“I agree that Oliver has become a concern. He’s jealous of Derrowford’s wealth and his place in society.” Walpole clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace.
“Charles Oliver ordered a fellow officer chained to a cot like an animal.”
Walpole heard the underlying fury in Chisenden’s voice. “And not just any fellow officer,” he finished the marquess’s unfinished thought, “but a fellow officer who happened to be the king-maker’s grandson. The sole heir of the marquess of Chisenden. What arrogance!” Walpole smiled. “However unpleasant the experience was for the young earl, being chained to his bed has become a blessing in disguise.”
“Explain yourself,” Chisenden demanded.
Walpole walked over to the French escritoire and removed a sheaf of papers from the top of the stack. “I received the latest of General Wade’s reports yester eve.” He handed the papers to Chisenden to read.
The marquess took a moment to scan the military report Oliver’s lieutenant had sent to General Wade.
“As you can see, we were fortunate the abduction occurred when it did and that Tam MacInnes was forced to cut the shackles from Neil’s wrists. We can prove the earl of Derrowford and his two guards were taken from the fort against their will.”
“Prove it to whom?” Chisenden asked.
“A military court.”
“Why must we prove Neil was abducted from the fort? We know he was abducted. We arranged it.”
“I’m aware of that,” Walpole said. “But you and I and General Wade and the king are the only ones who understand why the king requested such an alliance with a Jacobite highland clan. Major General Oliver has no idea we conspired to marry your grandson to the laird of Clan MacInnes. He believes the earl is a deserter and is determined to pursue the matter. He’s demanding personal satisfaction.”
“God’s blood! Spotty Oliver knows Neil would never shirk his duty by deserting the king’s army! He knows Neil would never give him that satisfaction. And I’ll personally hang his head from the Tower gates if he continues to seek retribution against my grandson!” Chisenden exploded.
“I believe that’s what Major General Oliver intends for Neil.” The First Lord of the Treasury gave his friend a wry smile and quirked an eyebrow. “Did you say Spotty Oliver?”
“School name,” the marquess replied offhandedly. “During his adolescence Major General Sir Charles Oliver was known as much for the spots on his face as for his lack of intelligence.”
Walpole laughed aloud. “Tam MacInnes didn’t bother to hide his tracks once he gained entry into Fort Augustus. According to the lieutenant’s report, any fool could tell that Neil and his two guards were taken from the fort against his will.”
“Any fool except the commanding officer of Fort Augustus.” Chisenden muttered another oath.
“We chose him,” Walpole reminded him.
“The clan is in desperate straits. Neil’s requested supplies and stonemasons. If I send them, how long do you think it will be before a lackwit like Oliver realizes that all he has to do to locate Neil is to follow the trail of supplies leaving London and Edinburgh and heading into the highlands?”
“We’ll do our best to circulate the information that all the supplies you and Lady Chisenden purchase for the earl is destined for a new home here in London in order to throw him off the scent, but …” Sir Robert shrugged his shoulders. “The king and General Wade will know Oliver’s intent. Neil will never be charged or tried with desertion or treason and should Oliver capture him, he’ll be set free upon arrival in London.”
“If he reaches London.” Chisenden frowned. “What’s to stop Oliver from shooting Neil on sight? What’s to stop him from trying and hanging Neil in Scotland?”
“We will.”
Both men turned to find the king standing in the doorway with his mistress at his elbow. The marquess of Chisenden and the First Lord of the Treasury bowed as their sovereign and his lady entered the room.
“We cannot countenance treasonous acts or allow the young earl to raise arms against us, but we shall order that should he be captured, the earl of Derrowford is to be brought to us,” the king pronounced. He stared at Lord Chisenden. “We shall send General Wade on a personal inspection of the fort and we shall let it be known that we wish to make an example of the earl for consorting with our enemies. And you shall provide us with a handsome sum so that we might pay a reward for his live return. No one will dare to harm him then.” King George addressed both of them. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” they replied.
“Good.” The king smiled. “Now, begin at the start and tell us everything.”
“My dear Louis, what is it? Are you ill? Kingsley said you had returned from the palace and that you ordered the staff assembled and my immediate presence.” The marchioness of Chisenden entered the ballroom accompanied by the whisper of exquisite silk and Honiton lace and the scent of oak moss and ambergris. The swiftness with which she’d arrived, the worried tone in her voice, and her unprecedented use of his given name in the presence of the household staff gave a good indication of her affection and concern for her husband.
“I’m quite all right, my dear.” The marquess said as he moved to stand beside his wife. “I summoned the household because we’ve had a message from Scotland.”
Fearing the worst, the marchioness pressed her palm over her heart. “You’ve news of the boy? Tell me quickly. Is he …”
“Oh, no, my dear.” He reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “The boy is fine. In fact, he’s better than fine. He’s taken a bride.”
“I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed.
“It’s true. A messenger arrived from Scotland this afternoon with the news and a letter from Neil.” The marquess turned to address the employees standing stiffly at attention and arranged, according to rank and years of service, into three long, uniform lines that spanned the width of the ballroom. “Lady Chisenden and I have asked you here today to share the wonderful news that our grandson and heir, the earl of Derrowford, has taken a bride. Married in Scotland a sennight ago, Lady Derrowford is the daughter of an old family friend—” He intercepted a speculative glance from his wife and paused momentarily before continuing, “—the late laird of Clan MacInnes, Laird Callum MacInnes. The new countess of Derrowford was known as Lady Jessalyn MacInnes in Scotland and has recently ascended to her father’s position as the hereditary laird of her clan. Most of you know that the earl of Derrowford is in Scotland as part of General Wade’s Corps of Royal Engineers. As he’s engaged in the construction of badly needed roads and forts, he won’t be able to return to London with his bride for a while so he’s asked that we send household provisions and a few wedding gifts for his bride.” The marquess removed Neil’s letter from his waistcoat pocket and began to read the list of provisions. “Enough white flour, rye, sugar, salt, molasses, barley, oats, peas, beans, cheese, salted, dried, and smoked fish, apples, pears, quinces, peaches, dried dates, figs, prunes, raisins, herbs, malt, hops, kegs of beer, ale and wine to feed fifty souls throughout the winter months.” He glanced at his housekeeper and Cook. “Mrs. Mingot, you and Cook will be responsible for seeing that the countess of Derrowford’s Scottish kitchens are properly stocked. And Mrs. Mingot, the countess will need suitable linens, bolts of fabric and household goods—mattresses and pewter—whatever will be necessary to equip a castle. Spare no expense. His Lordship has granted permission to raid the attics of his London townhouse and Lady Chisenden and I shall do the same. Send someone to the earl’s house and enlist his housekeeper’s aid. Tell Mrs. Petrie that we wish to start first thing in the morning. We must have everything assembled and ready to leave for Scotland within the sennight.”
Mrs. Mingot nodded in understanding. “Very good, sir.”
“A nursery, Mrs. Mingot,” the marchioness added. “As the earl and countess are newly wedded, we should prepare for an heir and include nursery furnishings.”
Th
e marquess recognized the damp sparkle in his wife’s eyes and smiled down at her. It was just like Charlotte to think of preparing a nursery. She dearly loved children and had wanted a houseful. But it wasn’t to be. Chisenden knew she blamed herself because she had only conceived, had only given birth, one time. He knew that she thought he found her lacking. But nothing was further from the truth. He hadn’t loved her when they married. He’d been too grief-stricken and still too deeply in love with Helen Rose to appreciate his good fortune in finding her, but Charlotte had always been an excellent wife. He knew that now. They had suited each other quite well and in the fifty-one years since they’d exchanged vows, he had come to care very deeply for her and to rely on her impeccable judgment. He felt a deep and abiding affection for his second wife and held her in great esteem and had he not known Helen Rose, he might have mistaken his deep affection for Charlotte for love. Charlotte had succeeded where Helen Rose had failed. Both his wives had given him sons, but Charlotte had survived her lying-in and her son had grown to manhood, married and lived long enough to sire Neil. For that, the marquess of Chisenden would be forever grateful. And he would forever be tormented by the knowledge that the memories of his three years with and his love for Helen Rose remained vivid and ever constant. Charlotte deserved better. She deserved to be loved the way he’d loved his Scottish bride. Chisenden sighed and reached out for his wife’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Quite so, my dear. Pray Heaven that we’ll live to see another generation of Claremonts in the nursery.” He cleared his throat then turned his attention back to his grandson’s letter and resumed his reading of the listed items. He issued directives and assigned tasks to the members of the staff according to their specialties and abilities, priding himself on knowing the workings of his household well enough to recognize the strengths and weaknesses of each member of his staff. That ability had served him well over the years. It had helped him become “the king-maker,” one of the most powerful men in England. He skimmed over Neil’s requests for weapons. He fully intended to send the necessary swords and firearms and ammunition, but Chisenden preferred to keep that information to himself until he apprised the king of his plans. When he reached the end of the letter, he turned to his wife once again. “This is where you come in, my dear,” he said. “Neil has asked that you select a wardrobe for his bride with slippers to match every garment. He’s asked that you order shoes and slippers in the latest styles and in every color of the rainbow. They can be as plain or as fancy as you choose, but they must be of the highest quality. And,” the marquess paused for effect, “you must order a pair for every day of the year.” A collective gasp arose from the servants who remained in the ballroom—none of whom had ever owned more than three pairs of shoes at one time. Royalty might exhibit such extravagance, but no one had ever heard of an English earl doing so. “And no two pairs should be alike.”
Lady Chisenden raised an eyebrow and gave voice to the thoughts of nearly everyone in the room. “He wants me to order three hundred pairs of ladies shoes?”
“Three hundred and sixty-four to be exact,” the marquess confirmed. “And one pair of boots—shiny black leather boots made just like the ones Neil had made in London, only smaller.”
“Louis, I don’t understand. This extreme display of wealth is so unlike the boy. What can he be thinking?”
The marquess grinned and for a brief moment everyone in the room caught a glimpse of the young man Lady Helen Rose MacInnes and Lady Charlotte Woodson had fallen in love with a half a century earlier. “You’ve always said a lady can never have too many pairs of shoes.”
“I never thought I’d admit it,” she said flatly, “but I was wrong. No one can wear three hundred and sixty-five pairs of shoes.”
The marquess leaned close to his wife and spoke in a low dulcet tone of voice meant for her ears alone. “The clan must be in desperate straits or Neil would not have requested so many supplies. Clan MacInnes is a Jacobite clan, my dear, and our troops have dealt very harshly with the Stewart sympathizers since the rebellion. You’ve read Neil’s descriptions of the poor women who work as laundresses at Fort Augustus. They’re paid and they’re starving. Imagine how difficult it must be for the men and women who don’t earn English silver or gold. The highlands have been picked clean. The clansmen and women are hungry and probably barefooted as well. In addition to being the countess of Derrowford, Neil’s bride is laird of her clan. It doesn’t matter to Neil whether or not she wears all the shoes. What matters is that he’s able to give them to her.”
“Very well,” the marchioness declared. “By tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have every cobbler in London working around the clock making shoes.”
“Then, you’ll need this.” Chisenden produced another bit of sheepskin from his waistcoat pocket. He held the sheepskin in his left hand, carefully unfolding it to reveal the delicate shape of a woman’s foot—a foot small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He smiled at his wife and their gazes met in a meaningful look. “Her feet are no bigger than yours.”
Lady Chisenden beamed, looking far younger than her seventy years. “How convenient! When our grandson brings his bride to visit, I’ll be able to borrow shoes from her.”
“In that case, I suggest you choose colors and styles to compliment your gowns and the gowns that will make up our new granddaughter’s bride clothes.”
“Her bride clothes!” Lady Chisenden exclaimed. “What dressmaker shall I use? Mine or the one he uses for Deborah?”
The marquess lifted an eyebrow in query. “Deborah?”
Lady Chisenden frowned. “You needn’t repeat the widow Sheridan’s given name as if you’d never heard it spoken aloud, Louis, nor pretend you weren’t aware of her place in Neil’s life.”
“Of course, I’ve heard her given name spoken aloud, my dear. I wasn’t aware that you had heard it or that, being a lady, you would repeat it,” he chided.
“Oh, posh,” she replied. “I’m a grown woman, Louis, and although our grandson is ever the gentleman and quite discreet, I’m aware of his arrangement with Deborah Sheridan. I hear she’s very extravagant and that Neil is extremely indulgent. I know that she lives in a house he rented for her on Bond Street and that her dressmaker’s bills are enormous.” She glanced over at her husband.
“You know more about Neil’s amour than I expected.”
“People gossip, Louis. Often within my hearing. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“What question was that, my dear?”
“Shall I hire my dressmaker to make our new granddaughter’s wardrobe or shall I have the dressmaker Neil hired for Deborah do it?”
Chisenden shrugged his shoulders in an elegantly aristocratic gesture. “He didn’t specify a dressmaker in his letter so I’m afraid that decision is up to you.”
“Nor did he specify his bride’s size or coloring,” the marchioness grumbled. “How like a man to expect me to order the necessary gowns and undergarments for a woman without sending measurements or an idea of her coloring, so that I might select the most flattering styles and hues.”
The marquess leaned closer to his wife and whispered, “He did include a description of her, but he compared her size to that of his mistress. I didn’t divulge that information because I was foolishly trying to protect your sensibilities. He wrote, ‘The MacInnes is smaller than Deborah in every way. She’s shorter in stature and slim of hip and torso. Her legs are slender and shapely and although she’s less endowed than Deborah, her bosom is quite firm and nicely rounded. Her hair is long and thick and curly. It’s a dark red. Not Titian and not brown, but somewhere in between. Her complexion is fair and her eyes are blue.’ ”
“Light or dark blue?” Lady Chisenden asked, more out of curiosity than of any real need to know.
“Dark blue,” Lord Chisenden answered. “Dark blue with dots of gold in their depths. The mark of the MacInneses. Lady Jessalyn has the MacInnes eyes.”
The marchioness heard the faraway note in he
r husband’s voice, saw the familiar shadow of sadness darken his face and knew that he was thinking of his first wife. And she knew from Neil’s description that the new countess of Derrowford most likely bore an uncanny resemblance to the fifty-four-year-old portrait of another countess of Derrowford that hung in the marquess’s study. “That tells me what I need to know about the gowns and the shoes,” she said, softly. “Now tell me what you are going to do about the mistress.”
Chisenden straightened his back and shoved the tender memories aside and looked askance at his wife once again. “Do? Why should I do anything about her? Neil made arrangements for her upkeep before he departed for Scotland.”
“Did he end his liaison with her before he left?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Lord Chisenden admitted.
Lady Chisenden frowned at her husband’s naivete. “Surely, you don’t believe that Deborah Sheridan will just fade into the background? As soon as she hears that Neil has married, and she’s sure to hear, she’ll make a fuss. She won’t let go of our grandson or his fortune that easily.”
“She won’t have a choice. I’ll send for Neil’s man of business. I intend to have the man purchase the house Neil rented for the widow and present the deed to her along with the cash settlement she and Neil agreed upon. That should keep her in the manner to which she’s become accustomed until she can find another protector.”