The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (32 page)

“I had no idea it was the latest thing at the Court to take liqueurs after an evening out,” said Anne.

“Neither did I,” replied her friend. “But the duke assured me that the king always insists on enjoying a liqueur with friends before bed, if he has been to the theatre. It relaxes one after the excitement of the evening, he feels.”

Beth had shot back to the Cunningham box after the performance to reveal this invented royal custom, knowing that it would be immediately adopted by Edward and Isabella, who were always at pains to emulate royalty. Within a week everyone in London would be downing liqueurs by the bottle.

Details
, she thought, Alex’s voice echoing in her head. She would not put it past the duke having her and her family followed to make sure she had told him the truth. Maybe she was being over-cautious. Still…

“I don’t need to relax,” Anne said. “I am quite tired. I had forgotten how fatiguing a social occasion can be.”

She still had to work out a way of getting into the Redburn house and staying there for a time. They drew up outside. Beth looked out. She didn’t think they had been followed, but there were several carriages in the street. It was impossible to be sure.

“This will be the hardest part of the evening, I think,” said Anne sadly. “It will be so strange to go in and not find Stanley there waiting for me. The house feels so empty without him. You must think me ridiculous,” she finished, looking apprehensively out of the coach window at the front door.

“No, not at all,” said Beth. “I understand exactly how you feel. After my father died I always felt his loss most keenly when I came into the salon where he used to sit. For months I half-expected to find him there, smiling at me. Sometimes when I came up the drive, I used to imagine I could see him at the window, waiting for me. It gets easier with time but even now, after over two years, I think it would still feel strange to enter his room and find it empty.”

“Oh, you do understand!” cried Anne.

“Would you like me to come in with you for a while?” Beth asked, seizing the opportunity.

“Would you mind terribly?” said Anne. “Only it is the first time I have been out since Stanley…ah…I am sure it will be easier next time.”

“I would be delighted,” said Beth honestly.

In the end she managed to stay for several hours. Anne, reluctant to wake the servants, went to the kitchen and prepared tea herself, and the two women sat long into the night talking, of loss, of their childhoods, which had been so different, Beth’s free and wild, Anne’s restricted and dull, and of Anne’s hopes for the future and for the child that she had now accepted she was carrying, and to which she was already starting to give her love.

It was three in the morning before Beth finally arrived home, opening the door very quietly so as not to disturb the household, who would all be asleep. She tiptoed into the hall, which was in darkness, and felt for the stair rail.

The library door opened suddenly, and a tall figure stepped into the hall, carrying a candle.

“Where the hell have you been?” said Alex.

Beth jumped violently.

“Jesus Christ, Alex,” she said, clutching at her heart. “You frightened me to death. I thought you’d be in bed. How did your meeting with Sir Double-U go?”

“Where have you been?” he repeated. “Are you all right?” His voice managed to sound both angry and frightened at the same time. His face was in shadow, and she couldn’t see his expression.

“Yes, of course I am. I’ve been at the opera. Had you forgotten I was going?” she asked, puzzled. Alex never forgot anything.

“The opera finished at eleven o’clock,” he said, his voice cold now. “Where have you been since then?”

“At Anne’s,” said Beth. “She didn’t want to go in the house alone, so I went in with her and we had some tea and talked for a while. What’s going on?”

Alex closed his eyes and breathed out through his mouth.

“Anne’s,” he said, with utter relief. “Oh thank God for that.”

“Why, where did you think I was?” she said.

“With Cumberland.”

“What?!” Her voice rose, and he held up a hand.

“I’m no’ angry wi’ you,” he said. “I didna think ye’d go wi’ him willingly. But I knew he’d invited you into his box, and when ye didna come home I thought he’d invited ye somewhere else afterwards, and ye didna ken how to refuse him.” He moved back into the library, putting the candle down on a small table, and she followed him.

“I find ‘No’ is usually pretty effective,” she said.

“Aye, but I knew ye’d no’ want to offend him. I’ve been sitting here for hours, tearing my hair out, because I wanted to find you and kill him, but I didna ken where he might have taken ye.”

His hair was indeed sticking out in all directions, and she softened.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I could have sent word, if I’d known. I thought you’d just assume I’d gone back to Edward’s.”

“I would have done, if I hadna known about Cumberland.”

“How
did
you know about him, anyway?” she asked, amazed. “I thought it’d be tomorrow at the earliest before that got round town.”

“After I’d had my meeting, I went off wi’ Barrymore to his club for a wee drink. Some of the other members had been tae the opera and were already blethering on about the beautiful blonde who the duke had invited intae his box. They said that ye’d thrown yourself at him and then gone off wi’ him in his carriage afterwards. Well, I knew the first part couldna be true, but when ye didna come home, I thought the second part was, and… I was worried,” he finished.

Beth looked around for signs of Alex’s ‘worry’. Smashed ornaments, fists crashed through furniture, Angus lying bloody in a corner, having provoked his brother into violence, as he was so good at doing…no. Alex had restrained himself well.

“Er, you actually got that the wrong way round,” she admitted, emboldened by the lack of destruction in the room. “He did invite me to a private supper, which I refused, so I didn’t go off in his carriage with him. I..er…did throw myself at him, though. A bit. I can explain,” she added hurriedly, seeing the anger flare in his eyes instantly.

She sat down and explained, quickly.

“It was really difficult,” she said. “I can’t stand even being near the man, let alone touching him. But I thought that if I made him think I hoped for more than a brief fling, it might put him off altogether. It appeased him for now, anyway, which was the main thing.”

“I see your point, and ye did well, taking all those precautions in case he followed ye, but I dinna think it’ll put him off for long, Beth. After all, if he had an affair wi’ you, and you fell completely in love wi’ him, he could still discard ye whenever it suited him. He’s a prince. Ye couldna do anything to hurt him, no matter how scorned ye felt. You must avoid being alone wi’ him, Beth, at all costs.”

“I know that already,” said Beth. “I’m sorry, though. It seems as though the rumours already have me in bed with him. I hadn’t expected that. It won’t do your reputation any good.”
Or mine either,
she thought. Although it seemed that giving your favours to royalty or the nobility was commendable as far as society was concerned, whereas giving them to anyone else made you a whore. It was ridiculous.

“Oh, Sir Anthony willna mind that at all,” Alex said, cutting into Beth’s thoughts. “No one’ll say anything directly to him anyway, and he’s awfu’ good at ignoring broad hints and suggestions. I, on the other hand, would mind a great deal. I’ll tell ye this now, Beth, so ye know it. If ever Cumberland manages to get you alone and propositions you, if it comes to it you say no directly, in whatever way ye have to, and tae hell wi’ offending him.”

“But we can’t afford to offend…”

“Aye, we can, if the alternative is that bastard laying his hands on you. Christ!” he said through gritted teeth, clenching his fists at the thought of it. “You say no,” he ordered, his face hard. “And if he doesna take no for an answer, ye hit him, or scream. I dinna think it’d come to that, though. He’d no’ force a woman against her will, I’m sure. But ye dinna
ever
think ye’re doing me or the Stuart cause a favour by taking him or any other man to your bed, Beth, because an ye do, I swear to ye now, I’ll kill him. Do ye understand me?”

She looked at him, wide-eyed. He meant it. A shiver of fear ran down her spine, but it was overwhelmed by the realisation that his love for her outweighed his passion for the Jacobite cause and the consequent need to keep the Elector as a friend. He would risk it all rather than have her compromise herself.

She dismissed the fear. She would never be unfaithful to him. Neither with Cumberland nor anyone else, for any reason.

“Yes, I understand you. I will never go with any other man willingly, for the Stuart cause or not. You know that already, I think,” she said.

His face relaxed and he smiled, his blue eyes suddenly warm.

“Aye, I ken that,
mo chridhe,
” he said tenderly, taking her hand. “I’m sorry. I was just awfu’ worried, and tired, too. It’s been a long day. Let’s away tae bed. It’s verra late.”

“Oh, I can’t do this!” Beth said, throwing the cause of her frustration on the floor for the umpteenth time.

“Aye, ye can,” said Duncan, picking the needles and wool up and expertly unravelling the mess she’d made. “It’s easy when ye get the hang of it.”

She glared at the tangled puzzle suspended from the two needles in his hands.

“Knitting is like making porridge,” she said with such venom that Duncan burst out laughing. After a moment she saw the funny side and joined him.

“Why do ye no’ just give up, and make Anne some baby clothes from material instead? Ye’ve an awfu’ good hand wi’ a needle and thread,” he suggested. “Ye’ve made some lovely things for Maggie’s bairn.”

“I know, but it’s annoying me that I can’t get the hang of knitting, when you all find it so easy.”

“It isna possible to be good at everything. Ye canna get the hang of wielding a claymore either, and we all find that easy too,” he pointed out, placing the now untangled piece of work back on her knee.

“How do you know I couldn’t wield a claymore?” she said mischievously. “I’ve never tried.”

“Ye’d be sorry if ye did. They weigh a good fifteen pounds, and they’re awfu’ tiring if ye havena got the muscle for them,” he said, looking doubtfully at her slender arms. “Remember Alex’s scar.”

“Yes, well, maybe I’ve not got the strength for a claymore, but I have for knitting. Do you mind if we have another go?”

“Not at all,” said Duncan. “I’ve nothing else tae do.”

The two of them were alone in the house. Iain and Maggie had gone shopping for food, and Angus was out in the shed at the bottom of the small garden, taking advantage of their absence to put in some more work on his present for the baby. He was making a crib, but wanted it to remain a secret until it was finished, which had resulted in much furtive behaviour on the part of the MacGregor brothers, and the rather interesting phenomenon of owls calling warningly across the garden in broad daylight if the mother or father in waiting showed any sign of visiting the shed. Maggie and Iain, whilst remaining ignorant of the reason for the conspiracy, were of course extremely suspicious, but were collaborating to the extent that they rarely went in the back garden any more, with the resultant diminishing of the diurnal owl population in the area.

Alex was out at yet another meeting with the principal English and Welsh Jacobites. These meetings were testing him to the full, because whilst he understood some of the objections the others had to committing openly to the Stuarts, he mistrusted them and doubted their stated intention to participate in a rebellion at any level. He often returned home tired and crabby, smelling of tobacco smoke and brandy, with little or no progress to report.

“I wonder how Alex is getting on,” pondered Beth now, dropping three stitches without noticing. “I wish I could be with him.”

“He’d take you if he could, ye ken that,” said Duncan, taking the knitting gently off her and retrieving the stitches before they could unravel too far. Alex had said as much the previous day. It would be useful to have an ally quietly watching proceedings, picking up subtle reactions that he, fiercely negotiating, might miss. But he was neither attending these meetings as himself nor as Sir Anthony Peters. He did not trust the English Jacobites enough to reveal his true identity to them, and of course if he went as the foppish baronet, he would be revealing openly to people who were already under suspicion by the authorities that Sir Anthony was a spy. Instead he had taken on the role of Benjamin Johnson, a cloth merchant from Liverpool, complete with suitable accent, sombre clothing, a hideous light brown wig and brass-rimmed eyeglasses. No one would ever guess that the cloth merchant was Sir Anthony; and it would take some considerable scrutiny to recognise Alex MacGregor in the unprepossessing features of Mr Johnson.

Beth was another matter entirely. With her glorious hair and striking facial beauty, she would be far harder to disguise. The men Alex was meeting were of the nobility. There was a good chance they might run into Sir Anthony and his wife. It was not worth the risk of them recognising her, much as he would have liked to have her with him.

From the hall came the faint but unmistakable sound of someone knocking on the front door. Duncan and Beth looked at each other.

“Are ye expecting a caller?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But it could be Isabella, or Anne, I suppose. Or anyone who wants to find out how my affair with the Elector’s son is going.”

Duncan stood, smoothed down his dark blue velvet breeches, slipped into his shoes and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. He looked down his nose at her with the utmost arrogance.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“A perfect footman.” She smiled. “Except for the wig.” She stood up, abandoning the knitting and helped him to put it on, tucking his own hair up under it. He moved to the door as the caller knocked again.

“Is my lady at home?” Duncan said formally.

“Yes.” Beth sighed. “I might as well face the hordes. Unless it’s Cumberland himself, in which case I have a particularly infectious disease of some sort. Leprosy. Plague. You decide.”