She turned her head sideways, trying to see between the trimming tassels as the door swung open. Yards of swishing silk fabric sashayed across the threshold, followed by a pair of polished black boots. Mr. Finch’s voice bristled with annoyance as his feet stopped in front of a lacquered liquor cabinet.
“What is it that required our leaving the salon in such haste, Lady Lucia? Couldn’t you see I was enjoying a spirited game of whist with Alex? Just because he was called away does not mean I have the time to run up here for a private word at your command. He’ll come back to find us gone, no doubt, and I’ll have lost my partner.”
Glassware clinked and was followed by the glug of spilling liquid. The carved feet of the walnut cabinet shuddered as the door was forcefully shut. “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been welcomed back into his good graces these last couple of days, and it would be churlish of me to spurn his revived interest.”
“It is not your revived interest I am at all concerned about,” Lady Lucia said. “I had him called away so I could speak to you alone. I want to know what it is you have been doing to ensure my stability in this house.”
Mr. Finch’s sigh was impatient. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he is not growing warmer when we are together and I am afraid he may be petitioning his parents to reverse the betrothal. You are supposed to help make sure this marriage will occur. I do not see this happening. I see you making yourself a fine place beside him and forgetting about our agreement.” Jenna watched Lady Lucia’s gown slither to the window.
“Shall I remind you of your ambitions? You have begged for my help, stating that if he is granted permission to leave, you will lose everything. Without a marriage to me there will be nothing to make him stay. But if this union occurs, I can ensure you have a place at his side always.”
Mr. Finch’s feet shifted toward her. “I need no review of the muscle you exercise. And I assure you, I shall not gamble away opportunity. But lest you feel I am deficient in my efforts to ensure this marriage takes place, I would advise you to be patient a little longer. I am doing my best. Besides, yours is not the only interest I wrestle with currently.”
Lady Lucia’s feet spun toward Mr. Finch. “Explain this to me.”
There was a moment of silence before Mr. Finch answered. “I was never actually sent down from school.” He cleared his throat. “Arrangements were made that I should observe Alex and send reports back as to his state of mind. A future Member of Parliament through peerage can be a useful tool for the school—especially if the alumnus should feel grateful for promised introductions most beneficial to one’s success.”
“What is this meaning?”
“Everyone needs friends in high places. It’s merely a matter of back-scratching.”
“And you’ve decided to spy on him for these people out of the goodness of your heart?” she said, her voice full of disdain.
“Like I said, milady, everyone needs friends, and I make it a matter of routine to scratch backs that are itching. It is no different from the contract we have pained each other with.” He walked to the window. “The problem is, our Alex is not terribly interested in politics at present. His mind is more focused on other things. But I may have found a way around this little mess.” He planted his glass and lowered his voice. “I have been preparing a most dependable way to capture Alex’s loyalty and guarantee his devotion toward us.”
Lady Lucia twirled from the window. “What is this thing you have?”
“This thing,” he began, “is called insurance.” He moved toward the desk. “I have all the protection I need right . . .” He stopped midsentence.
Jenna stifled a gasp, certain he had spotted the book on the writing table. She watched the shiny black boots pivot, knew he was searching for anything else out of place.
His sudden silence attracted Lady Lucia’s attention as well, and she said, “What protection? What is it you have?”
He turned again to Lady Lucia. Jenna was convinced he was calculating the possibility that she had been the one rifling through his shelf and desk, but he said only, “You need to get out of here. Go back to the parlor, and I will meet you there shortly.”
“What?” she sounded confused.
“Just do as I’ve said and I will follow in a few minutes. We shan’t let anyone question whether we’ve been together.”
Her skirts rustled as she gathered them up and sailed out of the room. “Fine. I will see you at dinner, but do not forget that I must secure my place in this house.”
He closed the door behind her, and his feet raced to the desk. She heard his sigh when he found the key inside the book, heard it click into the lock, and recognized the sound of the sliding drawer. He groaned with relief and slid it shut, locked it once more. He spoke in a near growl. “I know I put this book away. Did they think I’d not notice something out of place?” He huffed. “Surely, they’d at least restore what they disturbed.”
An eerie silence followed his last statement, and Jenna watched Mr. Finch get up from his chair and make a slow swivel to take in the entire room. “Unless . . . ,” he whispered. “Unless you’re still here.”
He raced around the perimeter of the room, opening cupboards and rankling curtains.
Jenna couldn’t breathe. She prayed she had successfully hidden all of her skirt and cloak.
If Mr. Finch finds me, he’ll kill me. Right here. Tears began rolling down her face toward her ears as she lay staring at the underside of the settee. She had been a fool to do this.
The shiny black boots stopped at the settee. Fear grabbed her around the throat, clutched her chest. A table was shoved away, and she saw Mr. Finch’s knees as his fingertips brushed the edge of the fringe.
An urgent knock made him freeze. She heard Lord Pembroke shout from the corridor and break into the room. “Julian!” he cried.
Mr. Finch quickly rose. “What is it, Alex?”
“My father has been calling for you and is losing his patience. I think we both know that if his demanding nature is not immediately satiated, well, I pity the poor fellow. I thought it the decent thing to do to hunt you down.”
Mr. Finch hurried toward the door. “Yes,” he said, with one quick pause and twist back toward the center of the room. “You’re probably right.”
The two men left and Jenna lay listening as the voices in the hall faded. Fate had been gracious to her today. But if fate lends you luck, surely it will ask for it back.
THIRTY-FOUR
JENNA RAN TO THE STABLES AND NODDED AT JEB, who was pitch-forking fresh hay. She rushed to Henry’s stall, breathless and grateful for having made it out of Mr. Finch’s rooms alive. Her arms circled Henry’s muscled neck and she uttered a few solemn promises never to do anything so foolish again. He seemed to think her appeal for sympathy, unaccompanied by anything to eat, was inconsiderate, and gave her little compassion.
She picked up a brush and began a halfhearted rubdown, hoping to pass time without appearing suspicious. It was fifteen minutes later when Jenna heard the latch on the stable door click open and glimpsed Lord Pembroke’s anxious face as he charged down the corridor.
Jeb stepped out from the narrow cupboard where the stable’s tools were kept, finished with his chores. Lord Pembroke stopped short, but recovered himself and said, “Good evening, Jeb. I heard one of the foals was suffering a bit of colic, and I thought to check.”
Jeb closed the cupboard door and limped toward the young man. “You heard wrong, thankfully, but there’s a restless filly down that ways a bit.” He motioned in Jenna’s direction. “Fortunate for us you care as you do about the well-being of these animals.” He raised a bushy white brow. “Couldn’t ask for more attentive management.”
Lord Pembroke said nothing, but simply glared at Jeb. The old horse handler cocked his head in the opposite direction and said, “Ah, that’d be my mule down around the bend. She’s likely calling for her supper. Hope you didn’t miss yours.” He managed a meager smile and made
his way toward the noiseless hallway.
Lord Pembroke rushed to where Henry’s head poked out above his gate. “Miss MacDuff?”
She bounded out of the stall. “How could you do that to me?”
His features were contorted with remorse. “I am so sorry. Are you all right?”
“I thought he was going to find me . . . and kill me.”
“Were you there?”
She nodded. “Under the settee. Had you not come when you did . . .”
“I shouldn’t have asked you to do it.”
She peered up at him and shook her head. “You are in terrible trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is plotting against you,” she said.
“Wait a moment. I’m confused. Who is?”
She grabbed him by both arms. “Mr. Finch!” she hissed, looking around. “He’s been keeping track of your whereabouts and has prepared letters to your school, telling them of your inclination toward . . . Jacobitism,” she finished in a whisper.
Lord Pembroke stepped back and she watched his eyes wander, saw him gather his thoughts. “Damn him.” He rubbed his temples.
“The letter to the procurator stated he was doing as requested—that your school had entrusted him to keep an eye on you and report to them. Have you any idea why?”
“None. He’d been sent down for trying to speak out on my behalf . . . or at least that’s what I was led to believe,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “I imagine the school wants to know where I stand politically—having caused a bit of an embarrassment for them. These are powerful people, and they must know who is friend and who is foe,” he said almost bitterly. “I’m beginning to believe that freedom of choice is not a luxury I will ever be well acquainted with.”
“Are the money and the title that important to you?” she asked imploringly. “Have you ever considered just leaving it all behind? You could study what you want. You’re a man. No one would deny you that privilege.”
Lord Pembroke appeared to consider her words, and she rushed on.
“If you fail to go through with your marriage to Lady Lucia, your best friend is willing to fabricate lies to punish you. What could possibly be keeping you here to continue on with a charade you find so deplorable?”
One of the stable doors opened abruptly, and they turned to see a mousy, whey-faced servant from the house.
“Sir, I must implore you to return.”
“Whatever for?”
Looking distressed, the man replied, “Your mother has collapsed.”
There was nothing Jenna could do but wait—and she hated it. She felt powerless. Again. The morning dragged on, and she paced the narrow space in the loft between her bed and Tavish’s cot. What was the status of the duchess?
Grateful that news traveled like quicksilver, she was finally sent with a basket of aid to Mrs. Wigginton. Obviously the housekeeper knew every detail regarding the Cliftons, and the health and well-being of the duchess certainly fell within that domain.
Jenna knocked on one of the kitchen’s back doors and viewed the bustling beyond the young scullery who opened it. “Is Mrs. Wigginton here?”
The maid turned in the direction of the voice bellowing orders at the stove.
Jenna stepped in with a basket and sidled between the running servants. The kitchen was humming, and she wondered what all the fuss was about.
“Mrs. Wigginton?”
“What is it now?” she shouted and turned from the pot she bent over. “Oh—Jenna, it’s you. I’m sorry.” She took a sip from one of the spoons held out to her. “Too much salt, Tom! Put some potatoes in to soak it up and add more broth.” She put a quick hand on Jenna’s arm and turned to her. “What is it, dear? It’s a most dreadful time for a visit, ye ken. The magistrate is coming, and what with Herself being sick an all, plus the demands of the young Lady Lucia . . .” She broke off, her anger barely in check. “Oh, dear me, I’m afraid I’m just a bit taken up wi’ it all today.” Her eyes landed on the basket, and she cocked a brow.
“We’d heard Her Grace was ill, but not knowing from what, Duncan decided the best we could offer were his rare herbs. How is she?”
Mrs. Wigginton looked dour and took the proffered basket. “Tell Duncan we thank him kindly, but at this point it’s hard to tell. No one kens what ails her, although she’s sitting up a bit today and I’m about to send up some broth.” With lightning speed, the housekeeper clapped a hand atop the head of a scruffy boy who had tried to sneak up on the tray of cooling tea cakes at her side. “Out of my kitchen, or I’ll take your ear next time!”
“And Lord Pembroke?” Jenna ventured.
Mrs. Wigginton looked at her, confused. “What of him?”
“I just wondered how he was handling his mother’s illness—if he was . . . well, all right?” Jenna wanted to pull her own tongue out. Why hadn’t she simply delivered the herbs and left?
The sound of breaking glass turned their attention to one of the storage pantries. Mrs. Wigginton raced toward the chaos, leaving Jenna to thread her way out, avoiding the cooks and stewards as they scurried. She shouldn’t be here—that was apparent. She would go home, where she was wanted. Where she was safe.
The room was spinning, and Jenna’s heart thumped so fiercely in her chest she felt her lungs might explode with the effort of it all. Two men she’d never seen before grabbed her and hauled her back to the middle of the floor, which had been cleared of the cottage’s long wooden table and benches. The fiddler’s fingers moved in a blur as he began the next arduous reel—and Jenna remembered it as being an endless one. She wanted nothing more than to run as far away from this party as possible, but knew she must do as instructed and allowed herself to be redirected into the center of the dancing.
There were only a handful of women, and twice as many men—a few acquaintances her family had made in the last few months, but mostly they were the Scottish clan leaders and other Stuart supporters, who would be directing the revolt from the garrison before dawn. They whooped, hollered, and cheered one another along, thoroughly convincing in playing their part in the facade.
“We dinna want ye sitting out on your birthday, now, do we?” the shaggy-bearded one shouted above the din. He spun her like a whirling dervish and pushed her into the waiting hands of another chubby Scotsman.
“Nay! We canna have that!” the second man puffed. “A maid on her birthday’s shown special favor. He’s right. ’Tis ill luck to have ye sitting on your arse!” The men and women around them howled with laughter, and Jenna blushed but had no breath for a retort.
The men were unstoppable, and in between every reel, jig, or strathspey, they ate their fill of roast venison and red grouse, bannocks and barley pudding. If they were going to die tonight, they’d do it living life right up until their last breath. Jenna had no appetite and finally found a moment to excuse herself and escape for a few breaths into the cool, spring air.
The doors and windows had been thrown open to combat the stuffiness of the crowded dance floor, and at last outside, she was stunned to see Lord Pembroke tentatively approaching the front door.
She gasped with alarm and ran toward him. “What are you doing here?” The pace of her heartbeat now surpassed that caused by dancing the reels and jigs.
He gave her a quiet smile, took her by the arm, and led her toward the cottage door saying, “It is your birthday. I came to toast your good health.”
It probably couldn’t have been any worse had he waltzed in with a scarlet coat and tricorn hat. The music stopped and people stared. Jenna assumed the majority of their guests knew who he was then, but there was nothing she could do apart from play along and not rouse suspicion.
“Angus?” she nervously called to the other side of the room. “Have we any atholl brose left? I’ve come across a thirsty visitor.”
The eyes weighed heavily upon them, especially Ian’s by the fireplace. She watched Angus glance to Malcolm and then pour a drink from a round copper pot into a
cup. He handed it to Tavish and nodded with his head to walk it over, when someone said, “I’ll take that.”
Malcolm reached for the mug and walked across the dance floor, the little crowd parting. He reached Lord Pembroke and Jenna by the door and stood for a quiet moment before them. “Milord,” he said with a bow. “An honor to have ye attend. May I offer ye a drink?”
Lord Pembroke cleared his throat and stood, broad shoulders back and nearly as tall as her father. “I came to offer good wishes to your daughter on her birthday, and yes,” he said, taking in the many pair of eyes, “I could use a drink.” He accepted the cup from Malcolm and, raising it in the air, said, “Slàinte mhath, is it?”
“It is,” Malcolm responded, surprised, and raised his own glass in reply. The two men drank to the bottom of their cups in one fell swoop, and Malcolm eyed Lord Pembroke appraisingly. “Another drink, then, Angus, and maybe some music to wash it down wi’?” He looked at the few men in the corner holding instruments, and they immediately started another jig. The dancers needed no more encouragement and picked up where they too had left off.
Ian crossed the room, the elixir in his hand, and poured a small amount into Jenna’s and Lord Pembroke’s cups. “A toast to your good health, Jenna,” he said grudgingly. “Ye look more like your mother every day. I wish she were here to see it.”
Jenna had no idea what to say, and as she fumbled for a reply, he continued on, addressing Lord Pembroke. “Now drink up and be gone wi’ ye, lad. ’Tis getting late.” He turned to Jenna. “And this party is a family affair.”
Lord Pembroke made a brief sweep of the room and gave her a narrow look. “Welcoming bunch, aren’t they?”
Jenna nodded toward the door. “I think I prefer the air outside.”
He took her elbow and directed her through the gliding bodies and out the back door. They walked in silence for a minute, absorbed in the sounds of the burbling water as it began widening from brook to stream.
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