Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (40 page)

Only Richard remained unpacified. His face was red with anger, and his fists clenched under the table. A muscle worked in his cheek. Sir Anthony had started a conversation with Miss Maynard on his left, and sensed rather than saw Richard start to rise.

“So, sir,” he said, laying a gloved hand on Richard’s arm. This time when the dragoon tried to shake it off, Sir Anthony maintained his hold. “I find your sister a most intoxicating woman, and must confess to being half in love with her. You must tell me more about her background. She never speaks of her childhood. Tell me everything, I will not be gainsaid.”

This had the desired effect. Richard was not about to throw away the chance of fostering relations between Beth and a wealthy and influential suitor, not even for the satisfaction of giving her a beating, which he had been about to go and do. He spent the next half hour painting a glowing portrait of his sister and her genteel upbringing, which bore no relation whatsoever to the woman Sir Anthony had observed so far, but to which he listened with apparent fascination and vapid exclamations of rapture, while Miss Maynard was sadly obliged to give all her attention to her lemon mousse.

By the end of the evening Richard was well satisfied. Sir Anthony was a better proposition than Lord Redburn. More generous with his money, for one thing. And, in spite of his inferior title, far more influential and respected. Beth would marry him, if he proposed to her. Richard would make sure of it.

* * *

The drawing room was quite tastefully appointed; its wood-panelled walls had been painted cream, the elaborate carvings gilded. A series of portraits of the owner’s ancestors hung around the room, gazing down austerely on the assembled company. A riot of gilded plaster garlands festooned the ceiling, breathtaking in their detail for anyone who cared to crane their necks and examine them.

This beautiful workmanship was completely wasted on the men who were scattered in small groups around the room. Some were sitting round small walnut card tables; others stood in twos and threes conversing in hushed voices, as though in church. They were dressed in hardwearing woollen or leather breeches in shades of brown or dark green. Their shirts were of coarse material, their shoes of stout leather, unadorned with silver or diamante buckles. Only one man was dressed appropriately for the setting, in the green livery of a footman. The others looked incongruous in the elegant room. An air of unease and anticipation pervaded the room, and although they knew each other well, their conversation was halting, desultory.

After a few minutes of this, the door opened. The buzz of conversation stilled, those who had been seated stood, and all eyes turned to the man who now appeared in the doorway. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, his eyes scanning the room, then he located the person he was looking for and moved purposefully across the room toward him.

The men who had been standing with Angus now moved away from him, as if by unspoken accord. The man halted for a moment in front of his ashen-faced brother and looked at him coldly. Angus raised one hand, palm forward, as if in supplication.

“Alex, I...” he began.

Alex’s fist crashed into his brother’s face, sending him reeling backwards against the wall. Angus splayed his hands against the painted wood to steady himself and shook his head to clear it. Then he moved away from the wall and stood straight, making no move to defend himself as Alex hit him again, this time in the abdomen. His breath shot from his lungs with a whoosh and he doubled over, managing by sheer effort of will not to fall to his knees. The next blow took him in the ribs.

The men watched in silence, their faces impassive as the beating was administered. It was systematic, designed to inflict maximum pain but no permanent damage. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Alex moved back and flexed his fingers to ease the pain of his bruised knuckles. He stood tall, menacing, as pale now as Angus, who had finally fallen to his knees, one arm wrapped round his bruised ribs, the other braced against the floor. His head hung down, his long fair hair obscuring his face.

“You have disgraced yourself and shamed your clan,” Alex said clearly and loudly in Gaelic, as though addressing an assembly of hundreds in an echoing hall, rather than twenty men in a genteel London drawing room. “If you do it again I will kill you, brother or no.” He turned away, and looked at the other men for the first time. “Find yourselves seats, we’ve things to discuss. I’ll be back directly.”

He shot one more look at his brother, who had now sat back onto his haunches, his breathing laboured, and then walked from the room. Duncan hesitated for a minute, glancing from his injured sibling, now trying painfully to regain his feet, to the doorway through which the other had just gone. Motioning to two of the nearest men to help Angus to a chair, he made his decision, and followed Alex downstairs into the kitchen.

There were no servants in the house tonight and Alex had ostensibly gone to fetch refreshments for the men. But when Duncan entered the room his brother was sitting at the table, his head in his hands. He looked up sharply, then seeing who it was, resumed his position.

“Are ye all right, man?” Duncan said, although it was clear Alex was not. He sat down beside him and waited.

“Mother of God, Duncan, what possessed him to do that? Rob an innocent man in broad daylight, risk his life and the lives of all of us, for the sake of what? Three hundred pounds?” Alex said after a minute.

“Three hundred and forty. I dinna think he saw it quite like that at the time,” Duncan replied hesitantly. “He did say as he’d originally intended just to accompany the man along the way for a wee while, no more. But he angered him so much wi’ his blethering on about how wonderful King Geordie was, and how he was going tae use some of the money he had with him to sponsor militiamen to put down any o’ they damn Jacobite bastards that took it into their heads to riot while the king was out of the country. So he decided tae relieve him of his burden and ensure it was put to better use. I can understand him.” Alex looked at him darkly. “I didna say I agreed wi’ him,” Duncan continued hastily. “I said I understand him. He said he couldna believe it when the man agreed to go down a dark lane wi’ him, and that he felt then that he was doing the man a favour, in a manner o’ speaking, because in future he’d think twice before trusting a stranger, which might save his life next time. He didna harm him, ye ken, just tied him up, that’s all.”

Although Duncan was uttering the words, this was so typically the light-hearted Angus speaking, that Alex smiled in spite of himself.

“Aye, that’s as maybe, but what would he have done if the man had produced a pistol, Duncan? Would he have let himself be taken, or would he have killed him, a man who’d done no wrong apart from to be over trusting and express an opinion contrary to Angus’s? An he’d done that, he’d have hung, and I’d no’ have lifted a finger to prevent it.” He looked at his brother, his face anguished. “And it would have fair broke my heart, Duncan. It hurt me greatly just to beat him like that,” he finished softly. He would not have admitted this to any other living man, and Duncan nodded his head in acknowledgement of the honour.

“He kens that well,” Duncan said. “I explained it to him. He’ll be relieved that you only beat him. He was expecting a flogging, at the least. He’ll no’ do such foolishness again.”

“I surely hope not. He’ll be the death of me if he does. D’ye ken where I heard it? At a bloody dinner party given by Lord Edward Cunningham. I nearly died when I heard the description of the highwayman and recognised the stupit disguise Angus wears sometimes when he's travelling. God knows how I didna give myself away there and then. Luckily everyone was diverted somewhat by a stramash between the lord and his cousin.” He ran his hands through his hair again and stood up, reluctantly. “Aye, well, we’d best be getting back. The others’ll be wondering where we are.”

By the time they arrived back in the drawing room, armed with several bottles of brandy and a tray of glasses, the men had moved the chairs into a rough circle and were sitting chatting while they waited. The tension had dissipated somewhat. Apart from the presence of the young man sitting hunched awkwardly in a chair, one eye swollen shut and a bloody handkerchief clutched to his mouth, no one would ever have known that a brutal, unpleasant scene had so recently taken place.

Alex passed the glasses and bottles around, and took a seat.

“I asked ye all here tonight for several reasons,” he said. One had already been addressed. No one mentioned it. The punishment had been administered, Angus had accepted it as just, and had already apologised to the assembled MacGregor clansmen. “As ye’re no doubt aware, we were relieved of a cache of arms by the redcoats a few weeks ago. As I couldna go myself to find out who betrayed us I sent Duncan up in my stead, with instructions to dispose of the traitor an he discovered him.” He looked at Duncan, who nodded, and took over.

“I found out who it is,” he said. “But there’s a wee problem. It’s no’ a man, but a woman who betrayed us.”

“Where’s the problem in that?” one of the men asked. “Death’s the punishment for betrayal, no matter who does it.” There was a murmur of assent from the assembly. Different punishments were meted out to men and women who committed offences against the clan. But the punishment for betrayal was the same for both. No mitigating circumstances were taken into account for such a serious crime.

“Aye, but the woman in question is Jean MacGregor.”

Four of the men in the room blanched instantly, and there was a deathly silence.

“I’m sorry, lads,” said Alex softly. “I kent it’d be hard, her being your sister, an all.”

“Are ye sure?” one of the pale men asked in a strangled whisper.

“Aye, I’m sure,” Duncan replied. “She was caught...em...in close company wi’ the soldier, you might say.” There was no doubt from the expressions on the faces of the men that everyone understood exactly the nature of the position in which she’d been found. The four black-haired brothers of Jean wore identical shocked expressions, and Alex’s heart went out to them. He’d be very glad when this day was over.

“What did Kenneth say about this?” one of them asked. Kenneth was the woman’s husband.

“Kenneth has asked my permission to kill her himself. I’ve agreed provisionally,” Alex said. “But I wanted you to have the chance to speak before the deed is done.”

“You’re our chief, man. We’d go along wi’ whatever you said, ye ken that,” The first man pointed out. His pallor was especially noticeable against the raven darkness of his hair.

“Aye I ken that, Dougal,” Alex said. “But there’s a difference between going along with me and agreeing with me, an’ I’d no’ have dissent among us, if I can avoid it.”

“Would ye let her live, if we asked?” the youngest of her brothers asked.

Alex shook his head.

“No, I couldna do that,” he said, not without regret. Jean MacGregor was a beautiful woman, black-haired and grey-eyed like her brothers, with an infectious laugh and a lovely singing voice. She was also vain and susceptible to flattery, which had no doubt been her undoing. “But you’ve the right, as her brothers, to demand that I carry out the sentence personally, rather than let her husband do it.”

From the direction of the hall came the unmistakable sound of a knock at the front door. Everyone froze.

“Are ye expecting anyone?” Duncan asked quietly.

“No,” replied Alex. “Iain, see who it is, if you please.”

The man dressed in footman’s livery stood, smoothed down his coat, adopted the necessary superior air and left the room, closing the door behind him. The others sat in various states of casual readiness, hands on dirks.

Minutes ticked slowly by. Then the footman reappeared clutching an ornately embellished pink card, which he handed to Alex.

“Lady Wilhelmina Winter, to see Sir Anthony Peters,” he said formally.

“Who is unfortunately away from home at present,” Alex said in a mock aristocratic English accent, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Just so,” replied the footman, grinning. “She was most disappointed and will call again tomorrow. She’s gone. I watched her drive away, to make sure.”

The danger over, the men relaxed as far as was possible in the circumstances. The four brothers of Jean had taken the opportunity to have a whispered discussion.

“We’ve made a decision,” Dougal now announced, standing up. “Under normal circumstances, we’d ask you to carry out the sentence. But these are no’ normal circumstances. You’re over three hundred miles from home, and besides, if Jeanie was caught as ye say, Duncan, then she’s wronged the clan, aye, but she’s wronged her husband too. We’ll be satisfied for him to do it. We’ll no’ speak of her again.” He sat down again and looked at the floor, his face set.

“Thank you.” Alex was relieved. He had no wish to personally strangle a beautiful woman, or any woman for that matter, although he would not have hesitated to do so had her brothers asked it of him.

“In that case,” he said, “we’ve got one more consignment of arms to come in from France, and then ye can all go home, except for Duncan, Angus and Iain.” He glanced at the footman. There was a collective sigh of relief. “I’m expecting to be here for a few more weeks, if all goes according to plan, and then I’ll be off to Europe for a wee while, a month, maybe two.”

“Will ye be seeing the prince during your travels?” one man asked.

“Aye, I expect I will, although I confess I was hoping to see him without crossing the water myself.”

“Aye, it’s a wonderful opportunity he’s missing, wi’ Geordie and his son an all away fighting, and the throne lying empty,” Dougal said wistfully. His colour was returning slightly now, but his grey eyes were still moist with the tears he would not shed for his sister.

“True. But he canna do anything if the French willna help him, and the English Jacobites willna rise unless they do,” Alex pointed out practically.

“Ah, tae hell wi’ the English!” Jamie MacGregor cried suddenly. “Scotland’ll rise for him, if he’ll lead us!”

“Some of Scotland’ll rise for him,” Alex corrected. “But no’ enough, if he doesna have the French to back him. The Protestant clans, apart from the Episcopalians’ll no’ follow him. The Campbells will fight for George, and much of the lowlands too. That’s one of the things I’m going to talk about with him, if he’ll see me.”