by Tarah Scott
“Lord Hawk?” Davina didn’t like the sound of that. The name was obviously false. She turned back to Margarette. “What did this Lord Hawk have to say to your father, and how does it concern you both?”
“It concerns you as well.” Margarette popped up on her toes as she spoke, hands clasped before her. She shot Elizbeth a look.
“Tell her,” Elizbeth ordered. “Only, do try to make sense.”
“He said it all in French.” Margarette scrunched her nose. “Elizbeth says I must repeat it as nearly as I heard, so you may interpret the words for yourself, since my French is abominable.” This last, she accompanied with a supplicative glance upward.
Davina didn’t know if she should be amused or alarmed. James’s harried visage came to the forefront of her thoughts. “Let’s have it, then.”
Margarette embarked on a monologue. She used two voices, one apparently her idea of her father and the other the Frenchman. Some of the syllables that left her mouth resembled no language.
As Davina took in the half-intelligible babble, her pulse quickened with each word. Lord Hawk had told James he was the descendent of Henry Benedict Stuart, Cardinal-Duke of York, and the last of the Jacobite kings? Davina clenched her hands in her lap, for the tale grew even stranger. Seigneur Faucon had asked, and James agreed, to be given custody of her, Elizbeth and Margarette. He planned to take them and their considerable dowries to France and marry them to men of power. Their new husbands would raise an army, and return with it to Scotland, to fight for James, the Jacobite king. Davina stared up at her nieces. Tall, lovely young women whose hands would be a prize for any man but…princesses?
“And then they went deeper into the garden,” Margarette concluded.
Davina looked at Elizbeth. “You heard none of this?”
She shook her head. “Nae, but I did hear the Frenchman say they must discuss something very secret and dangerous.”
Margarette stared, her blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic worry. “Aunt Davina, what are we going to do?”
Davina shook her head, dazed. She had no idea. “You are sure that is what they said? You weren’t dreaming? I know how French puts you to sleep.”
Margarette blew out a frustrated breath. “I repeated the words to you—badly, I might add. How could I have dreamt all that? I don’t even know some of those words. Please, I do not want to go off to marry some horrible French lord.”
Davina scrubbed at her forehead. It couldn’t be true. They were not royalty, not even gentry, though possessed of considerable wealth. Even if Margarette had heard correctly, it simply couldn’t be true. The most shocking part was that James might believe any of the tale. His frantic eyes, his pallor, rose in her memory.
“Let me think on this. Please,” she murmured.
“Yes, of course,” Elizbeth said.
“But, what if Father tries to send us away?” Margarette demanded.
“He will hardly have us abducted,” Davina soothed. “Go ready for dinner. We will see how your father is then. Like as not, he’ll tell us the tale of this strange Frenchman and his bizarre ideas, and we will all laugh together. Tomorrow, Seigneur Faucon will be but a memory.”
Elizbeth smiled. “You are quite correct, of course.” Margarette looked mutinous, but Elizbeth caught her arm and tugged her toward the door. “We’ll see you at dinner, Aunt Davina.”
“Yes,” Davina murmured absently as they stepped from the room into the hall.
She hadn’t wanted to further alarm her nieces by speaking of their father’s odd behavior, but there was someone to whom she could report the entire series of events. Her brother, Graham. Davina rose and went in search of him.
Davina found her brother sprawled face down and shirtless atop his bed. Beside him, curled to one side and, blessedly, fully clothed, though grass clippings decorated slippers and hem, lay a blonde woman Davina had never before seen. Nor, if she knew Graham, would she ever see the woman again.
Nose wrinkled at the stale sweat that permeated the chamber, Davinia crossed the room to the window. She yanked back the curtains and unlatched the windows. As fading daylight and fresh air spilled in, a groan sounded behind her.
“Davinia, what the devil are you doing?”
She turned to find Graham seated on the edge of his bed. The blonde, snoring softly, didn’t stir. Graham blinked rapidly, eyes bloodshot in a face still striking, despite his lack of sleep and what had undoubtedly been an abundance of whisky. Bare chested as he was, Davinia was reminded why her brother remained a favorite of the ladies. She would have thrown a shirt at him, but the one discarded on the floor looked too sweat-infused to touch.
“What am I doing?” she repeated. “I am here to tell you to ready for dinner. You have avoided consciousness long enough for today.”
He pushed a hand through tangled brown locks, then cast a look over his shoulder. When he turned back, he wore a perplexed frown, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of the unconscious blonde.
“Consider me told, sister dearest.”
“That is not all,” she said in clipped tones. “I must also, though Heaven knows why I bother, ask your opinion on a matter that may be significant.”
Graham groaned and fell backward onto the bed. He fumbled for a pillow, found one, and pulled it over his face.
Davinia hurried back to the bed and kicked him in the shin. “Graham, this is important.”
He lifted one half of the pillow. “I’m listening.” He dropped the down-stuffed fabric back into place.
“I cannot very well discuss this in front of her.” Davinia waved at the woman on the bed.
Graham lifted the pillow and craned his neck. Again, that perplexed look crossed his face.
“You do know her?” Davinia’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“I suppose I must.” He stretched out an arm and poked the slumbering woman in the shoulder.
Thick lashes fluttered open. Blue eyes focused on Davinia. “Hello.”
With one word, the woman revealed her English origins. Davinia grimaced. Leave it to Graham to bring home an Englishwoman. Offering Davinia a shrug, he tucked the pillow under his head. The Englishwoman sat up and looked about, appearing just as perplexed as Graham.
“Hello, Miss…” Davinia let her voice trail off in question.
“Ingram.” She offered a bright smile. “Anastacia Ingram. And you are?”
Davinia bit back a sharp retort. “Miss McKinley. If you could excuse my brother and me, Miss Ingram, I should like to speak with Graham alone.”
Miss Ingram’s head snapped toward Graham. “You are Graham McKinley?” She frowned. “I was told to stay away from you. You’re a terrible rake.”
“Posh.” Graham smiled his most charming smile and tucked his clasped hands behind his head. “If I am such a rake, why are we clothed?”
Miss Ingram looked about again. “If you aren’t a rake, why am I in this bed?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.” Graham shrugged. “But if you would care to remain, I can think of several ways to test my fortitude. We must put this rake business to rest.”
“Graham,” Davinia snapped. Between James’s half-madness since losing Maryanne and Graham’s devotion to sin, Davinia sometimes felt as if she were responsible for the entirety of their family’s wellbeing—and sanity.
Graham pointed toward the door across from the bed, leading to an antechamber. “Go in there, sweetheart, and ring for a servant to ready you a bath. I will come to you shortly.”
Miss Ingram stood. She tugged her skirt straight and squared her shoulders. She was tall for a woman, her build slender. “I will give you your privacy, but you will not find me waiting for you in the bath.” Her blue eyes snapped. “Just because we ended up in this bed, does not mean I am here for your frivolous pleasure, sir.” She cocked her chin in the air and marched from the room.
Graham watched. A slow smile stretched across his face.
“You have no idea who she is or how you both ended
up here?” Davinia asked once the door clicked shut behind the woman.
“You heard her. She’s Miss Anastacia Ingram.”
Davina had a few choice things to say about that, on the heels of which, she launched into the details of both their nieces’ story and her encounter with James. Halfway through, Graham’s brow furrowed. By the time she finished, he sat upright on the edge of the bed, his features hard with thought.
“I suppose it is possible,” he murmured.
“That we are decedents of the Stuart family and James is a Jacobite king?” Davinia snorted. “Hardly. My only fear is James might believe the mad tale and turn our nieces over to some strange Frenchman. Likely, this is some sort of ransom plot to get at his wealth.”
Graham regarded her with worried eyes. “And you.”
“Me what?”
“If he really believes the Frenchman’s tale, he could turn you over as well.”
“I am six and twenty. I am no more subject to James’s will than I am to that of a random passerby.” Unlike Elizbeth and Margarette.
Graham shook his head. He levered himself to his feet, towering over her. “I cannot imagine James being taken in by some Frenchman’s tale. Besides, Margarette likely dreamt the whole thing.”
Davinia nodded. For all his debauchery, Graham was dependable when it came to family, and he, if anyone, knew their older brother well. “Of course, you are correct. I am going to prepare for dinner.” She glanced toward the door through which Miss Ingram had departed. “Do not let your English harlot keep you.”
“She is not a harlot. She is Miss Anastacia Ingram.”
Davinia raised her brows. “Graham, I found her asleep in your bed. She is a harlot.” Without another word, she left the room.
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