Most everyone agreed, and a hasty plan was put together. Duncan and Gavin would visit as many village inns and watering holes as they could in two days’ time to calm any aimless, hotheaded rebels, while the rest of them would keep their heads low and ears to the ground, back to work as usual. If anyone came upon information giving them rise for concern, they would all be given notice to escape and regroup.
Jenna lay awake to the sweet, drowsy sounds of Tavish’s steady breathing and recalled every detail of her conversation with Lord Pembroke. She felt the skin around her wrists, where the ropes had left angry red marks, and summoned the intoxicating moment that had caused most of them.
She sighed, admonishing her indulgent thoughts, as they could come to nothing. People will act out of character if they’re moved by circumstance rather than sound thought.
Funny, it was the same excuse she gave for her actions with Daniel.
Alex trekked through the woods, needing only a moment to assess his whereabouts. He knew every inch of Grizedale Forest around Esthwaite Water, and could navigate himself from most points—day or night. When he came in sight of Withinghall, he noted which windows were still brightly lit, and made the decision to seek out the occupant behind them.
He knocked softly on Julian’s door and heard a disinterested reply to enter. Julian crouched at his writing desk, coat off and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He startled, and a few of the papers slipped to the floor. Gathering the scattered documents, he shoved them into the desk’s deep front drawer.
“Alex, what a surprise. What are you doing here?” He leaned against the desk.
“I didn’t mean to catch you unawares, Julian, but I saw your light on and . . .”
“What happened to you?” Julian said, taking in Alex’s appearance. “You’re filthy.”
Alex had forgotten his state of disarray and looked down at his shirt and trousers. He’d shed his coat just before Miss MacDuff had given him the musket at the cottage, and hadn’t bothered to collect it before coming home. His linen shirt was torn and stained with mud. He walked to the mirror by the dressing table and gazed at a face that must have been shocking for Julian to see.
The back of his shirtsleeve worked as well as a handkerchief to rub the mud and grease from his face, and while scrubbing, he watched in the mirror as Julian quietly locked the desk drawer with a key. Although his ablutions were halfhearted, he was satisfied his appearance would suffice for an informal chat.
As he’d made his way home, his thoughts had repeatedly been brought back to Julian’s words of warning regarding Miss MacDuff. Alex had been keeping his distance from Julian since his frenzied attack on the girl. He’d made it clear their friendship was in jeopardy, if not irreparably damaged.
“A fall from a horse, that’s all.” Alex frowned in answer to Julian’s worried expression. Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and took a seat before the smoldering coals in the fireplace, aware that Julian remained at the desk behind him.
“Listen,” he began brusquely, “I’ve had time to cool off over the whole matter at the ale house. The fact you’re still here must represent your determination and faith in our friendship, so I’d like to set a few things straight.”
The sigh of relief from Julian was audible enough to be heard in the dining hall, Alex thought, and he watched the young man cross to the cluster of chairs and sink into one.
“You don’t know how glad I am to hear of it. I have wanted to speak with you, but understood your need for distance. You are as close as a brother to me—my dearest friend. Tell me what it is I must do to make things right.”
Alex thought for a moment, his gaze on the coals in the hearth as he chewed on the scraped knuckles of one hand. “Tell me what you know of the Jacobite movement.” He turned swiftly to Julian. “And don’t question me about the girl—that isn’t why I’m asking. The new horse handler continues to mention his concern regarding further local activity since the hangings in Hawkshead.” Alex felt his throat go dry. “I’m investigating.”
Julian raised an elegant eyebrow; it arched to the thick black hair falling from his forehead. “There have been riots across the country, Alex. Edinburgh, Aberdeen. Even London. Predictions of James’s arrival have been rife, whether by the Episcopalian Kirk leaders, the Tories, or the dogged Jacobites themselves. It’s adding up to matters getting out of hand, and groups of zealots are wreaking havoc around the country.”
He pointed his finger at Alex. “Your father is doing exactly as he should. Building that garrison is his surefire way to keep us all safe, although you know I have grave concerns regarding those doing the building. By the way, when will it be finished?”
Alex looked at the glowing coals and shrugged. “Sometime soon, I figure—by summer, perhaps. But I’m asking you”—he turned back to look at Julian, his eyes blazing from beneath his brow—“I’m warning you—do not act on your misgivings regarding those builders. Casting wild suspicions about them will only delay the work that must be done as quickly as possible.”
Julian sighed. “As I said, zealots are wreaking havoc across the country.”
“What about locally, though? I know what’s happening around the country—I read the Daily Courant, as apparently you do,” he said somewhat dryly. “I simply thought since your father has returned from campaigning for the general election, he might have revealed the temperament of the towns and villages.”
Julian narrowed his eyes, and Alex could see he’d hit a nerve as usual by pointing out that his father’s seat in Parliament wasn’t secure like the Duke of Keswick’s. “Yes, he did mention local rioting, but it’ll soon be of no concern.”
“Because of my father’s special dispensation to discipline as he pleases?” The thought made Alex’s stomach writhe.
“No. It’s because Parliament is passing a bill to stop rioting all together. It has become too widespread to ignore.”
Alex rubbed the back of his head where he’d been hit earlier.
“Apparently,” Julian continued, “the only way to get these agitating firebrands to understand we mean business is through draconian legislation. Burn the lot of them, I say. King George is here to stay.” He rubbed his temples and suddenly looked weary. “I’ve had a draining day. Would you like a drink?”
“No,” Alex answered shortly. After hearing Miss MacDuff’s passionate explanation of things months ago from her family’s point of view, he understood their reasoning behind the desire for change. He sympathized with this disenfranchised group of people, and it created a hair-prickling effect on him. He watched Julian carefully. “No drink, but might I have a piece of paper from your desk drawer?” Alex rose and moved toward the writing table.
Julian’s eyes widened slightly. “I’m fresh out, although I think there might be some in the library, down the hall—I saw it there yesterday. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink—a brandy perhaps? You look like you could use it, and there’s so much more for us to talk about.” Julian put a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Please stay. Trust me, you need it,” he pressed.
Alex backed up and shook his head, eyeing Julian’s locked desk drawer. “No. I’m filthy and tired. I need to go to bed.” He left the room and a clearly disappointed Julian behind him.
Trust him? Alex mused. I trust him about as far as I can throw him.
THIRTY-THREE
JENNA WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, STIFF-SHOULDERED and sore. She raised her arms above her head to stretch, and her eye caught sight of a piece of paper, crisply folded, attached to a thin blue ribbon and tied to the latch of her window. She reached for the note, sat up and stared at it, still thick-headed from sleep. Her name had been scribbled in black ink on the front of it, and inside, the graceful handwriting was one she didn’t recognize.
Meet me in the stable at noon.
Pembroke
She rubbed her eyes, convinced she was mistaken. Somehow he’d made his way in here last night. Jenna glanced uneasily about the room, still half expecting
to see him sitting somewhere waiting for her to wake. But it was empty. Even Tavish had left his bed.
She hastily washed and dressed before coming downstairs. The room was empty. Only Angus remained at the table, poring over a book of receipts Mrs. Wigginton had loaned him.
“Where is everyone?”
Angus looked up and smiled. “Halfway through their day, I expect. Duncan said wi’ that great lump on the back of your head, it was best we let ye sleep. He and Gavin left early this morning.”
Jenna sat before him and did not try to hide the anxiety she felt. “Angus? I’m worried. And afraid. I want this to be over.”
He peered at her with knowing eyes. “We all do, lass.”
“It’s a different world here, isn’t it? Different people with their own way of thinking.” She closed her eyes. “I wish I could see ten years in front of me. See what I’ve done, know where I’ll be.”
Angus grunted. “Dinna wish your life away, lass. It’s here and now ye need to be content with it. People spend far too much time preparing for what comes next and not enough in the present moment. I ken you’ll make the right choice for yourself as each opportunity comes.”
“What if I don’t? Angus, do you ever wonder what could have been?”
Compassion spread across his features. But he said nothing.
“Fair enough,” Jenna said thoughtfully, and rose from the table. “I’ll be back shortly. I’ve got a quick errand to run before my studies today.”
She shivered with apprehension as she stepped out into the bright sunshine and headed to the stables. March was only days away. And in less than three weeks’ time they’d host the cèilidh for her birthday.” Music, dancing, and . . . murder? She could only pray her birthday gift wasn’t a fitted noose around all of their necks.
Lord Pembroke stood in between the rows of stalls, dressed in rough leather breeks, brushing the coat of a sleek red chestnut mare. He looked up as Jenna came through the stable door, and an apologetic expression filled his face. “I see you received my invitation.”
“Would I be mistaken in assuming you delivered it in person?” she asked, apprehensive.
“You would not,” he began. “And for this I beg your pardon, but I needed to get a message to you, and I still recall every nook and cranny of that cottage—and every window that does not lock as it should.”
“And this message?” Her heart thumped loudly with suspense.
“I need you to do something—find something for me.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet,” he stated, raising a hand to run through his fair-colored hair. When he saw Jenna’s look of incredulity, he added, “I’ll know it when you find it.”
“That’s not terribly helpful,” she said, eyeing him charily.
“Let me explain further,” he said, offering her a seat on a tack box. “I believe someone is hiding something from me . . . something about you. I’m fairly certain I know where it is, but I don’t have access to it.”
Jenna’s heart ceased beating for a moment. “Where is it?”
“In a desk drawer.”
She choked on the statement. “You would risk life and limb in a house full of burly Scotsmen to deliver a note to me, yet you cannot gain access to the contents of a desk drawer in your own home?”
“It’s in Julian’s room,” he said flatly.
There was heavy silence as she allowed the information to sink in. “No,” she stated, emphatically shaking her head. “No. I cannot do it. You’ve seen what that maniac is capable of.”
“I would make sure he’d be nowhere near you at the time. I can’t do it on my own, and the only other option is”—he paused—“that I ransack the room and you divert his attention.”
Jenna stared at him nonsensically.
“I didn’t think you’d jump at the second choice.”
“You’re bloody well right I wouldn’t,” she said hotly. “The man nearly killed me. I would be an idiot to walk into that lion’s den and not expect to be a snack.”
“I implore you to reconsider. For either way, I believe it is a gamble with your life.”
The next day dragged on as she contemplated different alibis for her departure after dinner. She settled on the believable excuse of having forgotten to put away some of Henry’s tack after an earlier ride. Lord Pembroke told her about the ale house. That once inside, she would follow the barrel runners through an elongated tunnel stretching from under the house to the storage rooms, beneath the kitchen. The barreled ale rolled on wooden tracks along the tunnel. At the end of the runner was a keg lift, where the barrels were hauled to the kitchens. Nearby were a set of stairs where she could gain access to the house, undetected, as it was the staff’s night off and dinner would be laid out as a simple buffet.
She climbed, wary of steps that might create an ear-prickling creak. The entrance to the kitchen was to her left, but quiet with no dinner service. She crept to the second staircase as Lord Pembroke had instructed. On the third floor, she retrieved Lord Pembroke’s note and listened for voices. She read his further instructions and waited for the hall clock’s chime to signal the hour. It was an unending hallway with doors and paintings on either side of the corridor, and a grand staircase at the end.
At the stroke of eight, her heart quickened. She made a dart past the portrait of a pallid-faced woman and reached the door. It was locked.
“Providing some early entertainment, are we?”
Jenna gasped and whirled to see the long-haired blond servant moving swiftly down the hall with her cloak slung over her shoulders.
“No worries, lass. Take heed Mrs. Wigginton doesn’t see you, though. She’s not keen on us making a few farthings with the lads of the house.” She winked and rounded the corner.
Jenna leaned back against the door and took a deep breath. Let her think what she will. I need to find Mr. Finch’s room! Her mind raced with the problem of the locked door. What if Mr. Finch had moved his accommodations? Or Lord Pembroke counted wrong? She grabbed the door’s handle again, jiggled it, and this time the knob in her hand gave way. She opened it no more than a sliver—enough to peer in without drawing attention—she saw the glow from burning candles and oil lamps, brightening the contents of the room.
She pushed the door open farther and listened for signs of its resident. Nothing but the soft crackle and pop of the coals heating the room made any sounds. She closed the door behind her and surveyed the room. Mr. Finch must be a well-respected guest to be given such a luxurious suite.
The furniture was polished. Dark, gleaming woods outlined cushioned chairs and settees. The mantle was cast in heavy stone, decorated with masonry designs only someone like her father could truly appreciate. Oil paintings adorned each wall, richly colored and framed. Two tall windows in the room were draped with thick fabric puddling on the floor. Warmth spilled into the room from every angle.
The end of the room revealed another door, which she assumed led to the bedchamber. She spotted a writing desk in between the windows and prayed this would be the one in question, requiring her to pry no farther into the suite.
She hurried to the drawer, but as feared, it was locked. Lord Pembroke never mentioned a hiding place for the key. “Now, if I were Mr. Finch,” Jenna murmured, “where would I secret my treasures?” She let her eyes wander across the room, searching for vases, boxes, or high shelves. She scanned the titles on the bookshelves. L’Astrée by Honoré d’Urfé and Polexandre by Marin le Roy, Sieur de Gomberville, both French heroic romances, sat side by side. She couldn’t be sure this was Mr. Finch’s private collection and canvassed farther. A Game at Chess by Thomas Middleton and Fragmenta Regalia, or Observations on the late Queen Elizabeth, her Times and Favourites by Sir Robert Naunton were both books she could easily see in Mr. Finch’s hands.
She pulled the books, one by one, from their slots, and fluttered her finger across their pages. A key fell from inside and landed by her feet.
“Voilà
,” she said softly, and hurriedly stooped to pick it up. She carried the book to the writing desk and hastily inserted the ornate key into its lock. The drawer clicked as it came free. It was full of correspondence. The writing was neat and legible. The first letter was addressed to the procurator of Trinity House, and duplicates were made out to members of the House of Regents.
Dear Sirs,
I come to offer thanks for your judicious choice in entrusting me with one of your weightiest affairs. Your doubts and hesitations have proven most prophetic, and sadly, I must impress upon you at this juncture in time that Providence has revealed to me the truth. As requested, I have kept a diligent eye upon one Alexander Paxton Clifton: Lord Pembroke. Noted of concern, is his kindled interest in local Jacobite affairs and encouraging their success.
I have inserted in these letters, excerpts of a diary kept following the whereabouts of the individual in question, and feel the evidence sufficient enough to support your growing concern. The weight of the issue presses upon me, and sets upon my spirit, as I am sure it must yours.
I will await further discourse as to your choice of decision in the matter.
I remain your most obedient servant,
Julian William Middleton Finch
She lowered her shaking hand and let the letters rest in her lap. Oh God. She felt sick. She picked up the letters again to reread them, and jolted at the sound of voices in the hallway.
She thrust the letters back into the drawer and fumbled with the key. It caught in her hair as she tried to insert it into the lock, but after a panicked moment it clicked closed and she pulled it out of the chamber. The book was still on the desk, and she only had time to insert the key between one of the pages before scanning wildly for a place to hide. The capacious drapes seemed too obvious, so with not a moment to spare, she dropped to the ground and prayed she could squeeze beneath the tall settee with its long-hanging, bordered fringe. She grabbed frantically at her cloak and skirts, pulling the last of the billowing material underneath the couch, and tried to control her frenzied breathing as two people entered the room.
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