Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  She shook her head. “Nae. I am just not particularly hungry tonight.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I smelled blueberry buns baking earlier. Surely, you want one? No one makes a better bun than our Missus Henderson.”

  She smiled. Uncle Graham always made her feel better. “I do love blueberry buns.”

  He winked. “I know. At least taste a bit of the pheasant. It is quite good.”

  “I will.”

  She was being silly. She’d allowed Margarette’s dream to influence her reality. She forked a piece of pheasant and lifted it to her mouth, then halted when Father strode into the room.

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” Uncle Graham lifted his glass of wine and downed a mouthful.

  Ignoring his brother, James looked about the room. His gaze fell on the waiting servants. “Leave us, and ensure neither you nor any other stand outside these doors, on pain of death,” he said, voice grim enough to send a shiver down Elizbeth’s spine. “I will ring when you may return.”

  Eyes wide, the staff hurried out. Elizbeth watched them depart with mounting fear, a fear reflected in Margarette’s eyes. Aunt Davina stared at their father through narrowed eyes. Uncle Graham leaned back in his chair, expression sober.

  Her father went to the hall door, then to the servants’ door, peering out each before closing them firmly. Finally, he took his seat. “I am glad everyone is here. That will save me the trouble of having to repeat this announcement.”

  Aunt Davina exchanged a look with Graham.

  Elizbeth’s uncle turned and met her father’s gaze. “You look far too serious, James. Have some wine.” Graham lifted his glass again and emptied its contents.

  To many, the action would appear cavalier. Elizbeth knew better. Her uncle’s keen mind seldom dulled, even with great quantities of liquor.

  Her father reached for a nearby platter of potatoes and spooned some onto his plate. “You could use with a dose of responsibility, Graham,” he said. “But that will come soon enough.” He reached for the decanter of wine.

  “Responsibility?” Graham repeated. “It’s rather too late for that, don’t you think?”

  Her father slowed in filling his glass and flicked a glance at his brother. “You had best hope not.” He set the decanter down, stabbed a slice of pheasant, and transferred it to his plate. He began cutting the meat. “What I am about to tell you, remains between us.” He flicked a glance at Graham.

  “Surely, you are not accusing me of being a gossip monger?” Graham laughed.

  “No man can be assured of keeping his own counsel when he drinks too much.”

  Uncle Graham laughed again. “I heartily agree. Luckily, I never drink too much.” He reached for the decanter and refilled his glass.

  Aunt Davina shot him a warning look.

  James forked pheasant into his mouth. “I will get straight to the heart of the matter. Our great Aunt Saundra is not truly our aunt.”

  “If that is your big announcement, then it is you who have been drinking too much,” Uncle Graham said.

  Her father didn’t so much as glance at him. “In fact, Saundra is our” –he pointed his knife at Davina, Graham and himself— “grandmother, and you girls’ great-grandmother.” The knife darted menacingly toward Elizbeth and Margarette.

  Aunt Davina gasped in unison with Margarette’s cry of surprise. Elizbeth could only stare. What they’d overheard indicated nothing like this.

  “What could possibly give you that idea?” Graham asked.

  “I have seen the ledgers, records of marriages, of real names and births,” her father replied.

  Graham regarded him. “Why are we only learning of this now?”

  Her father ate more pheasant. “Because her husband, Henry Benedict Stuart, Cardinal Duke of York, was still living.”

  Even Elizbeth couldn’t refrain from a loud gasp this time.

  “James,” Davina breathed, “Henry Stuart never married. He was a priest, sworn to celibacy.”

  “Davina is correct,” Graham said.

  “She might be naïve enough to believe that would stop a man, but not you, Graham,” Elizbeth’s father said, his attention on his food. “He would not be the first priest to marry in secret.”

  Elizbeth’s mind raced. Henry Benedict Stuart was the last legitimate descendant of James VIII, and younger brother to Charles. What year had Charles Stuart last tried to take the throne? Her thoughts muddled. 1759. Yes. To the Jacobites, he had been the Young Chevalier. Dear God, Margarette hadn’t dreamed the conversation between their father and the Frenchman. It was true. Nae, it wasn’t true. It was ridiculous to think they were descendants of kings. But their father believed the Frenchman’s story.

  “Birth certificates can be forged, James,” Graham said. “Where did you get this information?”

  “That is not important at this time.”

  Graham snorted. “I beg to differ. Never has it been more important than now.”

  Her father took a drink of wine. “You may take my word. It is all true.”

  Elizbeth held her breath in anticipation of Graham’s demand of proof.

  Graham picked up his wine glass, leaned back in his chair, and studied her father. “What has Father to say of this?”

  “He knows nothing of it,” James replied.

  Graham’s brows rose. “I should think a man would like to know that the woman he called mother isn’t his mother.”

  “He will be told when the time is right.”

  “When will that be?” Graham asked.

  Under the table, Margarette’s hand found and clasped Elizbeth’s.

  Their father laid down his utensils and looked at them. “Once I have laid claim to the Crown.

  ***

  After dinner, in the parlor, Davina tried to marshal her thoughts, to plan out what she must say to reach through the madness engulfing James, but she couldn’t think with Elizbeth pacing the parlor carpet. “Elizbeth, please sit down,” she said, tone terse.

  Elizbeth whirled to face where she sat on the divan. “Aunt Davina, this means everything Margarette heard is true.”

  Davina heard the tears in her niece’s voice and jumped to her feet as Elizbeth sobbed. Margarette, too, sprang from her chair. Davina reached Elizbeth first and pulled her into a hug. Margarette threw her arms around Elizbeth’s back and hugged them both.

  “Shh,” Davina soothed. “Graham will not let your father do anything foolish.” Neither would she. “You know he hasn’t been the same since your mother’s death. He simply isn’t himself, that is all.” Perhaps Davina didn’t need the perfect words. Maybe, while the gentlemen took their port, Graham was already reasserting reason.

  “But Papa thinks he is the King of Scotland,” Elizbeth said through another sob. “It is madness, pure madness.”

  She was right and that frightened Davina more than anything else about the absurd tale. How could James believe such insanity? Worse, how could he possibly think he would succeed? England would crush him—and them along with him. In the meantime, however, he very well might try to ship the girls off to France.

  Davina coaxed her nieces to the divan and sat between them. They each clasped one of her hands and laid their heads on her shoulders as they used to do as children.

  “I will not go to France or marry some Frenchman,” Margarette finally said.

  “Of course you shall not go.” Davina gave her hand a squeeze.

  “If Papa tries to make me I’ll… I’ll jump off the ship,” Margarette declared.

  “You most certainly will not,” Davina replied. “Besides which, there will be no ship from which to fling yourself. Your father is not sending anyone to France.”

  Elizbeth lifted her head from Davina’s shoulder and swiped at her eyes with a finger. “But Father seemed so determined. I cannot leave Robert.” Her voice cracked.

  “Mister McFarlan,” Davina corrected with mock severity.

  A sad smile lifted a corner of Elizbeth’s mouth.r />
  “Neither of you need worry,” Davina said. “Graham will know exactly what to do.” She hoped.

  Elizbeth shifted to face them, expression brightening. “Robert can help, as well.”

  Davina frowned. “I do not know--”

  “Just consider, he is an attorney, so he knows the law.” Elizbeth leaned forward, intent. “Not to mention, he is exceedingly intelligent.”

  Davina nodded. “Perhaps you are right,” she said, more to humor her niece than out of any real belief in Mister McFarlan’s abilities. “Between him and Graham, we are assured of a solution.”

  “Robert returns home this evening,” Elizbeth said. “We could speak with him tomorrow.”

  Davina released a breath. “We will see what Graham learns from your father, then decide.”

  “Perhaps we should leave tonight,” Margarette said.

  “Leave tonight?” Elizbeth frowned. “Where would we go?”

  “We will not leave tonight,” Davina said. “Nothing can happen tonight.” As the words left her mouth, Davina prayed she was right.

  Elizbeth rose. “I would like to compose my thoughts.” She smoothed the front of her gown.

  Davina nodded. “Write nothing about your father.” Elizbeth frowned, but Davina added, “Nae, Elizbeth. If anyone were to read your journal your father could hang.”

  The girls looked at each other, wide eyes bright with fear.

  Elizbeth sucked in a deep breath and nodded. She turned toward the door.

  Margarette jumped to her feet. “May I come, Elizbeth? Oh, please do not say no. I may not have a gentleman like you do, but I no more want to go off to France to marry a strange Frenchman than do you and I would like to organize my thoughts, as well.”

  Elizbeth looked at Davina. Davina gave a tiny nod of approval. She read the mutiny in her elder niece’s features and realized Elizbeth had planned to sneak off to her mother’s study, a place she wouldn’t take her little sister. Davina raised her brows, all but daring Elizbeth to admit her secret.

  “You may come,” Elizbeth said and turned back toward the parlor door.

  Margarette skipped across the room, but Davina recognized the worry in her eyes. She watched until the door closed behind her nieces and left her alone with her thoughts. Should she retire for the evening, as well? She glanced at the mantle clock. Eight thirty-five. Far too early to sleep, even if she weren’t a bundle of nerves. What had happened to James to push him over the edge of delusion? She knew—everyone knew—a part of him died with Maryanne. But this… She shivered.

  When the clock struck ten, Davina could no longer stand the suspense. She went to the dining room, where they’d left the men, but found the room empty and the table cleared. Her heart began to beat fast. Where had they gone? Her brother’s study, perhaps? She checked but found the room empty.

  Davina hurried up to the fourth floor where their private chambers were located and went to Graham’s room. Her quiet knock brought no answer. She slipped inside and closed the door. She turned, then stopped short at sight of her brother’s long legs stretched out in front of the chair before the hearth. Anger bubbled up. Had Graham retired to his room to drink himself to sleep? She marched toward the chair.

  “He has gone quite mad.”

  Davina halted, alerted by his tone. “You do not mean…”

  Graham gave a heavy sigh. “Aye.”

  Davina hurried across the room and sat in the chair opposite him. “James truly believes he is the King of Scotland?”

  Graham's gaze shifted to her. “He may be right.”

  Davina gasped. “You cannot be serious. This-this is...”

  “Treason?” He nodded. “I know.”

  “But you said he is mad.”

  He barked a humorless laugh. “Of course he is mad. Even if we are descendants of Henry, to lay claim to the Crown is the height of insanity. There isn't the slightest chance of success. Only the eventuality of the gallows.”

  “You are saying we are truly descendants of the Cardinal Duke of York—that great Aunt Saundra is really his wife?”

  Graham shrugged. “The documentation certainly seems genuine. I would have to have it examined by an expert.” He grunted. “Though where I would find one, I have not the foggiest idea.”

  “I know someone who might have an idea,” Davina said. “Elizbeth suggested we enlist Mister McFarlan’s aid.”

  “Robert McFarlan, James's attorney?” Graham’s mouth thinned. “Is Elizbeth still pining after that pup?”

  Davina frowned. “He is no pup, Graham. He is only five years your junior.”

  “Seems more like ten years. The man has no backbone. I would no more ask his help then I would a footman’s.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  His expression grew even more grim. Trepidation slithered in her belly.

  “James truly intends to marry off all three of you.”

  Davina blinked. “He intends to marry off me?” She stiffened with indignation. “I am his sister, not his daughter. Not to mention, I am of age. He cannot force me to marry anyone.”

  His expression softened. “In fact, he can, and quite easily.”

  “But how?”

  “Davina, he need only truss you up and toss you into a carriage with that fool Frenchman who has promised to launch the war that will win James the crown.”

  Davina stared. “He would take me by force?”

  “What is the difference in taking you by force and sending his daughters against their wishes?”

  He was right, of course, and she would no sooner see her nieces wed to strangers in another country than she would herself, but the idea galled her. “I pity the man who tries to force me into marriage, much less his bed,” she said more to herself than Graham

  A hint of the smile she was accustomed to seeing in Graham’s eyes appeared, then vanished. “Such a man would not be kind, Davina.”

  She hated that he was right. “We must save the girls.”

  He nodded. “Unfortunately, there is only one way to secure their safety, and yours.”

  Unfortunately? A dread unlike any she’d ever known took root in her heart.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. “But you three must wed.”

  Chapter Four

  Elizbeth permitted Matthew, the driver of her carriage, to help her alight into the chill morning air outside Robert’s home. He released her and she stepped aside for her maid Rosie to descend. Elizbeth pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders and lifted her gaze past the wrought iron fence to the modest brick townhouse nestled between two other townhouses on the quiet Inverness lane. Despite the early hour of eight thirty, she knew Robert would be awake.

  Rosie stepped up beside her. “Are ye certain about this, Miss?” the maid asked.

  “Quite certain,” Elizbeth said, and started up the walkway.

  They passed through the gate and continued to the large oak door. Her courage wavered, and she recalled his letter, safely tucked into her bodice. He wouldn’t have broken propriety and written had he not loved her as she believed. They reached the door and she lifted the simple knocker and knocked three times. A moment later, Robert’s butler, Mister Hinks, opened the door.

  “Good morning, Mister Hinks,” Elizbeth said. “We are here to see Mister McFarlan.”

  “Have you an appointment, Miss McKinley?”

  “Nae, but Mister McFarlan will see us.”

  His mouth thinned in disapproval but, as she knew he would, he said, “If you will come into the parlor, I will see if he is in.”

  They entered and followed Mister Hinks down the hall to the parlor. Elizbeth had been to Robert’s house twice, both times with her family for dinner, and had ended the evening in this modest parlor. Book-filled shelves ran the length of the wall directly ahead. Wood paneling gave the room a warm, masculine feel she loved. A low fire burned in the hearth located to the left. They sat on a couch to the right of Robert’s desk and waited.

  Elizbe
th fidgeted with the ruby ring on her left forefinger. Initially, Robert would be upset she had come to see him without her father's permission and with only a maid in attendance. But once he heard of her father’s mad plans, he would insist they marry immediately.

  She envisioned the flash of his deep-brown eyes and his oath that he would allow no other man to have her. Her mother had said that when their father proposed marriage to her, he had nearly spirited her off when she didn’t immediately accept his offer. Perhaps, if Robert became truly overcome with passion, he might even take her in his arms and kiss her, again—then whisk her away to a priest. She should be ashamed to admit that she longed to flatten her palms against his broad chest and feel his arms tighten about her as his mouth covered hers. But she wasn’t ashamed at all. Still, to her chagrin, now that she was actually sitting in his study, her anticipation had morphed into a nervous hum in her belly.

  Courage, she told herself. He loves you and will want to know what has happened.

  Minutes later, bootfalls sounded in the hallway. Her heart began to beat fast. Robert appeared in the doorway, then halted. There was no missing the question—and disapproval—in his eyes. Still, her heart leapt. He was somehow even more handsome than she’d remembered. The unexpected urge rose to jump to her feet and throw herself into his arms. But she remained seated as he crossed to where they sat and bowed.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  Elizbeth rose. “Forgive the intrusion, but it is imperative that we speak.”

  His frown deepened into a scowl. “May I ask where your father is?”

  “He is the reason I came to see you,” she said.

  Robert hesitated. She knew exactly what he was thinking: I will not discuss your father. She had, more than once, mentioned that it was time he approached her father about them marrying but Robert evidenced a dismaying reluctance to cross the line from employee to relation.

  “I cannot imagine what might be so important that you must visit my home in the early morning without your father or, at least, your aunt,” he said.