The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  Abernathy, refreshed if somewhat hungover, sat down with Gabriel Foley for a hair of the dog and a private talk the following morning. He expected the talk to be about the next consignment of arms, and at first it seemed that he was right.

  “I need to tell you that after this shipment, I doubt I will be able to give you my personal attention for a while, as I expect to be occupied with other matters,” Gabriel commenced.

  He had never shown any inclination to explain his movements before. That, and his apparently relaxed attitude whilst at the same time closely observing his companion over his wine, put Alex on full alert.

  “Are these matters in which I might have an interest?” he replied casually. He sipped the wine. His stomach threatened to rebel, violently, and then subsided.

  “I think it very likely, yes. I am going to tell you something. If you think you might not wish to hear that something, tell me now. Because if do I tell you, and you take any action other than what I approve of, your future might become somewhat…unfortunate.”

  Alex thought for a minute, then nodded for Foley to continue. After a few minutes the smuggler stopped talking and refilled their glasses. He eased his bulk carefully back into the chair, taking care not to move his head more than necessary, and regarded his companion with bloodshot sea-grey eyes. They had drunk an awful lot the previous night.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Alex said. “I’m no’ familiar with the sea routes from Dunkirk to Blackwall. I canna act as a pilot.”

  “I don’t expect you to. That’s my job. There will be two lots of pilots. One set will go to Dunkirk. The moment that Admiral Roquefeuil has decoyed Norris and his fleet away from the invasion area, the Comte de Saxe will set sail with ten thousand French troops. I, along with my colleagues, will be waiting at the Hope to bring them up the Thames to Blackwall. The date is not yet known, but I thought you might be inclined, at that time, to pay a visit to your ailing aunt in Blackwall, should her condition suddenly deteriorate. Perhaps you might like to bring a group of friends with you, for company.”

  “I havena got an aunt, as is well known in all the circles I move in,” Alex said. “But I do have a dear friend, who lives in that very same place. We were friends at university. His name is…John. Phillips. Aye, John Phillips. I would be awfu’ upset to hear he was ill, and would probably need the consolation of…maybe thirty people or so, perhaps? It’s no’ many, but I find the English, yourself excepted, remarkably unwilling to do more than drink toasts to absent kings and vow undying loyalty. If I had time to gather friends from my native land…but I take it the element of surprise will render that impossible.”

  “You’re right. It’s imperative that the Government do not become aware of the invasion until the last possible minute. I will send a courier to…?”

  Alex hesitated. “To the White Horse coffee house,” he said after a moment. “I will send someone there every day, if I dinna go myself. Address your message to Mr Jonson. Benjamin Jonson.” This man could almost certainly be trusted, but it did not pay to take unnecessary chances.

  Gabriel raised his glass in his beefy fist.

  “Then, Mr Benjamin Abernathy Jonson, let me propose a toast to the King over the Water. May he soon cross it.”

  “And to those who are prepared to do more than propose toasts. May they multiply a thousandfold, as I’m sure they will once the French have taken London for the Stuarts.” The two men drank deeply.

  Having taken his leave of his sea-faring friends, Mr Abernathy reluctantly became Sir Anthony once more, and set off on the final leg of his journey home, realising that he had been away too long, although his trip had not been unproductive. But now he needed to pick up the threads. And sort out the situation with Beth. He was both dreading the imminent meeting with his wife and looking forward to having it over with. It had been on his mind almost continuously, in spite of his resolution not to dwell on it, and he still wasn’t sure how he was going to resolve matters between them, or even if he could. Maybe she had mellowed with the passage of time. Maybe. He doubted it, particularly if Duncan had had to carry out his instructions.

  * * *

  Sir Anthony Peters finally returned home from his lengthy honeymoon in Europe on the thirtieth of January 1744, alighting from his carriage outside the house and being waylaid before he could mount the steps and slip through his front door to safety.

  Duncan opened the door and stood calmly waiting as the baronet replied to the polite enquiries of the extremely beautiful young woman who had come flying across the street in a most unladylike manner on seeing his carriage.

  Word was already all over town, thanks to Lady Winter, that Sir Anthony had fought a duel in defence of his wife’s honour, and that she had taken exception to his behaviour and had left him. It was most exciting, and the first person to hear the details from the horse’s mouth would be able to dine out on it for weeks. That Lydia Fortesque was not to be that person was obvious from her petulant expression as Sir Anthony made his excuses, holding his left hand to his forehead whilst clinging to the railings with his right, migraine and exhaustion written in every line of his turquoise-clad body.

  While he was waiting for his brother to get rid of the troublesome wee besom, Duncan ran through the news that Alex would be anxious to hear, news of the welfare of the clan. It was always the first thing he asked about when returning home after an absence. He would be pleased to know that Janet MacDonald, after keeping Simon MacGregor waiting for two years, had finally agreed to marry him. The couple had celebrated their impending nuptials with such enthusiasm that the priest had been called in more speedily than expected, to avoid embarrassment. The baby was due in March. Alasdair’s wife Peigi had given birth to twin boys, who had both survived. Alex would also be very pleased to know that the cattle raid led by Duncan and in which the whole clan had taken part, had been spectacularly successful, and had cost only four lives, all of them Campbells, which was cause for further rejoicing. The resultant funds had ensured that the MacGregors would not starve this year.

  Alex would be less pleased to hear about Kenneth MacGregor, wife of the unfortunate Jeannie. When Duncan had told Kenneth that her brothers and Alex had agreed to him dealing with her treachery himself, he had merely nodded wordlessly. Then to everyone’s surprise, he had turned and marched straight into his house, knocked his wife out with one blow to her jaw, and had immediately smothered her with a pillow, holding it over her face until long after she was dead. She had not suffered. The same could not be said of Kenneth, who, once sure that Jeannie had stopped breathing, had uttered an unearthly cry that sent shivers down the spines of everyone within earshot, and had drawn his dirk.

  It had taken six of them to stop him cutting his own throat and to disarm him, and another two weeks of constant supervision before they were certain that he would no longer try to take his own life. He had by then accepted that no one doubted his own loyalty to the clan, in spite of his wife’s treachery.

  The baronet had succeeded in shaking off his interrogator. Holding his head and looking unutterably weary, he climbed the steps and walked into the hall. The door closed behind him. He straightened, called Lydia several rather cruel, but reasonably apt things in Gaelic and looked at the brother he had not seen for over six months. Duncan waited for the greeting, for the inevitable question. He would tell him about the cattle raid first.

  “Where is she?” said Alex.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “She isna here,” said Duncan. “She left a few days ago.”

  “Christ, man, did ye no’ get my letter? I asked ye to hold her here, by force if ye had to!” Alex said irritably, reaching up automatically to scrub his fingers through his hair and instead dislodging his wig, which landed on the floor of the hall. A small cloud of scented white powder puffed out of it. Duncan eyed it with distaste. He looked back at his brother. His expression didn’t change.

  “Aye, I got your letter,” he said. “It was waiting for me when I got b
ack from waving her off to Manchester.”

  “Hell, Duncan, could ye no’ have gone after her? Ye could easily have caught up wi’ her, and…”

  “No, I couldna,” Duncan interrupted firmly. This was not at all how he had envisaged the reunion with his beloved brother to go. “I dinna ken what’s between you, Alex, but whatever it is, I hardly think it’d have helped matters if I’d abducted her from a public coach and locked her up here against her will for a week, do you? Unless you think she’s about to betray us. D’ye think that?”

  Alex wiped a hand across his face, smearing his heavy make-up. His eyes were bloodshot. The fatigue he had shown to Lydia Fortesque had not all been an act to get rid of her; he really was very tired.

  “No,” he said wearily. “No, I dinna think that.”

  “Well, then,” said Duncan. “Go and wash that disgusting stuff off your face, and lie down for a wee while. Then we’ll talk.”

  He watched his brother slowly climb the stairs, then shook his head and made his way to the kitchen to give Iain and Maggie the news that Alex was home, and warn them of the possible range of moods he might be in when he came back down.

  Alex reappeared three hours later, washed, changed and, albeit briefly, rested. As he walked into the cosy warmth of the kitchen with its appetising smells of roasting meat and whisky, the three occupants looked up at him, their faces welcoming but wary. He had no desire to be either confrontational or confiding and was aware that they would take their cue from him.

  “So,” he said brightly, grabbing a plate from the dresser and helping himself to a slice of beef, putting on the face they would be most relieved to see. “What’s been happening in Scotland while I’ve been away off gallivanting in Europe?”

  If Iain and Maggie were relieved that Alex had reverted to his more predictable self, Duncan was not. That Alex was genuinely pleased at the news of the successful cattle raid, the wedding of Janet and Simon, and the tiny additions to the clan, and was deeply concerned about Kenneth MacGregor’s mental health following the death of his wife was obvious. That he was also very unhappy under the bright exterior was also apparent, although only to Duncan. Alex was a consummate actor, after all, and not only when wearing white paint and gaudy clothes. But Duncan, who was the only person in whom Alex normally confided, was not easily fooled. They were too close for that.

  The fact that after two days Alex had made no mention whatsoever of Beth, and had shown no signs of confiding in him, left Duncan in no doubt that his brother had noticed his initial look of distaste, and assumed from that that Duncan was on Beth’s side. Erroneously, as it happened. He was not in the business of taking sides. But this assumption told Duncan that Alex felt himself to be in the wrong and was in a defensive, and therefore volatile mood. Duncan played along with his brother’s façade of cheerfulness, and waited for the dam to burst. He did not mention Beth’s parting words, deciding to wait until Alex asked about her.

  Alex made only one visit dressed as Sir Anthony, then instructed Iain to tell all callers that the baronet was away on business. On his return from Edwin and Caroline’s he informed the others that whatever Angus was doing, he had not succeeded in stopping Prince Charles from leaving Rome.

  “It’s known that Charles left Rome on the ninth,” he said. “Apparently he tellt everyone he was going to Cisterna to hunt, and as soon as he was out of Rome, he disguised himself as a courier and went in the opposite direction. The latest information is that he’s embarked for Antibes, and he’s in a hell of a rush to get to France.”

  The company were silent for a minute while they absorbed this news.

  “Do the Whigs suspect that Louis is about tae invade, d’ye think?” Duncan asked.

  “Christ, I hope not,” Alex said, tearing his fingers through his hair. “I tellt Edwin about my spying venture in Rome, and that Charles is hoping to marry Louis’ daughter. Hopefully it’ll get back to Carteret and the Elector, and they’ll think that it’s love rather than war that’s inspiring Charles’ headlong dash for France. I’d imagine Mann’s already written to Newcastle wi’ the news, anyway. He was certainly eager when I tellt him about the betrothal in Florence. I canna do any more.”

  The following evening, after Maggie and Iain had gone to bed, Duncan shared a bottle of wine with Alex, reluctant to leave him alone. He was not eating properly, Duncan noticed, and had dark shadows under his eyes. He seemed even more distracted since he’d returned from the Harlows, and Duncan thought it was due to more than just the news about Charles, bad as it was. He could not force his brother to confide in him about Beth, but he could at least give him an opening.

  “Did Mr Harlow tell ye something else yesterday?” he ventured.

  Alex looked up from his gloomy perusal of the fire.

  “No. Nothing relevant, anyway. Caroline’s had a laddie. He’s a bonnie wee thing. Why d’ye ask?”

  “Ye seem more distracted since ye’ve seen them, that’s all,” Duncan said. He sipped his wine and waited. There was silence for a minute or two, after which Alex sighed and put his glass down on the table.

  “Aye, well, I tellt Edwin a lie yesterday, and I dinna feel good about it, that’s all.”

  “Ye had to, man,” Duncan pointed out. “Surely it’s worth it, if it puts George off the scent?”

  “Aye, I ken that, and I’d tell worse lies than that, if I had to.” He frowned. “When I started all this Anthony stuff, I didna think it possible that I’d ever come to like a Hanoverian, Duncan. But Edwin and Caroline have become good friends. They’re honest, good people, and they genuinely care for me and B…for us.” He paused for a moment, clearly debating whether or not to say more. Duncan remained silent.

  “Caroline asked me to be godfather to the bairn,” he said after a while. “She wanted to call him Anthony, after me.”

  This was not what Duncan had hoped Alex was going to confide, although he was obviously upset about it. Having a child named after you was a great honour. He did not ask whether his brother had agreed to Caroline’s proposal. It was out of the question.

  “What excuse did ye give them?” he asked.

  “I tellt them a whole lot of nonsense about being superstitious. I said I’d been godfather tae three bairns before, who’d all died young. Caroline was awfu’ hurt at first, but I managed to persuade her that I was truly terrified the baby would die. I couldna let her name the laddie Anthony. If I’m ever discovered, the poor thing would have to carry the stigma of being named after a traitor for the rest of his life.”

  “Ye did the right thing, Alex,” Duncan said. “Although if the invasion succeeds, he’d be named after one of the greatest heroes of the Stuart restoration.”

  Alex smiled grimly. “Aye. Though I doubt Edwin and Caroline would see it that way. But it doesna make me feel any better that I lied to them. To both of them. And used Edwin too. I feel guilty, that’s all. It’ll pass.” Alex stood suddenly.

  “I’m no’ in the mood for drinking tonight,” he said. “I’m away to my bed.”

  He knows, thought Duncan, as the door closed behind Alex. He knows that I was about to ask him whether the Harlows had broached the subject of Beth, and what he was going to do about her. He sighed, and drained his glass before turning down the lamp and making his own way to bed.

  The situation would not get better with time. But there was no point in pressing him to talk about his feelings, Duncan knew that. When Alex was ready, he would talk, or act. Until then, there was nothing any of the MacGregors could do, except be there for him.

  * * *

  On the thirteenth of February, at the inconvenient hour of four a.m., the third and final instalment of the MacGregor family returned, at last, from Europe. Alex, who had only been asleep for an hour before being roused by Duncan with the news, stumbled downstairs into the dining room, dressed only in hastily-donned breeches, bare-chested and barefoot. Duncan, looking equally sleepy, was coaxing the embers into a blaze, while Angus, who should have been tired aft
er the events he had just experienced, was instead bursting with energy and brimming with wakefulness.

  “…….so hard in my life,” he was saying as Alex came in. “God, he’s amazing. Hello, Alex, I’m back. D’ye ken, he rode from Rome to Genoa in five days? Five days! He had almost no sleep, hadna changed his clothes and lived on nothing but eggs, so he tellt me, and I’ve nae cause to disbelieve him. He couldna get anyone tae take him in a boat frae there, so he carried on to Savona. That’s where I caught up wi’ him. I was still recovering from the trip in.” He grimaced, remembering the state he’d been in when he’d staggered off the felucca at Savona, sick and faint, only to discover within a day not only that his ordeal had been in vain, but that he was about to have to make the return trip through even rougher seas, if the prince got his way.

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” Angus said from his chair near the fire, looking at his brother, who had taken a seat adjacent to him. Duncan, having stoked the fire to the best of his ability, sat down opposite. “I said what ye tellt me to, and I really tried to persuade him to turn back, but no one short of God himself could ha’ stopped him then. I thought the best thing was tae head back to France wi’ him, to protect him.”

  “Aye, I ken that, man. Ye did the right thing,” Alex said. “It’s known, though, that he’s on his way. He did well, all the same. The British didna suspect a thing until the twenty-first.”