Authors: Lucinda Brant
“That answers that,” Kinross murmured into the deafening silence, color to his cheeks. He squared his shoulders and took out his silver cheroot case for something to do. When he saw Dair glance at it, he offered him a cheroot, then handed over his smoldering cheroot so the Major could light his, saying conversationally, his cheroot back between his teeth, “If you like the blend, I’ll send you a box. I’m supposed to be giving the bloody things away.” He grinned guiltily, a glance at Roxton. “She says it’s not a good example to the boys…”
Dair lifted an eyebrow at this, not entirely sure who Kinross was referring to, but sensed it had everything to do with the Dowager Duchess of Roxton. Smoking the cheroot put him in a more convivial mood, and he nodded to Kinross, saying,
“Thank you. A box would be welcome…” He glanced at his cousin, and in an about-face said, “Charles is a traitor and a coward, but you are right. For all that, he is still my brother. I don’t wish him dead, for my mother’s sake as much as mine own. I hope he and Miss Strang have a long and happy life together. Sorry, sir, but it’s the truth,” he apologized to Shrewsbury. “In the Colonies I saw brother fighting brother, and that should never be. It’s just not right. Besides, if the earldom is to go beyond my generation, it will be Charles who will produce the earl to follow me. It wouldn’t do to the memory of our grandfather, the General Earl, for the line to die out with me, now would it?”
“Balderdash!” Roxton stated. “You’ll marry and have a son—I mean a—”
“—legitimate son?” Dair smiled crookedly. “I don’t think that likely, do you? The odds of Charles and his wife having a legitimate heir to the Strathsay earldom are better than my making it through the next winter, given my chosen employment. So I want him kept alive,” he said to Shrewsbury. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll rot in the Tower on whatever charge you care to invent, but Charles and his family are to be left alone. Your word on it, sir.”
Shrewsbury held the younger man’s gaze, as if mulling over the consequences of agreeing to such a promise and allowing Charles Fitzstuart his liberty. He had thought of quietly sending in an assassin to have the man disposed of; it would have given him a certain sort of satisfaction for the French and American rebels to know he could deal out his particular form of justice from the comfort of his book room in London. Yet, he was a traditionalist. As well as not wanting to cause the Countess of Strathsay undue distress at losing one of her only two sons, he did not want to be the one to cause the extinction of the earldom of Strathsay, particularly as the line was begun by Charles the Second’s coupling with Lady Jane Hervey, the younger daughter of a duke, who just happened to be his ancestor on his mother’s side. The English aristocracy were such an incestuous lot.
His gaze flickered over the bruising to the Major’s handsome face and to his long fingers that held the cheroot, the grazing to his knuckles still raw, and he had to agree with him. The man had a reckless disregard for his own safety. It had always been thus, since he was a boy. He was not the least surprised dispatches and letters from the colonial war front praised the Major’s heroism. Foolhardiness was mentioned more than once. That he had survived into his twenty-ninth year was close to a miracle. So it was not the following winter that he worried the young man would survive, it was the next couple of weeks in Portugal. England and Portugal might be allies, but with a new Queen just three months on the throne, there was unrest around every corner. Lisbon was crawling with cutthroats and spies, both Spanish and French, and he prayed that Alisdair Fitzstuart would return to England alive, and not in a lead casket. Finally, to the relief of everyone in the room, he nodded.
“Yes. All right. You have my word, and those in this room as witnesses to it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dair said solemnly, then grinned, which hurt his lip. “So it’s through Traitor’s gate and a spell in the Tower for me, is it?”
“Don’t be idiotic, Fitzstuart!” Shrewsbury said dismissively. “A fearless, trained killer like you, willing to risk life and limb for king and country, clapped up in prison? A complete waste of talent and energy. No. I have use of your particular—
skills
—on the Continent.”
He looked past Dair to Roxton, and then at Kinross and said, “As for anyone believing you could be a traitor… Those who entertain the idea must have a pebble for a brain. But there are just enough pebbles out there of our acquaintance to form a seashore, more’s the pity! Still. The conjecture will serve its purpose and bide us time; time enough for you to set sail, and hopefully reach your destination and your contact before the calls are loud enough to demand your release. Now, if your Graces will excuse us, I need to speak to Fitzstuart alone.”
“And why did I turn traitor?” Dair asked. “Conscience? War-weariness? Or debt?”
“Debt. Roxton. Kinross. Tell the Dowager Duchess her cousin got into a lot of debt, and stands accused of passing on sensitive documents to his brother to sell to the French on his behalf. As far as she and the rest of society are concerned, Fitzstuart is spending a sojourn in the Tower, while the matter is further investigated.”
“She won’t believe it,” Kinross said flatly, standing and stretching his legs, the rest of the gentlemen in the room doing likewise.
Dair agreed. “She won’t. She knows me better than my own mother.”
“Well, Kinross is going to make her believe it!” Shrewsbury grunted. “If Antonia Roxton believes it, then others will, too. And it is vital to our war efforts in the Colonies that our friends and relations believe Fitzstuart is locked up in the Tower. So I don’t care how you do it, Kinross, but make the Duchess believe it.”
The Duke of Roxton tugged at the lace ruffles at his wrists. “If anyone can convince her, it’s you, Kinross.” He regarded the Major a moment and said, sticking out his hand for him to take, “I don’t know what Shrewsbury has in store for you, but I have the greatest dread it is something as life-threatening as charging into battle. Good luck.”
“All so we can sleep safely in our beds, aye, Dair,” Kinross said, gripping the Major’s forearm.
Dair pulled him closer, so only he could hear. “I need to see Cousin Duchess before I head off on my Continental jaunt. Tomorrow morning.”
Kinross nodded. “I’ll let her know you’re coming. Time?”
“Before noon.”
Kinross put up his brows at the early hour but nodded his agreement. And without another word, he followed Shrewsbury and Roxton out of the book room to the anteroom, where farewells were made.
“I presume I will see you both at the theater tonight?” Shrewsbury asked cordially, as if the conversation in his book room had never taken place.
“It will be
me
for the Tower if we miss Sheridan’s new play!” Kinross exclaimed. “Come to our box. Antonia will be expecting you.”
Shrewsbury was not the least surprised by the invitation, or the fact that in sharing a box at the theater, Kinross and the Dowager Duchess of Roxton were making a public declaration of their relationship. Still, he could not help glancing over at the Duke of Roxton to gauge his reaction to this interesting piece of news. Roxton merely rolled his eyes in response but remained tight-lipped, which had Shrewsbury suppressing a grin that the principled Duke had silently capitulated to his mother’s
force majeure
.
“I would be delighted,” Shrewsbury replied, “and so will my granddaughter. Rory has been looking forward to this new play almost as much as her Grace. In point of fact, I believe it was the Duchess who wrote and told her…”
And so in discussing the upcoming evening at the theater, Lord Shrewsbury farewelled the two noblemen in a much better mood than he had received them. When he returned to his book room, Dair and William Watkins were still on their feet.
“For God sake, my boy, sit down! Sit down! Standing about with you and your relatives, makes me feel as if I’m at the bottom of a bloody well! You, too, Mr. Watkins. Now, before we discuss what it is I want you to achieve in Lisbon, there is something I need you to do… For me—” He looked at his secretary, “—and Mr. Watkins.”
Dair settled his shoulders into the upholstery of the wingchair directly opposite Shrewsbury’s desk, smoldering cheroot between his fingers, and crossed his booted ankles. Not a glance at William Watkins, he met the old man’s bespectacled blue eyes.
“Whatever it is, if it’s for you, sir, consider it done.”
“Good. I want you to forget the incident at George Romney’s studio ever happened.”
S
EVEN
‘P
ARDON
, sir? Incident?” asked Dair.
“Yes. Very good,” replied Shrewsbury. “That’s precisely how you will react and respond if anyone asks you.”
Dair glanced suspiciously at William Watkins. “At Romney’s studio?”
The old man nodded.
“It was just a piece of tomfoolery with some pretty dancers, and a bit of a beat-up with the militia.” Dair shrugged a shoulder and drew back on the cheroot. “Nothing to write home about, sir, and tame into the bargain.”
“
Tomfoolery
? A bit of a—of a—
beat-up
with the-the militia?
Tame
?” William Watkins’ voice was reed thin. “The damage alone to Mr. Romney’s studio, I calculate to be in the hundreds of guineas! As for the great distress to—”
“Thank you, Mr. Watkins,” Shrewsbury interrupted. “I understand your concerns, and I have your report—all twenty-five pages of it.”
Dair pulled a face. “Only twenty-five pages. No embellishment then?”
“When his lordship has had time to digest my report, he will see that your preposterous posturing—”
“Say that five times, Watkins. I’ll wager you can’t.”
“—has caused immeasurable damage to the—”
“Yes. Yes. Hundreds of guineas damage,” Dair stated flatly, with an exaggerated sigh. “Send me the account. Romney should be thanking me. The write-up in the newssheets alone will increase his trade in portraits tenfold. Not to mention those just calling on him for a gawp at where the action took place; he might persuade them to buy something in oils, too.”
“There will be no write-up in the newssheets,” Shrewsbury said smoothly. “The reporter’s notes were—confiscated.”
“Burned, my lord,” Watkins primly assured him. “I saw to it personally. And the editor was informed spirits were detected on the reporter’s breath, so his verbal account cannot be relied upon either.”
“Well, aren’t you a treasure,” Dair drawled sarcastically. “What did you do for an encore? Offer the girls the contents of your breeches to keep them quiet too?”
While Watkins was genuinely shocked, Shrewsbury chuckled.
“A secretary’s loyalty only stretches so far—”
“—and his gadso not far enough.”
Mr. Watkins had no idea what a gadso was, but when the old man laughed with genuine good humor he was convinced he was being slandered; with Shrewsbury’s next comment he knew it was so, and his face flushed purple with embarrassment.
“That’s not fair on Watkins, is it? Few men are blessed with good looks and equipage worthy of a prizewinning bull. So the rest of us don’t experience a stab of inadequacy, let’s keep the conversation above our breeches buttons, shall we? If you must know,” the old man continued more seriously, “your cadre of female admirers have been threatened with Newgate if they so much as squeak a word about last night. And Signora Baccelli will keep her pretty mouth shut, if she wishes Dorset’s continued devotion. Romney will be compensated, several lucrative commissions sent his way to sweeten his silence; his wastrel brother’s debts paid into the bargain. Mr. Cedric Pleasant has given his word never to speak of the incident, as has my grandson. There only remains for you to give me your word of honor to do the same. In fact, I want you to do more. I want you to claim to have been so drunk that you have no recollection of the evening whatsoever.”
Dair was annoyed by Shrewsbury’s high-handedness for what he considered nothing more than three friends having an evening of fun and games. That it ended in a riot was not strictly his fault. That was the fault of the militia, and the Spymaster’s orchestrated means of having him arrested. He had willingly fallen in with Shrewsbury’s plans, was prepared to be thrown in the Tower, if necessary, or sent off on some God-forsaken mission abroad, all for the cause of furthering British war efforts against the colonial rebels.
But what he was not prepared to do was be reprimanded for a harmless prank that had seen his friend Grasby the happiest he had been in years, and all because Weasel Watkins and his stiff-necked sister had taken offence. For Weasel to go squealing to Shrewsbury about an incident which was none of his business stuck in his throat as cowardly; a twenty-five page report indeed!
Anger with Weasel Watkins’ interference in his affairs did not stop him feeling the sort of discomfort he had experienced on the numerous occasions he was brought before the headmaster at Harrow to be thrashed for some minor infraction. One glance at the secretary, and he knew that was precisely how he wanted him to feel.
He was sorely tempted to put a fist into Watkins’ self-righteous smile. Instead, he lifted his heavy chin and said belligerently,
“That could be difficult. I mightn’t be too bright, but I do have an exceptional memory… And I haven’t yet been drunk enough not to remember the night before. Now Grasby, he was drunk, and shouldn’t be held accountable, because I was the one who got him drunk. I’ll take the blame for his actions, readily. But I’ll not cower in a corner all because your lily-livered secretary and his nose-in-the-air sister took offence about something they should not have witnessed in the first place!”
Shrewsbury removed his eyeglasses, closed his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. When he sighed, as if even
he
had been pushed beyond the limits of his patience, William Watkins was convinced the old man was about to give the Major a dressing down, and about time too! So he was astounded then when the Earl said,
“As you can both appreciate, the past twelve hours have been exhausting, twelve hours I could have better spent—but it is done… Watkins… Be so good as to take yourself off.”