Tay House, Edinburgh
24 February 1757
‘Thank you, Mr Weston. You have been most kind.’ Judith Lambert smiled up at the tall, grey-haired inquiry agent as he helped her alight from Sarah’s carriage in front of Tay House. He’d travelled with her all the way from Newcastle and she’d been grateful for his congenial company and quiet confidence; whilst she was still deeply anxious about Sarah, he was a reassuring presence. With him at her side, she wouldn’t have to question Lord Tay alone. She was certain he would be able to find out things she couldn’t.
‘You are very welcome, Miss Lambert,’ he said in that deep smooth voice of his that sometimes made her blush like a giddy girl. ‘Would you like me to accompany you inside?’
Judith glanced up the grey stone townhouse and its black front door with its tarnished brass handle. Although his offer had great appeal, she shook her head. ‘I think I should investigate the lay of the land first. See what I can discover without arousing Lord Tay’s suspicions that I may be working against him. And who knows’—Judith tried to summon a smile—‘perhaps my niece has already returned.’
Mr Weston’s thin, distinguished face broke into a smile as well. ‘That would be very good news. I shall leave you then, Miss Lambert. I intend to take rooms at the Whitehorse Inn. It isn’t far.’
‘I shall have one of Lord Tay’s footmen deliver your luggage to you shortly.’
‘Thank you.’ Mr Weston bowed over her hand. ‘Perhaps I will see you later this afternoon? To discuss “the lay of the land”?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He secured his black tricorn on top of his head and bowed once more. ‘Very good. I look forward to it.’
For a brief moment, Judith watched Mr Weston’s long-legged stride as he walked towards the Royal Mile; despite the ever-present knot of worry inside her, a small smile played about her lips as she ascended the stairs to the townhouse and rapped on the door. What a lovely man.
Unlike Lord Tay.
Drysdale, Lord Tay’s ancient butler, greeted her. ‘It’s verra lovely to see ye back, ma’am, but if you wish to see his lordship, I’m afraid he is no longer here. He left early yesterday morning, bound fer Taymoor Castle.’
‘I see.’ Thank heaven for small mercies. Judith removed her leather gloves and crushed travelling cloak and handed them to the butler. ‘Is Lady Glenleven in residence?’ She doubted Sarah had returned to Tay House during her absence but nonetheless, she felt compelled to add, ‘Or my niece?’
‘Aye, her ladyship is here, but I’m sorry to say, no’ Miss Lambert.’
Judith sighed shakily, swallowing back a wave of tears as reality hit her again. Sarah had been missing for ten days now and as time marched on, she sometimes despaired that her darling niece had indeed met with foul play. Possibly at the hands of Lord Tay. Of course, he may not be complicit but there was something about the man that did not sit well with her. Then again, whilst she was relieved the earl wasn’t here, it also meant neither she, nor Mr Weston, would be able to question him about Sarah’s disappearance.
And she wouldn’t be able to ask him about the whereabouts of Sarah’s pearl and sapphire parure.
No, she didn’t trust the Earl of Tay as far as she could throw him.
But perhaps Lady Glenleven knew something… After all, she’d probably forged the letter that had been purportedly penned by Sarah.
‘Might I have a pot of tea and something light to eat sent to my room, Drysdale?’ The journey from Newcastle had been long and tedious and she would need sustenance and a small rest before tackling Lady Glenleven.
Drysdale shuffled his feet, drawing attention to the abysmal state of his scuffed leather shoes. ‘I’ll see wha’ Cook can drum up. There might be a wee bit o’ shortbread or a scone left…’
Good God. Was Lord Tay so short of funds he couldn’t even afford to keep his kitchen stocked with food in his absence? Minding her tongue—it certainly wasn’t Drysdale’s fault—Judith simply offered her thanks and crossed the muddy parquetry floor of the entry hall, heading for the stairs.
She’d reached the landing that led to her room when Lady Glenleven appeared in the doorway of her sitting room; her terrier, Bonnie, was in her arms.
‘Oh, Miss Lambert. I thought I heard your voice. Won’t you come in?’ She stepped back from the door, the crushed skirts of her sack-back dress swaying with the movement of her slender hips.
‘I… Of course.’ Crushing down a weary sigh—she really wasn’t ready for this conversation—Judith followed the young widowed countess into the room. It was cold; the fire had long burnt out and only ashes and dead black coals lay in the grate. Trays covered in half-drunk cups of tea, smeared glasses, and dirty plates littered nearly every flat surface in the room, and through the half-open doorway leading into the countess’s bedroom, Judith could see that her bed was unmade.
Where on earth were all the servants?
Lady Glenleven waved a thin, pale hand towards a settee covered in a worn and faded floral brocade. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Judith moved a crumpled sheaf of papers and a discarded shawl to the side then perched on the edge of the chair. Lady Glenleven, her dog still in her arms, gracefully subsided onto a chaise longue on the opposite side of the hearthrug.
Her slender shoulders lifted and fell with a dramatic sigh. ‘My brother isn’t here.’
‘I know, Drysdale told me.’
‘I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Sarah’s desertion has struck him hard.’
Judith huffed. ‘Lady Glenleven. I think it’s about time you stopped playing games with me. I know Sarah never penned that letter your brother showed me.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You wrote it, didn’t you?’
The countess’s auburn eyebrows shot up. ‘How did you know?’ she breathed.
‘Considering I taught my niece to write, I’d know her penmanship anywhere. And that handwriting was not hers.’
Lady Glenleven’s mouth turned down and she plucked at her skirts. Her brow was furrowed—whether in thought or displeasure, Judith wasn’t sure. Perhaps both.
She decided to venture another question. ‘Do you know where Sarah is, my lady? I love her with all my heart. Indeed, she is like a daughter to me. If anything terrible has happened to her, I really do not think that I could bear it.’
The countess lifted her gaze. ‘Miss Lambert, I honestly do not know where your niece is. And as far as I know, neither does my brother. I’m sorry I gave you false hope by penning that letter but Malcolm was so set on avoiding any scandal… He didn’t want you going to the Town Guard and stirring up a fuss.’
‘Thank you for your honesty, my lady.’ Judith looked about the room then brought her gaze back to Lady Glenleven’s. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could also be frank about your brother’s financial situation. It seems to me that he is rather short of money.’
The countess pushed a lank, undressed curl away from her face. Her cheeks reddened. ‘Yes. He is.’
‘Sarah’s disappearance must be quite an ordeal for him then. And for you. You cannot be happy here… the way things are…’
In the ensuing silence, the only sounds were the ticking of the plain wooden mantel clock and a faint snuffle from Bonnie as she snuggled into her mistress’s lap. As Judith watched Lady Glenleven, her topaz eyes grew unusually bright, and when she attempted a smile, her lips trembled.
‘I must confess, things have been better.’ The countess dropped her gaze and stroked Bonnie’s silky ears.
‘If you no longer wish to stay here—’
Lady Glenleven looked up. ‘I’ve just received an offer of marriage from the Earl of Arbelour. And I’m thinking of accepting. He’s a good deal older than me but he’s kind. And I think he loves me.’
‘He sounds lovely.’
Lady Glenleven’s smile was less fragile this time. ‘He is.’
‘I’m happy for you then.’
‘Thank you.’
Judith got to her feet. There was really nothing else left to be said. ‘If you don’t mind, my lady, I should like to retire to my rooms. The journey from Newcastle is a long one—’
‘Of course.’ Lady Glenleven put Bonnie aside and rose also. Then, to Judith’s astonishment, she took her hands in hers.
‘Thank you again, Miss Lambert. I hope you find your niece. As I said before, I truly do not know where she is. And neither does Malcolm. He is desperate to find her of course, but—’ She broke off then her gaze firmed as if she’d made a decision. ‘I rather think Sarah should think twice about marrying him… when she returns.’
It was Judith’s eyes that brimmed with tears this time. ‘Do you think she will?’
‘I pray that she does.’ The countess squeezed her hands. ‘In the meantime, I think you might like to visit the Grassmarket as soon as you feel able to. There’s a shop there by the name of Dunmore’s. Hopefully you will still find something of Sarah’s there. Something that is no doubt dear to her.’
Judith’s breath caught. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘I would’ve suggested that you take my sedan chair but Malcolm recently sold it… But have Drysdale hail a public chair for you. I trust you have the funds?’
Judith knew the countess was referring to the money she would need to secure Sarah’s stolen parure, not the fee to hire the sedan chair. ‘I think I will be able to scrape something together.’
The countess nodded. ‘Good.’
‘God bless you, Lady Glenleven.’ As Judith took her leave, she decided that her pot of tea and plate of shortbread could wait until later. She’d call on the capable Mr Weston and ask him to accompany her to the Cowgate. When Sarah returned, her mother’s jewellery would be waiting for her.
***
Lochrose Castle, near Grantown-on-Spey, the Highlands
25 February 1757
Alex’s gut was a ball of tight knots as he waited in the elegantly appointed library of Lochrose Castle. It had been well over a year since he’d last seen his friend, Robert Grant, Viscount Lochrose, in Kingston, Jamaica—although, at that particular time, he’d gone by the name of Robert Burnley.
Alex trusted he would receive a warm reception. But would Robert’s welcoming attitude change when he asked him for a favour, one that might very well place him at risk? Would he be willing to put his name and reputation on the line for another Jacobite-on-the-run?
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask…
At least that’s what Alex tried to tell himself as he paced back and forth across the richly patterned Turkish rug in front of a magnificent mahogany desk. The longcase clock in the corner marked the hour, noon, and he was horribly aware of how filthy he was. Since he’d left Blackloch yesterday morning, he’d ridden all day and half of the night, only stopping to change horses and grab the occasional meal. His boots were mud-caked, his buckskin breeches and cambric shirt stank of horse and sweat, and he desperately needed a shave.
But then he reminded himself that he was doing this for Sarah and the children they would have.
And every other care paled into insignificance compared to that.
He’d just twitched back the plush velvet curtains to study the sweeping vista of picturesque loch and wooded braes through one of the tall, mullion-paned windows, when the polished oak doors swung open.
‘Alex!’ Robert Grant strode into the room, a wide grin curving his mouth. He grasped Alex in a warm hug, slapping him on the back before releasing him to study his face. ‘It’s been too long, my friend.’
‘Indeed it has.’ Despite his qualms, Alex found himself grinning too. ‘You look well. Actually, damn well. Living the life of a landed nobleman who’s happily wed clearly agrees with you.’
‘Aye, it certainly does agree with me.’ Robert crossed to a carved mahogany sideboard and held up a crystal decanter. ‘Care to share a wee dram for old times’ sake?’
‘Of course.’ Armed with tumblers of whisky redolent of peat smoke and honey, Alex and Robert took seats before the crackling fire.
Ever perceptive and forthright, Robert got straight to the point. ‘So tell me, what brings you to Lochrose? Something tells me this isn’t just a social call.’
Alex took a fortifying sip of his whisky then grimaced. ‘Aye. You’re not wrong at all.’
Robert reclined in his brown leather wing chair and sipped his own whisky, waiting for Alex to elaborate.
‘It’s…’ Alex sat forward, rolling his tumbler between his hands as contemplated how best to broach the sensitive subject on his mind. ‘Oh, hell. I’ve met a woman. The most amazing, beautiful, and delightfully sweet woman. And I want to make her my wife.’
‘Well, that’s superb news, Alex.’ Robert leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations are in order then.’
‘Not quite.’
‘You mean, you haven’t proposed to her yet?’
‘Aye, I have. And you could have knocked me over with a feather when she accepted. Only…’
Robert’s dark blue eyes narrowed. ‘Only you wish she could take your name, MacIvor.’
‘Exactly.’
Robert inclined his head. ‘I understand completely.’
‘Robert, I’ve just come back from the village and you’ll never guess which crofter’s wife had her wee babe last night…’
Alex stood up as the most breathtaking redheaded lass he’d ever laid eyes upon entered the room. Dressed in a burgundy wool riding habit, her red-gold curls spilled over her shoulders as she pulled off then discarded a jaunty hat decorated with pheasant quills onto a nearby chair. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry fer interrupting, Robert,’ she said as soon as her gaze fell on Alex. Her honey-brown eyes darted back to her husband. ‘If I’d known you had company, I would have knocked.’
‘It’s quite all right, Jessie. Alex and I are old friends.’ Robert turned to him. ‘Alex, may I introduce my lovely wife to you? Jessie, Lady Lochrose.’
‘My lady.’ Alex stepped forward and bowed over her gloved hand.
‘And Jessie, this is Alexander MacIvor, Baron Rannoch. Although outside of this room, it’s probably best if you refer to him as Mr Alexander Price.’
‘Or you may call me Alex.’
Jessie smiled at him. ‘Alex. Of course.’
Robert touched his wife’s arm claiming her attention. ‘Alex and I, we have some past history in common, if you take my meaning. And we are both in similar lines of business in the New World.’
Understanding flashed in Jessie’s clear brown eyes. ‘Ah, I see.’
‘Alex is also getting married. To…’ Robert cocked a dark eyebrow at him.
‘Miss Sarah Lambert,’ finished Alex.
‘Och, that’s wonderful,’ said Jessie with a dazzling smile. ‘Congratulations! I hope I shall have the opportunity to meet your affianced one day.’
Alex tilted his head. ‘Thank you, my lady. And I think that it is entirely likely. May I offer my sincere congratulations to you and Robert as well? I can see how happy you both are.’
‘Thank you. We are indeed.’ Jessie’s cheeks became suffused with colour as she cast a soft look her husband’s way. ‘Verra much.’
Robert caught Jessie’s hand and brought it to his lips. ‘I haven’t spoken to Father yet but I’m sure he will lend his unreserved support in assisting Alex to secure a pardon.’
Jessie beamed. ‘I’m sure he will too.’
Robert had once been estranged from his father, the Earl of Strathburn, but clearly that was no longer the case. To see his friend so damn content and secure gave Alex hope that maybe such a fate was within his reach too. After all, the issuing of royal pardons for Jacobites was not unheard of; aside from Robert attaining one, Ranald, the Younger of Clan Ranald who’d been living in exile in France after the Rebellion had also been allowed to return to Scotland three years ago. Yes, there was definitely hope.
Robert and Jessie kindly invited him to stay the night at Lochrose rather than rushing off to Blackloch straightaway; when he politely but regretfully declined, there was much consternation. However, in the end, they reached a compromise and Alex agreed to stay for luncheon. The charming Lord Strathburn joined them too. Although physically frail, he was both jovial and sharp-witted and by the end of their repast, he’d pledged to Alex he would do everything in his power to secure an unreserved royal pardon for him. Fortuitously, the following week, the earl was due in Edinburgh to meet with his solicitor and the Lord Advocate, the King’s representative in Scotland. And now, at Lord Strathburn’s urging, Alex would join him for the latter meeting too.
When it came time for Alex to quit Lochrose Castle—he was reluctant to leave Sarah alone at Blackloch for too long—he did so with a considerably lighter spirit.
By God’s grace, within the space of a month, he would be known as Alexander MacIvor again and the title of Baron Rannoch would no longer be attainted. Then there would be nothing in the world to stop him from marrying Sarah.
***
Taymoor Castle, Perthshire
26 February 1757
‘Milord, I’m sorry to disturb ye during breakfast, but there’s a young lady here to see you.’
Malcolm frowned at the young footman—he couldn’t remember the lad’s name—hovering in the doorway to the morning room at Taymoor Castle.
A young woman? What the deuce? He put down his cup of coffee and anticipation spiked as another thought occurred to him. ‘Well, did she give her name?’ It couldn’t be Sarah, could it?
‘Nae, milord.’ The footman’s cheeks turned pink and he nervously pulled at the grimy cuffs of his liveried jacket. ‘But she said you would want to see her. Tha’ the matter she wanted to speak to you aboot was verra important. Something to do with some letters you’ve received recently… aboot another young lady…’
‘Christ, man! Why didn’t you say so?’ Malcolm threw down his napkin and pushed away from the table with such force, the china and silverware rattled. ‘Show her to the library. I’ll be along directly.’
‘Aye, milord.’
Malcolm ran a hand through his hair as he strode down the icy-cold denuded corridor—the carpets, curtains, paintings, marble busts, and occasional chairs had all been sold months ago—heading towards his almost-as-bare library. He hadn’t bothered dressing properly this morning. He badly needed a shave and he hadn’t bathed for several days. Not having a valet was becoming increasingly annoying. But then, why should he bothered about a strange, presumptuous lass’s opinion of him?
His attire of breeches, stained boots, loose shirt, and rumpled striped-silk banyan would have to do.
The nameless lass was waiting by the empty fireplace, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the cold. As soon as she saw him, she dropped into a curtsy. ‘Milord, thank you fer seeing me at such short notice.’
Malcolm crossed his arms and slowly, deliberately raked his gaze over her, from the top of her bright orange-red curls to the hem of her mud-splattered, nondescript brown wool gown. Despite the plainness of her garb, she was a pretty young thing with bright green eyes, good-sized tits, and a nice trim waist. ‘You’d better not be wasting my time, Miss…’
‘Isla Dobson,’ she said with a proud lift of her small pointed chin. ‘And I’m not.’
‘Humph. I’ll be the judge of that.’ He gestured toward the worn leather wing chair and matching settee behind them. ‘Won’t you take a seat, Miss Dobson?’
‘I’d prefer to stand.’
‘Very well.’ He pinned her with a narrow-eyed stare. ‘My footman tells me you have information about some of my private correspondence. Correspondence related to a very sensitive matter…’
‘Aye.’ Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I know all aboot your affianced’s kidnapping, milord. But more importantly, I know exactly where you can find her.’
Could the lass really be telling the truth? Malcolm tapped a finger against his stubble rough chin. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘I know, because I’ve been helping to look after Miss Lambert whilst she’s been held captive.’
This sounded too good to be true. Could this be another elaborate trap of Price’s? A trick? ‘Really? Pray, Miss Dobson, how did you know where to find me? I’ve only just arrived here from Edinburgh.’ It bothered him that no sooner had he returned to Taymoor than this girl turned up on his doorstep. It was highly suspicious to say the least.
The girl regarded him steadily. ‘Until recently, I was in the employ of Mr Alexander Price, the Laird of Blackloch Castle, milord. However, I now work at the Boar’s Head Inn at Aberfeldy. You made a brief stop there on your way here. I saw you as you were leaving yesterday evening.’
At least the whore, Nell, had been telling him the truth about Price then. But he still didn’t know about Isla. ‘Hmmm. How do I know that isn’t an elaborate ruse? That you and Alexander Price aren’t playing me for a fool? For instance, why have you suddenly decided to betray your master and help me instead?’
‘It is no’ a ruse, milord, I swear it.’
‘Prove it.’
The lass swallowed and her cheeks grew pink. ‘I dinna wish any harm to come to Mr Price. But I do want Miss Lambert gone. And judging by the state of Taymoor Castle,’ Miss Dobson cast a pointed look about the dusty, half-empty bookcases and the curtainless, grimy windows, ‘you need Miss Lambert’s coin. Badly. So I’d suggest you trust me.’
‘Why, you little bitch—’ Hot anger flared and Malcolm lunged for Isla Dobson, gripping her about the throat. ‘Who do you think you are to insult me so?’ he thundered. ‘Tell me everything you know, right fucking now, or I’ll wring your scrawny neck.’
Isla’s green eyes widened and she clawed at his hands. He loosened his grip a little and she gasped. ‘Milord…’
‘Sit down.’ Malcolm released her so abruptly Isla stumbled over to the settee.
He waited for a minute for the girl to catch her breath before advancing forward to loom over her, his feet planted wide, his hands on his hips. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.
‘It isna going to work like tha’, milord. I need you to promise tha’ you will no’ harm Mr Price.’
Malcolm’s knuckles cracked as he pushed down the urge to beat the truth from the obstinate chit. ‘I’ll make no such promise yet. Tell me, why do you wish Miss Lambert gone?’
‘Because Mr Price intends to wed her.’
What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Malcolm scrubbed a hand through his hair. Of all the things Isla Dobson could have said, it had never been that. It meant that Price didn’t need the ransom money at all. And it also meant he had to get Sarah back. Immediately.
‘When? When does he plan to marry her?’
‘I canna be sure, but soon.’
‘Tell me where she is.’
‘Only if you swear you willna hurt Alexander Price.’
‘Where is she?’ Malcolm bellowed in her face, but it made no difference. The stubborn bitch clamped her eyes shut and pressed her lips together.
Only when he drew back did Isla open her eyes again. ‘You can shout all you like, Lord Tay, but I willna tell you Miss Lambert’s precise location until you give me yer word tha’ no harm will come to Mr Price.’
Malcolm snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in love with the bastard.’
‘Aye. I am.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Isla said nothing, just stared at him. There was such fire in her eyes, Malcolm had the inkling that even torturing her wouldn’t wring the truth from her.
He retreated to one of the windows and stared out at the ill-kept grounds of Taymoor: the all-but invisible garden paths; the tussocks of dead, overgrown grass between the patches of snow; the rampant ivy that was crumbling the brickwork.
He needed Sarah, it was that simple. If Price intended to marry her, that meant he’d probably fucked her by now. But he wasn’t in a position to be particular about another man’s leavings. As long as Sarah’s fortune was his, he didn’t much care if she bore him a bastard.
He turned back to face the room and uttered the lie Isla Dobson needed to hear. ‘All right,’ he said grimly. ‘We have a deal. You take me straight to Miss Lambert, and once I have her, your master will have nothing to fear. I will not retaliate.’
‘You swear?’ Isla gave him a narrow-eyed stare as though that would be enough to sway him.
‘I swear.’ Stupid chit.