“When a Sassenach pays tribute to a Scot,” Auld Tam said, “he becomes worthy of my friendship and my trust.” He reached out a hand to Neil. “And when a mon acknowledges a woman’s strengths then he becomes worthy of winning her heart.”
Chapter Twelve
London
The marquess of Chisenden lifted the morning mail from the silver salver on the massive oak desk in his study. He sorted the array of cards and invitations scattered on the tray, stopping when he came to a rolled sheet of parchment. He immediately recognized the seal on the parchment and his hand shook as he broke the wax and unrolled the document. It contained several pages. Chisenden’s heart seemed to thud against the walls of his chest in anticipation and he heaved an audible sigh of relief when his grandson’s distinctive handwriting seemed to leap off the page at him. He whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks as he read the note and the long list of instructions Neil had written. His grandson was furious with him. That much was patently clear from his letter. He was furious enough to make demands no other man would dream of making of the king-maker—and justified in making them, supremely confident in the knowledge that these demands would be met. But the boy had done his duty like the gentleman he’d been raised to be. He had assumed responsibility and he had written to inform his grandfather that he had done so.
The marquess smiled, his chest puffed out and fair to bursting with love for and pride in his only grandchild. “Who brought this message?” he demanded of Kingsley, his butler, who waited patiently just inside the doorway of the study. “When did it arrive?”
“A messenger from Scotland delivered it three-quarters of an hour ago, sir, while you were meeting with the king’s secretary.”
“Where’s the messenger?” Lord Chisenden demanded.
“He’s in the kitchen, sir. Shall I send for him?”
The marquess glanced at the clock on the mantel and waved Kingsley’s suggestion aside. “No need to pull the man away from his meal. I’ll speak to him there.”
“Sir?” Kingsley’s jaw dropped open as he stood stiffly at attention.
“No need to stand there gaping like a fish on dry land, either, Kingsley. Just because I haven’t paid a visit to the kitchens since I was a boy doesn’t mean that I am not aware of their purpose or their location. I’m not quite in my dotage and I’m completely capable of finding the kitchens in my own home.” The marquess folded the letter and placed it in the pocket of his coat. He brushed a speck of lint from his lapel, tugged at the hem of his waistcoat and strode out the door, calling to Kingsley over his shoulder. “I’ll speak to Cook. Have someone ready my coach and send a messenger around to the palace requesting an urgent meeting with His Majesty and the First Lord of the Treasury, Sir Robert Walpole. Fetch Lady Chisenden and my secretary, and ask Mrs. Mingot to assemble the rest of the staff as soon as I return from my meeting with the king. I’ll also need to speak with the earl of Derrowford’s man of business. Send someone out to find him and tell him that I’ll require a meeting with him in my study after I’ve spoken to the staff.”
“Trouble, my lord?” Kingsley asked, a worried frown creasing his forehead.
Chisenden grinned. “Not at all. Quite the opposite. His Lordship has sent instructions from Scotland and we have a great deal of work to do.”
The walls and corridors of the house seemed to vibrate with excitement as the marquess of Chisenden made his way through the richly paneled halls and rooms on his way to the kitchen. Maids curtseyed and footmen and other household servants tugged at their forelocks as the master of the house ventured into territory he hadn’t trod in fifty years. The hustle and bustle of the kitchen came to a standstill as the marquess breached the threshold. Kitchen maids and assistants halted in their tracks, practically falling over themselves to pay their respects to the man few of them had ever seen up close. Cook wiped the perspiration from her brow, clutched at her ample bosom, and fumbled for a chair to keep her knees from buckling beneath her as Lord Chisenden entered the cavernous kitchen. “I’ve come to speak to the man from Scotland.”
“H-h-he isn’t here.” Cook stumbled over her words.
The marquess pointed to the empty bowl on the kitchen table. “Kingsley told me he sent the man to the kitchen to get something to eat.”
“He ate two bowls of stew, your lordship, then went out to the stables to bed down,” Cook reported.
The marquess frowned at that, his thick, dark brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe that the staff of Chisenden Place did not offer a man who had traveled hundreds of miles to bring me a message from Scotland a comfortable bed indoors?”
“We offered, my lord, but the young man refused it. He thanked me quite profusely for the meal and couldn’t say enough about my stew, but he wouldn’t hear of taking the bed we offered. Said he’d rather sleep outdoors than put someone else out of his bed or cause any interruption in the household routine.” Cook shrugged her shoulders, the idea of anyone preferring to share quarters with the horses instead of in a warm feather mattress quite beyond her comprehension.
“He’s a Scotsman,” Chisenden laughed. “He probably didn’t like the idea of being surrounded and outnumbered by Sassenachs in an unfamiliar house. But he was tactful. It sounds as if he has the makings of a diplomat. I must find the man and shake his hand.” He brushed Cook’s hand with his own as he walked past her toward the doorway which led through the scullery and outside. “I’ve asked Kingsley to have Mrs. Mingot assemble the staff in the ballroom. Once I’ve spoken to the messenger from Scotland, Lady Chisenden and I will speak to the staff.” He nodded toward the pots simmering atop the stove and the pans of pastries set to go into the ovens. “If your duties allow it, I’d like you and your assistants to join us.”
“Of course, your lordship,” Cook lowered her gaze and bobbed a quick curtsey.
“I rarely have the opportunity to say it,” he said. “But I thank you for your loyalty and for the work you do.” He turned away before anyone had a chance to respond and hurried out of the kitchen.
“I’ve come to speak to the Scotsman,” Chisenden called to the head groom as he strode through the stables.
“He’s up there, yer lordship.” The groom pointed toward the loft.
Chisenden nodded an affirmative and walked past the stalls lining both sides of the barn. He didn’t stop to exchange greetings with the men or admire the expensive horseflesh they tended so diligently. He didn’t pause until he reached the ladder leading up to the hayloft. Glancing up, Lord Chisenden wiped his palms down the sides of his immaculately cut breeches, then grasped the ladder and climbed to the loft.
He found the Scots messenger wrapped in a well-worn length of tartan and curled up atop a pile of sweet-smelling hay. Resisting the urge to nudge the man with the toe of his boot, Lord Chisenden knelt down and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.
The Scot jerked awake at the touch and jumped to his feet ready to fight.
“Easy, lad,” Lord Chisenden crooned in a Scottish burr rusty from long years without use. “No one here will harm you.” He rose to his full height and found himself staring into the face of the messenger who was little more than a boy in a man’s body. As he studied the young man’s features, Lord Chisenden realized the Scot had reason to wake up flailing. His eyes were dark blue flecked with gold. The gold-flecked dark blue that was the heritage of members of Clan MacInnes—the gold-flecked dark blue that brought back vivid, aching reminders of Helen Rose. But the resemblance to Helen Rose ended with the color of his eyes. A thin, ugly scar marred his face from the corner of his right eye and across his cheek and chin. Chisenden had seen enough battle scars to recognize the mark. Someone had laid the young man’s flesh open with a sword. Since the young man was a Scot, the average Londoner might assume the scar had been the result of a raid on a clan of fellow highlanders, but Lord Chisenden knew better. Scotsmen didn’t carry cavalry sabers. The scar on the messenger’s face had been made by a blow to th
e face with the flat of a cavalry saber and the marquess was willing to bet that the man wielding that saber had been an Englishman on horseback. Chisenden extended his hand. “I’m the marquess of Chisenden. You brought a message from my grandson, the earl of Derrowford.”
The messenger studied the outstretched hand of the older man for a moment, then shook it. “Ranald MacCurran. I don’t have the message ye want, sir. I gave it to the mon who answered the door at the house.”
“Yes, I know. That man was my butler, Kingsley. He gave it to me and I’ve read it. But there are a few things in it that I’d like to discuss with you.”
Ranald shrugged his shoulders. “I canna help ye there, sir,” he said. “His Lordship sealed the letter himself and I dinna open it.”
Lord Chisenden smiled. “I know,” he said. “The earl of Derrowford’s seal was intact. I intend to share some of the information in this letter with you, Ranald, because I want your comments and suggestions on the best way to carry out my grandson’s instructions. Living in the highlands as you do and having just traveled across Scotland and England, you have a much better understanding of the situation and the conditions we’ll encounter than I.”
Ranald drew himself up to his full height at the marquess’s words and puffed out his chest. “Aye, yer lordship.”
“So,” the marquess rubbed his hands together, “tell me, Ranald, how is my grandson? Tell me about his abduction and the wedding. How did they go?”
“He weren’t verra happy about bein’ abducted, yer lordship, but he was real happy aboot having the chains cut off.”
“What chains?”
“The chains around his wrists. Auld Tam said his lordship was chained to the bed in his room at the fort when they abducted him.”
Chisenden rubbed at the deep grooves in his forehead. Neil was the second highest ranking officer at Fort Augustus. Only one man at the fort had the power to order him chained to the bed. His commanding officer, Major General Sir Charles Oliver. But Neil and Sir Charles had known each other for years. They’d been at school together as boys. Surely Neil hadn’t given Sir Charles cause to confine him to quarters chained to the bed like an animal. Unless … Lord Chisenden traced the grooves on his forehead to his right temple and began to massage the knot forming there. He must remember to speak to General Wade about Sir Charles as soon as he finished carrying out his grandson’s instructions. “Did he say who chained him?”
“I dunno, sir. I dinna hear but Auld Tam said there were guards posted around his door as well.”
“Was anyone hurt during the abduction?” the marquess asked.
“His lordship had a cut on his cheek, most likely caused by a stone thrown up by his pony’s hooves and a knot on his head where Auld Tam tapped him with his battle axe, but he wasna’ hurt. Nor the men guardin’ his door or any of the other men at Fort Augustus.”
“Good,” the marquess pronounced. “How did my grandson seem when last you saw him?”
“He was angry at Auld Tam and the other Ancient Gentlemen at first, but he calmed down a bit after Auld Tam showed him the marriage contract signed by his own hand.”
The marquess frowned, remembering the role he had played in tricking his grandson into signing that document. “He admitted the contract was valid? Did he mention my name? Did he say anything about me?”
“He was verra angry with ye, sir.”
“But he agreed to the ceremony without any fuss?”
Ranald grinned. “Nay, sir. There was plenty of fuss with his lordship refusin’ to marry a dirty and barefooted highland lass and our Jessalyn refusin’ to marry a mon wearing a Sassenach uniform. It was a braw argument. They were both verra stubborn and Father Moray had to make them see the error of their ways. If he hadna, they mightna ha’ been churched. But they were and we had a verra fine feast to celebrate the weddin’s.”
“Weddings?” The marquess was intrigued in spite of himself.
“His lordship’s and the two Sassenach guards who married Auld Tam’s daughters, Magda and Flora.”
“They abducted the guards as well?”
“Aye. Magda and Flora took a fancy to the Sassenach soldiers and persuaded them to exchange vows.”
“Were they willing or unwilling?”
“They were verra willin’,” Ranald answered. “Only his lordship and our wee Jessie balked.”
“Tell me all about it,” Lord Chisenden urged. “Everything you can remember.”
Ranald did as the marquess asked, sparing no details about the things he’d witnessed or overheard right up until the moment he left Glenaonghais to make the journey to Edinburgh and then on to London.
“You made the trip on horseback in a sennight,” the marquess commented when Ranald concluded his recitation of the events of the journey. “Traveling with guards and heavily-laden wagons in the company of cattle and sheep drovers and dogs over the Turnpike road through England and on into Scotland will probably take between a fortnight and a month to reach Glenaonghais.”
Ranald shook his head. “Ye shouldna count on us makin’ it to Glenaonghais in less than a month, sir. We’ll have to stop in Edinburgh to hire the stonemasons. That may take a day or two and we canna take the most direct route from Edinburgh. Such a large and prosperous group of travelers would attract too much attention from the Sassenach—” Ranald cleared his throat, “English soldiers and rogue bandits and clans.”
The marquess thought for a moment, carefully considering Ranald’s words. “I’ll send a man of business ahead to buy enough food and supplies to keep the clan from starving until the main provisions arrive. He can also hire the stonemasons, carpenters and drapers in Edinburgh and pay them well enough to make the journey separately. When you reach Edinburgh, you’ll be able to travel through the city without stopping for supplies or go around it to avoid attracting too much attention if you find it necessary.” He patted Ranald’s shoulder. “Get some rest. You’ve done a fine job. You’ve earned it. If you change your mind about wanting a bed to sleep in …”
“I won’t,” Ranald quickly replied. “But thank ye kindly for offerin’.”
“So be it,” the marquess pronounced. “And if there’s anything you need or want while we’re preparing for the journey, you’ve only to ask.”
Ranald nodded in understanding, fully intending to take the marquess up on his generous offer just as soon as he had the opportunity to inspect the horseflesh in His Lordship’s fine stables.
Chapter Thirteen
The palace doors opened one by one and the guards silently stepped aside as the marquess of Chisenden made his way to the king’s chambers at St. James. Although the marquess of Chisenden had been instrumental in hammering out the Act of Settlement that designated Sophia, Electress of Hanover to succeed Good Queen Anne on the throne and the Act of Union that united England and Scotland, he hadn’t foreseen the Electress’s death. Sophia had died before Queen Anne so her son, George Ludwig, had succeeded her as Elector of Hanover and upon the death of Queen Anne, as King of England. He might be known as the king-maker, but Chisenden was under no illusion about the king. George spoke little English and took almost no interest in Britain or her people. The running of the country was left in the capable hands of the king’s cabinet of ministers—like Chisenden, Sir Robert Walpole and Charles Townsend who made up the Whig government. Although he preferred Hanover to London, the current rebellion in Scotland demanded the king’s attention and the royal standard flying high above the palace indicated that the king was in residence in London.
“The king is with his mistress.” Sir Robert Walpole, First Lord of the Treasury, greeted Chisenden upon his arrival. “He’ll join us shortly.” He held out his hand. “You’ve had word?”
The marquess shook hands with his old friend and colleague. “A messenger arrived from Scotland an hour ago with word of the abduction and the weddings.”
“Weddings plural?” Walpole asked, eyebrow raised.
“Yes.” Chisenden nodded. “T
wo men charged with the task of standing guard over my grandson were abducted along with him. They chose to marry the young women who abducted them rather than return to Fort Augustus without the earl.”
“They are to be commended for their loyalty to your grandson.”
“That’s true,” Chisenden agreed, “but loyalty to Neil wasn’t the only reason Sergeant Marsden and Corporal Stanhope chose to stay in the village and share his fate.” The marquess moved closer to Walpole and lowered his voice. “Something is amiss with Oliver.”
“How so?”
“Neil confided that his schoolboy rivalry with Oliver has escalated. At the time of his abduction he was confined to his quarters for questioning Oliver’s decisions.”
Walpole grinned. “He has benefited greatly from your tutelage, Chisenden. I imagine Neil was far from supportive when Oliver failed to secure the stonemasons we conspired to delay—or when Oliver chose to lie to General Wade and host the celebration of the completion of the wall before its completion.”
“According to his note, Neil’s primary complaint against Oliver was that the general was paying more attention to his tailor than to the security of the post. It seems Major General Oliver ended his negotiations with the masons’ guild in order to consult with his tailor. He refused to post guards along the perimeter to protect the gap in the wall and when Neil questioned that decision, Oliver answered him by ordering two guards to confine him to his quarters, chain him to his cot and stand watch outside his door.”
“Hence the abduction of the two guards by the clan,” Walpole said. The First Lord of the Treasury shook his head. “We counted on Sir Charles’s arrogance and his ignorance when we recommended him for the post.”
“We recommended him because even though he holds the rank of major general, Oliver is essentially ineffective as an officer and a leader. He cares nothing about the construction of the fort or the roads. We chose him because we could control him.” Chisenden paused. “Our future is linked with Scotland’s and because we’ve no wish to see the highlands or the clans destroyed, we needed someone who would concentrate on furthering his own personal ambitions instead of subduing the clans. Scotland needs the roads in order to bring prosperity to the highlands and our government needs the forts in order to guard against further highland disturbances. What we don’t need is a continuance of the hostilities with Scotland or more dissention against the foreign king here at home. Neil has known Oliver since their school days. He knew what to expect, but I must admit that I didn’t countenance Oliver’s animosity for him.”