A Secret Scottish Christmas (Agents of the Crown Book 4)

by Regan Walker

  Putting all back in his satchel, Mr. Wilson closed it and turned to Nash. “Come, let us get him back to my office. He’ll freeze here. And put your coat back on, young man or you’ll freeze, too.”

  In what appeared to Ailie a mindless manner, Nash shrugged into his bloodstained coat and the two men lifted Robbie to an erect position.

  Ailie picked up the physician’s satchel, heavy with his bottles and instruments. They began to retrace their steps, slowly and in an awkward manner, as Robbie, unable to walk on his own, was dragged between the two men.

  Ailie’s spirits rose when Robbie let out a groan.

  “He is regaining consciousness,” said the physician, “a good sign.”

  Robbie’s eyes were still closed, and there was blood on the side of his face and a red stain on his cravat. Still, Ailie was heartened to see no bright stain of red coming through his bandage.

  They had only gone a short way when Ailie spotted Will driving the wagon with the ladies down the street toward them. Hugh rode alongside.

  Will pulled up next to Ailie and jumped down. “Good Lord, what has happened?”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Stephen, ladies,” said Mr. Wilson. His gaze met Will’s. “It seems one of your guests has been shot.”

  “It’s Robbie,” said Nash in a grave tone.

  “We’re taking him to Mr. Wilson’s office,” explained Ailie.

  Hugh dismounted and joined Will. Emily and the other ladies looked on, their faces lined with worry.

  “Here, let me take him,” said Will. The physician surrendered his hold on Robbie to Ailie’s brother. “How bad is it?”

  The physician reclaimed his satchel. “The ball grazed his temple leaving a nasty gash but, with care, he should recover.”

  Hugh asked, “Can we take him back to the shipyard?”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Wilson. “I can give you some laudanum for the pain. Ailie knows what to do and I have given her more bandages.” Reaching into his satchel, he took out a bottle and handed it to Will. “If you need more, send a footman and you shall have it. I will pay you a call tomorrow to see how he’s doing.”

  “Thank you,” said Will. “We are most grateful.”

  Mr. Wilson tipped his hat to the ladies and wished them a good day as he headed back toward his office.

  As the men moved Robbie toward the back of the wagon, the women continued to watch anxiously from the side. Hugh let down the tail of the wagon and Nash and Will lifted Robbie to a horizontal position, carefully sliding him onto the bed of the wagon. Without the baskets, there was sufficient room for him between the benches.

  Ailie climbed in and sat beside Robbie, gently raising his head to her lap. Nash took a seat on the bench across from her, his eyes fixed on his twin.

  “Here, take this,” said Mary, offering her lap blanket to Nash, which he laid over Robbie’s prone form.

  Tara offered her scarf to Ailie. “For under his head.”

  After they’d gone a short way, Robbie opened his eyes. Dazed, he looked up at Ailie and blinked twice. “Where am I? Heaven? Must be Heaven as I’m looking at an angel. But my head hurts like Hell.”

  The other women laughed, shaking their heads at Robbie’s attempt at humor.

  Ailie looked into Robbie’s hazel eyes, so like his brother’s. “As my brother can tell you, I am no angel, but I vow to take good care of you, Robbie Powell.”

  “The rascal recovers,” announced Muriel in a jovial manner but Ailie could see the countess, whose face had been lined with worry moments before, was much relieved to see Robbie awake and feeling well enough to joke.

  Chapter 19

  27 December

  The next morning Nash was keeping vigil at Robbie’s bedside, as he had the night before, when Ailie arrived to change the bandage.

  “The wound looks raw and ugly but ’tis not festering,” she said with a hopeful smile. Robbie winced as she applied some brandy to the gash.

  “Waste of good brandy,” Robbie muttered. He reached for the flask. “At least give me the remains.” She obliged and he drank it down. “Ah, now that’s better.”

  Nash watched as Ailie applied the clean bandage and then circled Robbie’s head with fresh linen and tied it off. Sitting back in her chair, she folded her hands and looked at Nash.

  “Now that we know Robbie will live, I’d have the truth of it. The others are eager to know as well. What happened?”

  Nash exchanged a look with Robbie, who had suddenly gone silent. Letting out a sigh of resignation for the story he must tell, Nash said, “Robbie and I have been working for the government, Ailie. Not just now but before, in Manchester last August.”

  She shot him am incredulous look. “You were in Manchester when the massacre took place?”

  “We were. When the invitation to come to Scotland presented itself, Lord Sidmouth, who fears rebellion above all, asked us to be on the lookout for George Kinloch, the man who stirred all of Dundee with his speech. Things being tense in Scotland, Sidmouth wanted the man back in Edinburgh for trial. It was believed Kinloch might have come to Arbroath.”

  “You are government spies?” She spewed out the last word as if the very notion was repugnant, which, to her, it probably was.

  Nash lowered his gaze. “We are.”

  “So, you thought to capture him and turn him over to his gaolers?” This time, her voice was tinged with anger. Her color was high and her lips pressed together.

  Nash tried to summon a defense even he did not believe in. He met her infuriated gaze, fearing what he saw in her beautiful eyes. “That was the initial plan, yes.”

  She rose from her chair and shot Nash a look of stunned outrage. “All this time! You have heard me defend the man as wanting only good for Scotland. None in our family—your hosts, I might remind you—ever argued for Kinloch’s capture. Yet, behind our backs, you went to town to spy on him, didn’t you? Now that I think of it, there were many times only one of you was around. I can scarce believe you capable of such duplicity, such deceit, even if you are English!”

  She turned on her heels and bolted for the door, slamming it behind her.

  “Well,” said Robbie, “that wraps it up with a bow, doesn’t it? Now the Mistress of the Setters will have neither of us.”

  “We are truly unmasked,” said Nash with a look of deep regret. “I fear our deception has cost me Ailie’s good opinion.” And her love. “I did foresee this happening, you’ll recall, and I argued against the mission.”

  Robbie nodded. “You did. I was a fool to think Kinloch’s guards might behave as the gentleman they protected.”

  “That is not my point. We never should have tried to take Kinloch in the first place. He came back, you know. He didn’t want to leave me alone with you bleeding onto the pavement. Even offered to fetch a physician.”

  “Did he? I seem to recall someone saying the good Mr. Wilson hurried to the scene when summoned.”

  “That was not Kinloch. Ailie arrived and offered to go for the physician, which was fortunate. I urged Kinloch to leave while he could.”

  “It wasn’t he who shot me; it was that hot-headed Lachy character.”

  “I’m sure he is still in Arbroath somewhere with his companions, unless they hail from Dundee. Only two cabins were booked on the Panmure.”

  “Alas, we cannot pursue him, Nash, much as I’d like. The story would expose our work for Sidmouth.”

  “You are right, of course. ’Tis best you accept your scar as the only souvenir you will have from this escapade. At least I still have a twin brother.”

  “I regret my scar will not be under my hair, as is yours. It will, however, serve as a reminder of the day you rescued me, an ironic twist to the many times I have saved you from harm.”

  Nash ran his hand through his hair, feeling the scar left by the yeoman’s saber. “Hadn’t thought of it like that. Anyway, ’tis time you stopped coming to my rescue. Let me design and sail ships and, if you must, use your courage, which you have in sp
ades, to go about the Crown’s business.”

  “I might. Right now, the only thing that appeals is a night of cards in my club.”

  “Sidmouth will have to be told,” said Nash, knowing it would be an unpleasant business at best.

  “Leave that to me. Perhaps my new scar will assist the telling.”

  William had been working in his study, trying to get a few things done before they were to sail to Stonehaven, when Ailie arrived. Now that his workers were off for Hogmanay, the shipyard activity had ground to a halt, but the paperwork never ceased.

  Ailie droned on, telling him some Banbury tale of how Robbie Powell had come to be shot the day before. William’s attention was waning, diverted by the numbers on the page before him.

  “They are spies, I tell you!” Ailie shouted, her cheeks red with fury.

  William dropped his quill and looked up. He had assumed Robbie’s misfortune was merely a chance encounter with a ruffian from one of the shorefront taverns, but his sister’s words said different. “Surely that cannot be. Those two are sons of Simon Powell of Powell and Sons Shipping, respectable shipmasters the both of them. Besides, I cannot countenance such behavior on the part of Ormond’s friends.”

  Realizing he would accomplish no more work today, William set aside his ledgers and rose. “I can see there is nothing for it but for me to ask Ormond if he has an inkling of such being true.” He proceeded out of the room, saying over his shoulder. “I will see you at the noon meal.”

  He found Hugh in the stables rubbing down the chestnut gelding he had ridden that morning. Sunlight drifted through the open shutters to fall upon the fresh hay.

  His friend must have sensed his presence, for he glanced up. “Hello, William. What brings you to my favorite haunt?” Hugh returned his attention to the horse, moving to its right flank facing away from William.

  “It’s my sister. Ailie has it in her head that the twin Powell brothers are government spies.”

  Hugh’s dark head popped up from the other side of the horse. “What?”

  “Aye, something to do with that dust up in Arbroath yesterday and Robbie’s getting shot. Ailie says ’tis all bound up with some work the two were doing for Lord Sidmouth. Spying on George Kinloch, to be precise.”

  “The man from Dundee charged with sedition is here?”

  “Was, according to Ailie. But aye, the very one. Know anything about it?”

  “No.” Hugh put the horse back in its stall and wiped his hands on a cloth. “How about a brandy, old chum?”

  “I’ve some good cognac waiting in my study,” Will offered. They began to walk back to the house together. “I was certain none of your friends would be spying for the Crown,” said Will, feeling much better about the whole thing. After all, he’d given Nash his blessing to court Ailie.

  “Well, now. Speaking generally, William, that ain’t so.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I suppose I have never told you.” Shaking his head, Hugh said, “Truth be told, there was never a reason to do so and, really, we don’t speak much of it.”

  “What exactly are you muttering about?” William demanded, as they approached the front of the house.

  “What I am trying to say, my friend, is that we have all been agents for the Crown at one time or another. I was a spy in Paris stealing the plans meant for Napoleon’s generals; Sir Martin was a spy in France during the war, working with me. And just two years ago, Prinny dispatched him to the Midlands for that rebellion in Pentridge. At the Prince Regent’s request, Nick chased a pirate all over the Caribbean, one I might add who held Tara captive for a time. Why, even their father Simon Powell was a spy for the government in the American War. Did you never know?”

  Will paused, near speechless. “I had no idea.”

  “So,” Hugh continued on, speaking as if it were no large matter, “while I know nothing of this business in Arbroath and, if it’s true, would chide them most soundly for assuming on your good graces, I would not be surprised. Like their older brothers and their father before them, I expect the Crown would feel free to call upon them whenever they are needed. The Powells have served the country well.”

  “Good Lord. Government spies the lot of you and beneath my very roof. Tell me, while I was rotting in a French prison, were you in France?”

  Hugh grinned. “Have you never heard of L’Engoulevent, the Nighthawk?”

  Will raised a brow. “You?”

  Hugh bowed. “À votre service.”

  “You are a famous hero, Ormond. A glass of my best cognac is definitely in order.”

  Hugh chuckled. “If it earns me some of your fine cognac, I accept the accolade.”

  Ailie arrived in the dining room just as luncheon was being served. A quick glance around the table told her Robbie had elected to remain in his room. He was still dizzy when he’d tried to stand so it was not beyond reason for him to take the noon meal in his chamber.

  Or, he might be hiding from her wrath.

  She darted a glance at Will, who returned her a slight nod, telling her he had matters in hand. Very well, she would trust him to deal with the Powell twins’ betrayal.

  From across the table, Nash gave her a look of regret. It was the first time they sat apart. She averted her gaze. He could hardly expect her to overlook his perfidy, engaging in a dangerous pursuit that might have brought those ruffians to their home or got both of them killed. As it was, Robbie lay wounded. And Kinloch, a hero to many Scots, might have been tossed into prison or worse.

  How could she love a government spy who had lied to her?

  As bowls of haddie stew were served, everyone set into their food, except for Nash, whose bowl was still full when the others were almost finished.

  Will set aside his spoon and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It appears we have been harboring spies in our midst.”

  The announcement brought dead silence to the table and guilty expressions on most of the faces. The only one whose expression indicated surprise was Emily. Beneath her ebony brows her heather eyes were frowning.

  So the rest of them all knew.

  “I only learned today,” Will continued, “that my good friend, the Marquess of Ormond, has acted the spy for the Crown. In fact, Ormond is the stuff of legends, the one known as L’Engoulevent, the Nighthawk.”

  Emily gasped. “Oh, I just loved him! You, Hugh?”

  At Hugh’s nod, Emily beamed.

  Ailie did not know the name but her sister-in-law obviously did. Her worshipful gaze aimed at Hugh was a bit too much. Mary reached over and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek, obviously proud of whatever he had been doing as the Nighthawk.

  When the excitement over Hugh’s achievement died down, Will said, “And it seems the Powell brothers have all been, as Hugh puts it, ‘agents for the Crown’. Sir Martin earned his knighthood spying for the government in France, making use of his fluent French. Captain Nicholas Powell is famous for going against the notorious pirate Roberto Cofresi and besting him. And now, to bring you all to the current day, Nash and Robbie Powell have been spying for Lord Sidmouth in Arbroath before our very noses.”

  This drew frowns from all save Nash who lowered his gaze to his soup.

  “Do tell,” said Nick to his youngest brother. “Now that the family secret’s out, what have you two been up to?”

  Ailie watched as Nash raised his head and set his shoulders back as if bracing for a storm. “Sidmouth sent us north to Manchester in August to search out what he believed was a rebellion brewing among the factory workers. He was wrong, and I nearly lost my life in the bloodbath that followed.”

  “Dear Nash, do not speak of blood whilst we are eating,” put in Muriel. “’Tis bad form.”

  “Forgive me, Muriel.”

  “Good God,” said Martin. “Mother never told us.”

  “We asked her not to,” replied Nash.

  Emily turned to the countess. “Did you know they were all spies, Muriel?”

/>   “Having my own connections at Whitehall, I knew much of it. But even I was not aware the twins had accepted an assignment from Sidmouth. I consider that man beyond the pale. Never did trust him.”

  Hugh directed a disapproving look at Nash. “You should have confided in me, Nash, and in our host. William had a right to know. Look where your secret has led. Your own brother lies wounded.”

  As disgusted as she was, Ailie could not allow them to unjustly point all the blame at Nash. “It was Robbie who fired on Kinloch and the men with him, wasn’t it, Nash?”

  “Robbie only meant to warn them.”

  “Well, there is one good thing come of it,” said Muriel. With all eyes on her, the countess smiled, a very knowing smile, thought Ailie. “We’ll be able to tell you and your twin apart from now on. And a scar looks good on a rogue.”

  Muriel sat by the Yule log fire in one of the comfy velvet wing chairs she favored, a glass of Madeira on the small table next to her, as she finished another chapter in the Waverley novel she was reading.

  The Antiquary, set in the century past, took place in the fictional seaside town of Fairport, which she believed was actually Arbroath. She had come to this conclusion because it was an open secret in London that the author was Walter Scott even though the book had been published anonymously. Muriel knew that Scott had traveled to Arbroath more than once. As described in the book, the two places, including the ruined abbey, were too similar not to be the same.

  She was just thinking how appropriate her reading choice was in light of the discussion during luncheon when Aileen Stephen traipsed into the parlor and claimed the other wing chair.

  “Aileen, whatever has caused that despairing look on your lovely face?”

  “How can I not despair, Muriel, when the man I cared for betrayed my trust? Lurking about Arbroath, spying on a Scottish gentleman I respect, all the time hiding the truth from me.”

  “Ah, secrets,” said Muriel, shifting her gaze to the flames. Lifting her glass of Madeira, she sipped the rich wine, then quoted aloud a line from Walter Scott’s poem, Marmion. “Oh! What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”