “You saw him. Why should you want to stay loyal to him?”
“Because he’s our da,” Malcolm said as the frightened footman opened the door wide for Duncan. “And you’re a wee bit too full of yourself.”
Duncan went red again, but he only snarled, swirled his coat and plaids around him, and was gone.
“Alec Mackenzie?” A man had come up while Duncan made his dramatic exit, waiting until Duncan had gone a little way up the street. Now said gentleman stood respectfully on the doorstep.
Alec went out to the newcomer. “Aye, I’m he. Wait, are ye going to shoot me or skewer me? In that case—never heard of the man.”
“I have a letter for you.”
The accent was English, but a quick look told Mal that the messenger was not a soldier. He didn’t have the stance or countenance of a man who made a living marching, shooting, and fighting for his life. He was soft-faced, like Jeremy Drake, but older.
“You couldn’t have sent it by post?” Alec asked with little patience. He usually wasn’t this impolite to a stranger, but a row between their father and Duncan put everyone in the family out of joint.
“This was too important to trust to the post,” the gentleman said. “This letter came from my sister in France, who is dear friends to Genevieve . . . to your wife.”
Alec’s face changed in an instant from irritation to abject fear. He snatched the letter the man removed from his coat pocket, ripped open the seal, and scanned the first lines.
A strangled cry came from Alec’s throat. He quietly fell back against the stones of the house behind him, the paper dropping from his nerveless fingers.
Mal caught the letter before it reached the ground, turned it around, and read:
Genevieve went quietly to God after a day of terrible illness, but now she is out of pain. Your daughter, whom she brought to bed the night before her death, thrives. One life is gone, but another has come . . .
Chapter 11
The day after Charles Stuart’s entrance into Edinburgh, Mary’s
father received an invitation for his entire family to attend a grand ball at Holyrood.
Aunt Danae studied the letter dubiously when Wilfort called them all into his library to tell them about it. “He means to hold court, it appears,” Aunt Danae said.
“Ought we to go?” Audrey asked, curious but uncertain. “Won’t the ballroom be overrun by Scottish soldiers?” She broke into a nervous smile. “Can you imagine them trying to do a minuet with all their plaids flying?”
“Of course we ought to go,” Aunt Danae said. “I imagine most of my acquaintance has received such an invitation. If they knew what went on at one of his dos, and I didn’t, I’d never live it down.”
“We will go,” Wilfort said. “What better way to see what the serpent intends but to go into his lair? However, Audrey, I think, should stay home.”
“Oh, Papa.” Audrey, who never defied her father, now shot him a pleading look. “I will face the same as Aunt Danae if I do not go. How awful to be the only lady in Edinburgh who cannot say she was there!”
“I can look after her,” Mary said. It stood to reason Jeremy would have an invitation as well. “Aunt Danae and I both can. If Lord Halsey and you accompany us, we will have the best protection there is.”
Wilfort gave Mary a wry look. “You flatter to cajole, daughter. But very well. I know that if I do not concede, I will hear much moaning in future. Audrey, you and Mary will stay with your aunt, and not wander off to explore the palace. This is not the home of a friend. I can imagine the delight one of these Highland warriors would have at discovering a young English lady alone. Your virtue would be a great prize to them.”
Mary’s face heated. She’d already been found alone by a Highland warrior, her mouth kissed, her bosom licked.
Aunt Danae mistook Mary’s flush for modesty. “Really, James. To say such things.”
Wilfort frowned. “I’ll not shelter my daughters until they are ruined from ignorance. Forewarned is forearmed. We will go, and stay together. That is my final word.”
Her father wasn’t wrong, Mary thought as they dispersed. They were going into the home of the enemy, and who knew what might happen there?
Debate was hot in the bedchambers as to what to wear. Should they go in their best, or dress more plainly to show Charles that he was not due the deference of a monarch? On the other hand, he was a prince, descended from an old royal family. Other ladies might be at their most fashionable—should they risk not shining as well as they might?
While Audrey and Aunt Danae argued, Mary’s maid, Whitman, took Mary aside and spoke in a low voice. “My lady, there is a . . . person . . . at the kitchen door asking to see you.”
Malcolm?
No, Malcolm would never try to slip in to find Mary by way of the kitchen. If he wanted to see her, he’d boldly march to the front door and demand to be admitted.
But then, this might be something about their plans for Audrey and Jeremy. Mary nodded her thanks, made an excuse to Aunt Danae, and followed Whitman back down the stairs.
All the servants of the earl’s house in Edinburgh were Scots, except for lady’s maids such as Whitman, and the earl’s manservant. The Scottish servants spoke in broad accents, with the language called Erse thrown in from time to time. Mary didn’t always understand them, but they were kind to her and her family, not surly, as her other English friends claimed their Scottish servants to be.
The kitchen staff—cook, her assistants, housekeeper, butler, and footmen—all sprang to their feet when Whitman came down with Mary and took her through the servants’ hall to the scullery door.
Whitman hadn’t wanted Mary following her below stairs, but Mary had insisted. She feared the man would leave if she did not go to him quickly. Scots messengers sometimes did that—simply walked off in impatience if one kept them waiting too long.
She understood why Whitman had described him as a “person” when Mary stepped onto the chilly passage outside the scullery. The man had sun-weathered skin, straggling red hair going to gray, a patch over one eye, a worn kilt, and wicked-looking knives and a pistol hanging from his belt.
“This her?” he asked Whitman.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Whitman said with a scowl. “This is her ladyship. What is your message? Make it quick.”
“It’s all right, Whitman,” Mary said, soothing. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Name’s Padruig. Not sir. Have a message for ye.” He glared at Whitman, clearly not wanting to repeat it in front of her.
“Please wait inside, Whitman.” Mary gave her maid a reassuring nod. “I will shout if I need you.”
Whitman did not want to leave Mary out here with this specimen, that was clear. She pinched her lips together but walked stiffly back into the house.
Once the door was shut, Padruig spoke. “Message is from himself. He says tonight, at the palace. Wait for his signal.”
“By himself you mean Lord Malcolm Mackenzie?”
Padruig gave her a nod. “He hired us. ’Tis a fool’s errand, but God favors fools, don’t he?”
“I certainly hope so.” Mary reached through a slit in her outer skirt to the pocket sewn beneath. “Thank you, sir . . . er, Padruig.”
Padruig lifted his hands from the shilling she held out to him. “Keep your money, miss. He’s already paying us well. Too well—me master’s a cheating bastard. But he’ll take care o’ her. You don’t need to worry about that.”
Giving Mary another nod, Padruig turned and made his way back through the passage to the street.
Whitman nearly pounced on Mary when she went inside again. “Who was that creature? If your father kept dogs here, I’d have set them on him.”
“He’s no one. Someone grateful for charity is all.” Mary was dismayed how easily a lie came from her lips. She had certainly changed in the short time she’d known Malcolm. “Say nothing of this to my aunt or father, I beg you. Please, Whitman. It’s important.”
Whitman again looked most disapproving, but she was loyal to Mary. “Very well, my lady.”
All the servants seemed to have assembled in the kitchen as Mary passed through again, watching curiously. “And please tell them to say nothing as well,” Mary added in a low voice.
The housekeeper, a tall woman with a soft face, heard her. “Never ye worry, m’lady,” she said. “Young ladies must have their secrets. This lot will say nothing, I promise ye.” The look she swept over the servants was severe.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. Thank you, all.”
“Now then, my lady. You’re a kindly sort. Not like some.”
Mary said thank you again, and hurried upstairs. She’d already made sure Audrey had a few simple clothes packed—in case they had to flee Scotland, as Mary had suggested to her father. While they readied themselves for the ball, Mary slipped the small bundle of Audrey’s things inside her voluminous cloak.
Malcolm was sandy-eyed and fatigued by the time he reached the ball held for the glory and honor of Charles Edward Stuart, supposed Prince of Wales, son of James III and VIII, King of England.
This morning, after Alec had staggered back into the house, their father had kept up a harangue against Duncan, until Angus and Mal managed to get the hungover duke back to bed, with a soothing preparation Naughton had mixed. Alec, without speaking, had gone straight upstairs and locked himself into his bedchamber.
When the house had settled down again, Malcolm softly knocked on Alec’s door.
“Alec. Ye all right?”
Alec hadn’t answered. Mal could hear nothing inside, not swearing or weeping. Mal had crept quietly away and returned in a few minutes to pick open the lock.
He’d found Alec sitting on an ornate settee before the fire, staring at nothing. Alec’s loose kilt, open shirt, and unshaved face contrasted sharply with the room’s gilded and carved French furniture, brought from Paris.
Mal sat down next to his brother. He said nothing, only let his shoulder touch Alec’s so Alec would know he wasn’t
alone.
Mal had read the entire letter several times. Genevieve, whom Alec had married during their last visit to Paris, had perished in childbed. The daughter she’d borne—Alec’s—was healthy and robust, now being looked after by a wet nurse.
The woman who’d written the letter was Genevieve’s oldest friend, and she now had care of the child. She’d sent the letter to her brother in London instead of straight to Alec, fearing the missive would be intercepted by the English ships prowling the sea between France and Scotland. The letter was dated four weeks ago.
Mal had known Genevieve, a dancer with an opera company, had been present for her turbulent courtship with Alec, and Alec’s subsequent wedding to her. Knowing it would take time to ease her into the Mackenzie family, Alec had left Genevieve in Paris, promising to send for her after he’d broken the news to his father.
When Charles had landed in Scotland, Alec wrote to Genevieve to tell her to stay put, where she’d be safer, until the child was born. He’d planned to bring her to Scotland once the uprising question was settled, and he had a grandchild to present to the duke. Only Mal had known about Genevieve, the marriage, and Genevieve’s pregnancy, and Mal hadn’t told a soul.
“I have a ship at the ready,” Mal said after a time. “It will take you to France tonight.”
Alec turned his head, regarding his brother with dead eyes. He didn’t ask how Mal had happened to procure a ship, or why; he simply said, “Thank you.”
Malcolm poured whisky for them both, making Alec drink it. When Alec finally drooped, Mal got him into bed, laying him on his side and pulling blankets over his cold body.
Mal then assigned the most trusted servants of the household—the ones who’d sit on Alec and not let him do anything foolish—to watch him, while he went out and put things in motion.
Now, at the ball, he spied Mary strolling in at her aunt’s side, and the ache in his heart eased.
Mary saw him, caught his gaze. Then with deft skill she kept her eyes moving, so no one in the room would guess she even noticed him.