Chapter 11
The day after Charles Stuart’s entrance into Edinburgh, Mary’s father received an invitation for his entire family to attend a grand ball at Holyrood.
Aunt Danae studied the letter dubiously when Wilfort called them all into his library to tell them about it. “He means to hold court, it appears,” Aunt Danae said.
“Ought we to go?” Audrey asked, curious but uncertain. “Won’t the ballroom be overrun by Scottish soldiers?” She broke into a nervous smile. “Can you imagine them trying to do a minuet with all their plaids flying?”
“Of course we ought to go,” Aunt Danae said. “I imagine most of my acquaintance has received such an invitation. If they knew what went on at one of his dos, and I didn’t, I’d never live it down.”
“We will go,” Wilfort said. “What better way to see what the serpent intends but to go into his lair? However, Audrey, I think, should stay home.”
“Oh, Papa.” Audrey, who never defied her father, now shot him a pleading look. “I will face the same as Aunt Danae if I do not go. How awful to be the only lady in Edinburgh who cannot say she was there!”
“I can look after her,” Mary said. It stood to reason Jeremy would have an invitation as well. “Aunt Danae and I both can. If Lord Halsey and you accompany us, we will have the best protection there is.”
Wilfort gave Mary a wry look. “You flatter to cajole, daughter. But very well. I know that if I do not concede, I will hear much moaning in future. Audrey, you and Mary will stay with your aunt, and not wander off to explore the palace. This is not the home of a friend. I can imagine the delight one of these Highland warriors would have at discovering a young English lady alone. Your virtue would be a great prize to them.”
Mary’s face heated. She’d already been found alone by a Highland warrior, her mouth kissed, her bosom licked.
Aunt Danae mistook Mary’s flush for modesty. “Really, James. To say such things.”
Wilfort frowned. “I’ll not shelter my daughters until they are ruined from ignorance. Forewarned is forearmed. We will go, and stay together. That is my final word.”
Her father wasn’t wrong, Mary thought as they dispersed. They were going into the home of the enemy, and who knew what might happen there?
Debate was hot in the bedchambers as to what to wear. Should they go in their best, or dress more plainly to show Charles that he was not due the deference of a monarch? On the other hand, he was a prince, descended from an old royal family. Other ladies might be at their most fashionable—should they risk not shining as well as they might?
While Audrey and Aunt Danae argued, Mary’s maid, Whitman, took Mary aside and spoke in a low voice. “My lady, there is a . . . person . . . at the kitchen door asking to see you.”
Malcolm?
No, Malcolm would never try to slip in to find Mary by way of the kitchen. If he wanted to see her, he’d boldly march to the front door and demand to be admitted.
But then, this might be something about their plans for Audrey and Jeremy. Mary nodded her thanks, made an excuse to Aunt Danae, and followed Whitman back down the stairs.
All the servants of the earl’s house in Edinburgh were Scots, except for lady’s maids such as Whitman, and the earl’s manservant. The Scottish servants spoke in broad accents, with the language called Erse thrown in from time to time. Mary didn’t always understand them, but they were kind to her and her family, not surly, as her other English friends claimed their Scottish servants to be.
The kitchen staff—cook, her assistants, housekeeper, butler, and footmen—all sprang to their feet when Whitman came down with Mary and took her through the servants’ hall to the scullery door.
Whitman hadn’t wanted Mary following her below stairs, but Mary had insisted. She feared the man would leave if she did not go to him quickly. Scots messengers sometimes did that—simply walked off in impatience if one kept them waiting too long.
She understood why Whitman had described him as a “person” when Mary stepped onto the chilly passage outside the scullery. The man had sun-weathered skin, straggling red hair going to gray, a patch over one eye, a worn kilt, and wicked-looking knives and a pistol hanging from his belt.
“This her?” he asked Whitman.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Whitman said with a scowl. “This is her ladyship. What is your message? Make it quick.”
“It’s all right, Whitman,” Mary said, soothing. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Name’s Padruig. Not sir. Have a message for ye.” He glared at Whitman, clearly not wanting to repeat it in front of her.
“Please wait inside, Whitman.” Mary gave her maid a reassuring nod. “I will shout if I need you.”
Whitman did not want to leave Mary out here with this specimen, that was clear. She pinched her lips together but walked stiffly back into the house.
Once the door was shut, Padruig spoke. “Message is from himself. He says tonight, at the palace. Wait for his signal.”
“By himself you mean Lord Malcolm Mackenzie?”
Padruig gave her a nod. “He hired us. ’Tis a fool’s errand, but God favors fools, don’t he?”
“I certainly hope so.” Mary reached through a slit in her outer skirt to the pocket sewn beneath. “Thank you, sir . . . er, Padruig.”
Padruig lifted his hands from the shilling she held out to him. “Keep your money, miss. He’s already paying us well. Too well—me master’s a cheating bastard. But he’ll take care o’ her. You don’t need to worry about that.”
Giving Mary another nod, Padruig turned and made his way back through the passage to the street.
Whitman nearly pounced on Mary when she went inside again. “Who was that creature? If your father kept dogs here, I’d have set them on him.”
“He’s no one. Someone grateful for charity is all.” Mary was dismayed how easily a lie came from her lips. She had certainly changed in the short time she’d known Malcolm. “Say nothing of this to my aunt or father, I beg you. Please, Whitman. It’s important.”
Whitman again looked most disapproving, but she was loyal to Mary. “Very well, my lady.”
All the servants seemed to have assembled in the kitchen as Mary passed through again, watching curiously. “And please tell them to say nothing as well,” Mary added in a low voice.
The housekeeper, a tall woman with a soft face, heard her. “Never ye worry, m’lady,” she said. “Young ladies must have their secrets. This lot will say nothing, I promise ye.” The look she swept over the servants was severe.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. Thank you, all.”
“Now then, my lady. You’re a kindly sort. Not like some.”
Mary said thank you again, and hurried upstairs. She’d already made sure Audrey had a few simple clothes packed—in case they had to flee Scotland, as Mary had suggested to her father. While they readied themselves for the ball, Mary slipped the small bundle of Audrey’s things inside her voluminous cloak.
Malcolm was sandy-eyed and fatigued by the time he reached the ball held for the glory and honor of Charles Edward Stuart, supposed Prince of Wales, son of James III and VIII, King of England.
This morning, after Alec had staggered back into the house, their father had kept up a harangue against Duncan, until Angus and Mal managed to get the hungover duke back to bed, with a soothing preparation Naughton had mixed. Alec, without speaking, had gone straight upstairs and locked himself into his bedchamber.
When the house had settled down again, Malcolm softly knocked on Alec’s door.
“Alec. Ye all right?”
Alec hadn’t answered. Mal could hear nothing inside, not swearing or weeping. Mal had crept quietly away and returned in a few minutes to pick open the lock.
He’d found Alec sitting on an ornate settee before the fire, staring at nothing. Alec’s loose kilt, open shirt, and unshaved face contrasted sharply with the room’s gilded and carved French furniture, brought from Paris.
Mal sat down next to his brother. He said nothing, only let his shoulder touch Alec’s so Alec would know he wasn’t alone.
Mal had read the entire letter several times. Genevieve, whom Alec had married during their last visit to Paris, had perished in childbed. The daughter she’d borne—Alec’s—was healthy and robust, now being looked after by a wet nurse.
The woman who’d written the letter was Genevieve’s oldest friend, and she now had care of the child. She’d sent the letter to her brother in London instead of straight to Alec, fearing the missive would be intercepted by the English ships prowling the sea between France and Scotland. The letter was dated four weeks ago.
Mal had known Genevieve, a dancer with an opera company, had been present for her turbulent courtship with Alec, and Alec’s subsequent wedding to her. Knowing it would take time to ease her into the Mackenzie family, Alec had left Genevieve in Paris, promising to send for her after he’d broken the news to his father.
When Charles had landed in Scotland, Alec wrote to Genevieve to tell her to stay put, where she’d be safer, until the child was born. He’d planned to bring her to Scotland once the uprising question was settled, and he had a grandchild to present to the duke. Only Mal had known about Genevieve, the marriage, and Genevieve’s pregnancy, and Mal hadn’t told a soul.
“I have a ship at the ready,” Mal said after a time. “It will take you to France tonight.”
Alec turned his head, regarding his brother with dead eyes. He didn’t ask how Mal had happened to procure a ship, or why; he simply said, “Thank you.”
Malcolm poured whisky for them both, making Alec drink it. When Alec finally drooped, Mal got him into bed, laying him on his side and pulling blankets over his cold body.
Mal then assigned the most trusted servants of the household—the ones who’d sit on Alec and not let him do anything foolish—to watch him, while he went out and put things in motion.
Now, at the ball, he spied Mary strolling in at her aunt’s side, and the ache in his heart eased.
Mary saw him, caught his gaze. Then with deft skill she kept her eyes moving, so no one in the room would guess she even noticed him.
Mal knew then and there that Mary was the woman for him, in all ways. She was clever and brave, beautiful and enchanting. He’d do everything in his power to bring her to his side and keep her there for the rest of his life.
Mary noted immediately that Malcolm lacked his usual exuberance. Something had happened to quell his fire, though she knew not what.
She longed to go to him, to ask what was wrong. She wanted to lay her hand on his shoulder, tell him she’d help, whatever it was. Mal was compelling that way.
Mary knew he was easing his way into her affections, into her heart, where it would be difficult to root him out again. She knew he did it on purpose, whatever his reasons, good or ill. This rebellion, no matter its outcome, would eventually send her back to England, and she’d likely never see Malcolm again. But she would never be able to forget him.
Mal moved from her line of sight, and she dared not turn her head to follow him. Her entire body was aware of him, however, giving her a flush of heat, a quickening of breath.
Mary, Aunt Danae, and Audrey were soon swallowed by the knot of Englishwomen who’d made their home in Edinburgh. “Have you seen the prince yet?” Aunt Danae asked Lady Bancroft, who was arm in arm with a countess, the countess’s daughter at her side.
“Not yet,” the countess said. “He will make his entrance soon.” She lifted her fan and lowered her voice. “He is so young, and unmarried. They say he will doubtless be taking an English wife, to seal relations between England and Scotland.”
Mary had heard nothing of the sort. If Charles were eager to take a wife from the aristocrats living in Edinburgh, her father or Lord Halsey would have learned of it, and discussed it in front of her. They’d said nothing about it.
But to most young ladies of Mary’s acquaintance the words handsome, young, and prince were only a short step from the word marriage. Their mothers might scorn Charles in front of their husbands and call him the Young Pretender, but an alliance between their family and an ancient royal house was nothing to dismiss.
Mary could see the ambitious thoughts churning in the minds of the matrons, romantic ones in the minds of their daughters. An exiled prince, returning with nothing but a banner and a few loyal retainers to retake the land of his ancestors was the stuff of legend.
While the matrons chattered, Audrey and Mary were drawn into the circle of their younger friends. “A pity you’re betrothed, Mary,” the countess’s daughter said. “You’ d be the perfect wife for the prince. You’d have fair-haired children, and be queen of England.”
“Alas, alas,” Mary said, trying to pretend she wasn’t looking for Malcolm with her whole being. “I am already betrothed, and will have to concede my position as queen to another.”
“Then Audrey, perhaps,” another young lady suggested. “She’s young and pretty—I imagine the prince will be unable to keep his eyes off her.”
“Nonsense,” Audrey said. “He’ll never see me past you ladies.”
“Go on,” the countess’s daughter said, pleased at Audrey’s generosity. “You flatter me. I wager it will be Audrey he begs to dance with first.”
Audrey laughed in genuine amusement. “My father would fall over of apoplexy if he did. And again if I accepted such a request. I believe I will remain a wallflower tonight, and spare my father’s constitution.”
“You do disappoint me,” the countess’s daughter said, a mock frown replacing her vapid smile. “If he approaches you, you must dance with him. And then tell us everything.”
“I heard that he’ll not dance at all,” Mary broke in. “That he’ll wait until what he calls ‘the greater dance’ is done before he indulges in it with young ladies.”
The ladies gaped at her, then melted. “How wonderful,” one said, fanning herself rapidly.
“We will have to persuade him to favor at least one of us with a wee dance,” the countess’s daughter said, trying out a Scottish accent and failing miserably. “Audrey, do charm him.”
More of this went on until a fanfare announced the arrival of the prince himself.
Mary and Audrey were perhaps the only ladies there who watched in mere curiosity, rather than avid delight. Audrey’s thoughts were reserved for Jeremy—a prince could not compare.
Mary was aware only of Malcolm, who’d swung away from his brothers. His body went rigid, as though poised to spring like a predator, as Charles and his small entourage entered the room.