The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  “I came home ahead of him, that’s all,” she said, her voice slurring slightly. “We had an argument.”

  “Now that I find awfu’ hard to believe,” said Duncan. “Alex being so docile and even tempered an’ all, and you looking to be the same.”

  She laughed, and let her eyes close again, relaxing. It was good to be home.

  Over the next few days her relationship with Duncan continued as it had begun, relaxed and friendly. He did not press her at breakfast the following morning to reveal the details of what had gone on in France, although it was clear that he was worried. When Beth saw her face in the dining room mirror she understood why. Her eyes were so shadowed by fatigue they appeared bruised, and her skin had the pallor of deep grief or sickness. She looked like someone who had just suffered a bereavement, as, in a manner of speaking, she had.

  While they were eating, a letter arrived from Sir Anthony Peters, dated the twenty-sixth of December. Duncan read it aloud. It was short, and stated only that he had been arrested for duelling, that he did not expect to be incarcerated for long, and that he would return home as soon as possible. He had obviously been supervised while writing the letter, and whilst it told them that he was alive and well, it did nothing to reassure the three Scots that he would remain so. Beth then explained what had happened, about Angus’s adventures in the hothouse, the trip to Rome, France, and the finding and dispatching of Henri. She did not tell them that she had not been privy to Alex’s plans, merely that they had argued about a silly personal matter and she had left for home ahead of him.

  If Duncan did not have the blue eyes of his brothers, they certainly held the same intensity, and she was uncomfortably aware from his scrutiny of her face as she finished her tale that he did not believe she had told him the whole story.

  She was right. Duncan did not know his sister-in-law well, but the erratic letters he had received from Angus from various locations in Europe had sung the praises of this fragile-seeming English rose. She was strong, adventurous, courageous, hot-tempered, good-humoured, stubborn, wonderful. Reckless as he could be, Angus was not stupid, and was a good judge of character. Duncan could well imagine how a woman possessing many of the qualities her husband also possessed, would clash violently with him on occasion, on many occasions, probably. He could not imagine such a woman walking out on her husband in a childish sulk because of a trivial personal argument, leaving him to deal alone with the consequences of killing the king’s servant.

  Nothing he saw over the next two days changed his opinion, as Beth wandered wraithlike around the house waiting as they all were for Alex and Angus to return, although she would not admit it. Whatever the argument had been about, it was not trivial. Something was very wrong with his brother’s marriage, but Duncan had to trust that whatever it was, she would have told him if Alex had been put in danger because of it. He let it be known, subtly, that he was there for her if she needed to confide in someone, and left it at that.

  She was tempted to confide in him. If he did not possess the dynamic fiery charisma of his brothers, he had a quality she needed far more at the moment; a rocklike dependability and calmness that soothed her. She knew the welcome she had received from Duncan, Iain and Maggie had been genuine, for which she was more grateful than they would ever know. It meant she could stay in the bosom of what she now considered to be her family, at least until Alex returned or sent a letter telling them she could not be trusted. By that time, she thought, she would be strong enough to cope with that.

  On her second day in London, already tired of passively waiting, she wrote two short letters to Manchester, then, whilst waiting for the replies, she busied herself as best she could, helping Maggie with the household chores, taking down the festive greenery on Twelfth Night, and discussing with Iain and Duncan the problems of smuggling goods direct to Leith now that the weather was so treacherous, and the alternative problems of landing the goods on the south coast of England and then transporting them north by land.

  “I was hoping Alex would be home by now,” Duncan admitted on the fourth day after Beth’s return. “Gabriel Foley has said he can provide a trustworthy crew to take the next lot of merchandise up to Scotland. It’ll cost a wee bit more than if we do it ourselves, but Alex seems to set store by Foley, so it could be a lot less risky. I really want to discuss it with Alex before I make a decision, though. He kens Foley far better than I do.”

  There was a short silence while everyone pondered on the possible reasons for Alex’s continued non-appearance. What if King Louis did not accept that Henri’s death had been an accident?

  “I’m sure he will,” Beth said, when Iain voiced his concern. “If I didn’t know Alex better, I’d have sworn it was an accident myself. Louis will probably hold him for a few days, then let him go. I did come home by stage coach, which means I left him the carriage. They’ll have to travel as Sir Anthony and footman, which means they can’t hire horses and gallop hell-for-leather across country, and with the weather and French postillions being what they are, they’ll be lucky to make it home by the end of the month.”

  That was true, but it did not stop everyone worrying.

  Time went on and Alex did not appear, nor send further word. Duncan finally rode to Hastings himself, returning five days later half-frozen and frustrated, with the news that Gabriel Foley was in Calais and would possibly be there for some time.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said, shivering, sitting so close to the hearth that he was in considerable danger of setting himself on fire. “Alex is sure to be home any day, and the weapons are in a safe house in Calais. They’ll come to nae harm if they stay there a wee while longer.”

  Nevertheless, Beth went out early every morning to the post, muffled up in layers of clothing, ostensibly against the cold, but also rendering her unidentifiable. She did not wish to be recognised by anyone; while the coach was absent, society would assume Sir Anthony and his wife to be still in France, and that suited her fine. Every day she returned empty-handed, and the household would settle to the business of passing another day.

  On the twentieth of January Duncan declared that if there had been no word from his brothers by the end of the month, he would go to Paris himself and try to find out what had happened to them.

  On the twenty-third there was, finally, a letter waiting at the post, although it was not from France, but from Manchester, and was addressed to Beth. She read it straight away, then took a hackney to the Swan Inn on Snow Hill and booked a place on the stage coach for the next day. Then she went home and packed, before going downstairs to tell the others that she was leaving. It was gratifying that their sadness at her imminent departure was not feigned. It was less gratifying that they could clearly not understand how she could go off merrily visiting friends in Manchester when there had been no word of Alex for nearly a month.

  “He knew I wanted to go to Manchester as soon as we returned from Europe,” she said, when Maggie protested that she should wait until they knew Alex and Angus were safe. “He agreed I could. I need to sort out some business matters, and find out what damage Richard caused when he went home in November. It’s driving me mad, hanging around here waiting day after day. I’d rather be doing something useful.”

  Duncan took Beth’s side, and agreed that she should go. He had seen that she was not a woman to sit and mope for long. She needed to have her mind, and her body too, engaged in activity. He did not find it difficult to understand this woman. After all, he had lived all his life with a brother who was startlingly like her, in so many ways.

  He insisted on accompanying her to the coaching inn, and waited with her while the horses were made ready. They ordered a drink, then sat in companionable silence at the table for a short while, as only people at ease with each other can. It was one of the things she liked about him, that he didn’t feel the need to fill every silent moment with conversation. She observed him surreptitiously, committing him to memory, the pleasant face, like and yet unlike his
brothers’, the dark hair, darker than Alex’s but with the same red highlights. He radiated serenity and self-containment, not at all like Alex. He was her newest friend, and could have been a good one, she thought. But she did not know if she would ever see him again.

  He looked up now, and smiled. She realised that he had been aware of what she was doing and had allowed her the time to do it. She bit her lip.

  “Write to me the moment you hear from them,” she said. “I won’t rest until I know they’re safe.”

  “I will,” he promised. “Do you want to tell me where you’re staying, or shall I just send a letter to the post? Manchester’s no’ a wee village. Ye’ll maybe not receive it.”

  “Send it to the post at Didsbury,” she said. “Didsbury’s a small place. I’ll get it there.”

  The bell rang. The coach was leaving in five minutes. They finished their drinks and went outside. She reached out her hand to him to shake, and ignoring it he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly, kissing her on the forehead before letting her go.

  “Have ye any message for him?” he said at the last moment. Beth hesitated on the steps of the carriage, causing the woman waiting to ascend behind her to click her tongue impatiently.

  “Yes,” she said, turning back and looking down at him. “If he asks, tell him I’ve gone to those I trust, and who trust me. He’ll know what I mean.”

  When Duncan arrived home there was a letter waiting for him, together with an extremely impatient Iain and Maggie, who had balked at opening anything addressed to someone else, but were fast overcoming their reluctance, in view of Duncan’s tardy return.

  “It came by courier, so it must be urgent,” Iain explained as Duncan unfolded the letter and scanned its coded contents, running his eyes down the page, searching for the problem contained in it. Then he looked up.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “He’s safe. They’re both safe. He’s on his way home. Angus is on his way to Rome.”

  Then he sat down and read the letter to them slowly, deciphering the familiar code as he went. The contents confirmed everything Beth had told them, and added some things she didn’t know, having left so precipitately; that Louis, irked by the loss of such a useful employee but unable to proceed against Sir Anthony as even Henri’s second had stated the death to be an accident, had decided instead to let the baronet kick his heels in prison for a while whilst the paperwork to secure his release was sorted out. He had not been allowed to write, apart from the brief missive he hoped they had received. Angus, being only a servant, had been released two weeks previously and due to circumstances Alex would explain on his return, had ridden post-haste for Rome.

  The demand in the postscript, which was why Alex had gone to the expense of a courier, Duncan could do nothing about. He was very glad he could do nothing about it.

  * * *

  Alex had spent his first days in prison in a state of permanent frustration. He had known there was a possibility that he would be arrested; after all, he had just killed the king’s employee; but he had not expected it to happen quite so quickly. He had thought he would have time to return to the hotel, explain to Beth and get Angus on his way to Rome before facing the consequences of his actions. Instead they had been apprehended whilst still in the clearing, and both the sobbing Sir Anthony and his footman had been politely but firmly ensconced in the Bastille.

  Sir Anthony had, predictably, spent some time bemoaning his fate and complaining about the state of his cell, which was actually far better than he had expected. The well-fortified mediaeval fortress of the Bastille was the most dreaded prison in France, but the room he was taken to, though sparsely furnished with a pallet and straw mattress, chair and table, was nevertheless clean. He rapidly discovered that many privileges were available to those with the necessary funds to pay for them. He had then immediately demanded, and been refused, pen and paper, permission to speak to a notary, and the release of his innocent servant. The warden was not at present available; when he was, he would visit the baronet to discuss his situation.

  Alex had known what that meant. The warden was finding out how wealthy Sir Anthony was, and what instructions the king had left regarding his incarceration. Then he would visit and the bartering would begin.

  He had two main priorities at the moment; one was to get a message to Beth to tell her what had happened; the other was to procure Angus’s release. After Alex had read through the secret papers in Henri’s room the previous night, he had realised that Prince Charles Edward Stuart must at all costs be discouraged from coming to Paris until expressly invited to do so by Louis. The whole invasion plan would be compromised if it was discovered by the British that Charles was going to France, which they certainly would the moment he left Rome, if not before; he was constantly monitored by spies. And the ever-cautious Louis would probably call off his planned invasion altogether if he thought the British suspected what he was up to. Balhaldie would be in Rome by now, telling the eager prince that the restoration of his family was imminent; it was imperative that Angus follow hot on his heels and deter him from any rash move.

  It did not escape Alex’s notice that before escorting Beth home the previous night Angus had been very reluctant to ride straight off to Rome after the duel, leaving his brother to face the music alone; but that after returning from the hotel he had raised no more objections and in fact seemed eager to get out of Alex’s presence as quickly as possible.

  The warden had finally put in an appearance the following day. He regretted that Sir Anthony was dissatisfied with his accommodation and for a consideration could provide better quarters, and excellent food and wine. He could also permit the baronet to write a short letter to his friends in England who were awaiting his return, and a note to his wife at the hotel. He regretted he could not permit the release of the servant Jim, although he would be escorted to the hotel to collect any necessary personal items the baronet might require to make his stay comfortable.

  Sir Anthony Peters had accepted this somewhat hysterically, with protestations of innocence, repentance and sobs; Alex had calmly accepted that although Louis was not angry enough with him to cast him into one of the notorious dungeons this prison boasted, neither did he intend to release him imminently. Angus had therefore been despatched with a written note for Beth, verbal instructions to collect clothes, make-up and other essentials, and unspoken instructions to give his escort the slip if possible and ride for Rome, regardless of the consequences.

  Angus had returned two hours later with assorted gaudy costumes stuffed unceremoniously into a bag, the required make-up and spare wigs, and the tersely delivered news that Beth had left the hotel without leaving any message. He had been unable to escape his escort, who were well-armed and vigilant.

  The next eleven days had been the longest of Alex’s life. Under constant surveillance and therefore permanently trapped in the guise of Sir Anthony, he had been unable to discuss the situation with his unusually tight-lipped brother. It was quite obvious that Angus thought Alex to be in the wrong regarding Beth, and wanted to discuss the matter in time-honoured Highland fashion, but this was not the place. After a day or so the naturally good-humoured and loquacious Angus had returned to his normal behaviour, within the limits of his role as servant to Sir Anthony; but they both knew that the matter between them was merely postponed, not forgotten.

  On Twelfth Night the king had celebrated the end of the Christmas period by issuing the good news, delivered by the warden, that there would be no charges brought against Sir Anthony in the matter of the unfortunate death of Henri Monselle. No doubt, Alex thought, Louis had found the letter planted in Henri’s room and had, as intended, decided that the nincompoop of an Englishman had unwittingly done him a favour in ridding him of a spy. The warden smilingly added that James Campbell, Sir Anthony’s servant, was now free to leave, although the paperwork to secure the baronet’s release was somewhat more complex, sir would understand, and there would be a short delay before i
t was completed. However, the warden would now be pleased to allow visits from friends to be made and to provide Sir Anthony with pen, paper, reading materials and anything else he required apart from the key to the prison. Sir Anthony hurriedly wrote the scribbled note Duncan was to receive some two weeks later, gave it to Angus to post, and waved his servant off tearfully.

  He had finally been released from the Bastille on the twenty-first of January. He had set off for home the following day, making his leisurely way to Calais, hindered, as Beth had predicted, a little by the weather and a lot by the postillions. He was not now too worried about arriving home speedily. Beth must surely have gone back to London. She had definitely taken the stage to Calais, that much a young guard had found out for him, for the bargain price of a guinea. She would not go to Lord Edward’s, Alex thought, and she had formed a good relationship with Maggie and Iain, so it was almost certain that she would go there. Duncan would have received his letter by now, and would act on it. Alex decided he would worry about how he was going to deal with her when he arrived home. He did not anticipate it with relish.

  Consequently he didn’t rush, and at Calais he temporarily became Abernathy, and kept his flexible appointment with the bull-like smuggler Gabriel Foley, which resulted in the successful transport to Hastings of various goods of a martial nature, together with a dismantled carriage, and Messrs Abernathy and Foley themselves, who, together with most of the crew, once safely arrived at their destination, repaired to a somewhat disreputable inn. There they made short work of several bottles of brandy, and rather longer work of attempting to fleece each other at Loo, which resulted in a good-natured brawl. Mr Abernathy participated in this with great enthusiasm, needing a release for his pent-up emotions, emerging smiling, with a black eye, bruised ribs, and the respect of all who had come in contact with his fists. He gained the respect of the remaining occupants of the inn and the landlord when he offered to pay for the damage and treated everyone to a drink immediately afterwards. The following morning, the goods had set off on their way to Manchester accompanied by Foley’s men, where they would be temporarily stored before continuing on their way to Scotland when the passes were open. His relationship with Foley and his men was now on an excellent footing. It had been a good few days’ work; the goodwill of men with boats, Jacobite leanings and few scruples was always worth cultivating.