Beguiled
Enlightenment, Volume 2
Joanna Chambers
Published by Joanna Chambers, 2018.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Beguiled (Enlightenment, #2)
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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About the Author
For my boys.
Beguiled
TWO YEARS AFTER HIS last encounter with cynical nobleman Lord Murdo Balfour, David Lauriston accidentally meets him again in the heart of Edinburgh.
King George IV is about to make his first visit to Edinburgh and Murdo has been sent North by his politician father to represent his aristocratic family at the celebrations.
David and Murdo’s last parting was painful—and on Murdo’s part, bitter—but Murdo's feelings seem to have mellowed in the intervening years. So much so, that he suggests to David that they enjoy each other’s company during Murdo’s stay in the capital.
Despite his initial reservations, David cannot put Murdo’s proposal from his mind, and soon find himself at Murdo's door—and in his arms.
But other figures from David’s past are converging on the city, and as the pomp and ceremony of the King’s visit unfolds around them, David is drawn into a chain of events that will threaten everything: his career, his wellbeing, and the fragile bond that, despite David’s best intentions, is growing between him and Murdo.
Beguiled
Copyright © 2017 Joanna Chambers
2nd edition
Cover art: Natasha Snow
Editor: Linda Ingmanson
Published by Joanna Chambers
ISBN: 978-1-9997091-1-2
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments or organisations is completely coincidental.
PLEASE DO NOT HARM the author’s livelihood by using file-sharing sites.
Author’s Note
This book is set in Edinburgh in Scotland in 1822 during the first visit of a British monarch to Scotland in almost two centuries. The monarch in question was King George IV, who, after a long period as Prince Regent, had finally become king following his father’s death two years earlier.
George IV’s visit to Edinburgh came at a time of considerable political unrest. Just two years before, a radical uprising by disaffected Scottish weavers (featured in Book One of this trilogy, Provoked) had been brutally crushed, resulting in several executions and numerous transportations. As for George IV, he was not a popular king. Profligate and self-indulgent, the King was the subject of regular public criticism, particularly over his attempt to end his marriage to Caroline of Brunswick and her subsequent death in 1821.
These circumstances might fairly be viewed as giving rise to little hope of a harmonious royal visit, and yet, with the help of the “Wizard of the North”—novelist Sir Walter Scott—the Scottish visit ended up being a triumph of patriotism. Moreover, the pageantry invented by Sir Walter Scott created, and cemented in the public consciousness, a new and romantic vision of Scotland and its “traditions”, which live on to this day. In using these events as the backdrop to this story, I must acknowledge a debt to John Prebble’s masterly account of King George’s visit, The King’s Jaunt. Prebble’s account of the political and social backdrop to the King’s visit and the numerous events and entertainments that took place during the King’s fortnight-long stay was invaluable. Any flights of imagination contained in this book, such as the King’s inelegant—and entirely invented—stumble in Holyrood Palace, as well as any inadvertent inaccuracies, are entirely my own.
~JC
Chapter One
Thursday, 1st August, 1822
The Advocates’ Library, Parliament House, Edinburgh, Scotland
David Lauriston wasn’t so immersed in his reading of Viscount Stair’s Institutions that he didn’t notice how stiff his neck had grown from bending over the massive volume, but he kept reading anyway.
“The Affection of the Property and Chastity of Women, and Animosity and Jealousie that ariseth in Men naturally upon the Breach thereof, doth evince, that by Law of Nature, every man ought to content himself with his own Wife and Women ought not to be common; for as no man can endure the communication of his own, so it must necessarily follow, that he should not encroach on another’s Property.”
That was all very well, David thought, but where did it leave his latest client, Annie Findlay? The victim of a bigamist who had died intestate, leaving her with nothing but household debts and a baby to raise, neither Annie nor the child had any claim on his sizeable estate.
Perhaps, David thought, the claim would better be raised by Annie’s father? A claim against John Kerr’s estate for the cost of looking after Annie and the child? He made a quick note of that thought and returned to his reading.
“Working hard, Lauriston?”
David jerked his head up, making his interrogator chuckle.
“Chalmers,” he said, huffing out a laugh before adding in a faintly panicked tone, “Good lord, what time is it?”
“Half past four,” Chalmers answered, lowering himself slowly into the chair on the other side of David’s desk. He smiled, but his expression was tight with pain, and David felt a pang of concern for his mentor. Chalmers had been unwell in the spring and still wasn’t recovered. He seemed permanently tired and had lost weight, his plump jowls turning into loose bags of skin that hung from his jaw, giving him a mournful appearance.
“Have you time for a word about the quarry case?” Chalmers asked.
“I have to get to the tailor before five,” David said, “but I’ve a few minutes.” Generally David worked side by side with Chalmers on their cases, but the quarry case was one that had come in when Chalmers was bedridden, and David had ended up doing the lion’s share of work on it.
“I won’t take up your time. It’s just that Baxter approached me a short while ago. He wants a word—about settling, I think. I wondered if you would speak to him? Tomorrow would be fine.”
David darted a curious glance at Chalmers. He’d worked with the man on quite a few cases over the last two years, and the one thing Chalmers never delegated was settlement negotiation, a skill in which he was unsurpassed. David knew he should be pleased to be trusted with this task, but concern for the older man outweighed any pleasure he’d otherwise have felt.
“Yes, that’s fine,” he said mildly. “I’ll look him up in the morning. Any particular approach you’d like me to take?”
“You’re better placed to decide than I,” Chalmers said. “You’ve run the case on your own, and you know it inside out. I don’t know it well enough to comment.”
“Of course you do. We spoke about it just the other day—”
Chalmers held up his hand to stop David, giving him a stern look. “Please, don’t pretend. We both know I’ve let you do all the work. So much so that there’s practically nothing I can charge the client a fee for.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of your reputation,” David replied, half-serious, half-teasing. “That’s what you told me when we began working together, do you remember? They pay for the name.” David grinned and Chalmers gave a return smile, but it was wan, and it disappeared altogether when he braced himself to stand, his expression tightening with an expectation of pain.
David stretched out a hand and laid it on the other man’s forearm. “Are you all right? You seem a little tired—is there anything I can take off your shoulders?”
Chalmers tried to make his smile reassuring, but somehow it just made him look sad. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just miss having Elizabeth and Catherine at home. And being ill didn’t help, of course.”
“You shouldn’t overtax yourself. You need to get well.”
“I’m better than I was. Though I’ll admit, I couldn’t have coped without you. You’ve become my right-hand man, lad. And I’m very grateful to you. You do know that, don’t you?”
David shook his head, embarrassed. “It’s been no hardship. You know I wanted the work. Needed it, actually.”
“Don’t play down what you’ve done. I know the hours you’ve put in, lad. I know how much you lifted off me.” Chalmers sat back, pasting a better smile on his face and squaring his shoulders, trying to throw off the melancholy that was his constant companion these days. “So, what’s so important that you need to be at the tailor by five?”
David took the hint. The serious discussion was over. He assumed a disgusted expression, more for Chalmers’s amusement than anything else. “A fitting for some new clothes for the King’s visit. The Dean’s determined no one will show up the faculty. Apparently my usual sober clothing won’t do—I’ve to be decked out in patriotic blue and white.”
The whole of Edinburgh had been at fever pitch these last weeks over the proposed visit of King George—the first visit by a monarch to Scotland since Charles the Second. Initially little more than a rumour no one believed, it had recently been confirmed that the King would indeed be arriving in less than two weeks. Sir Walter Scott, the “Wizard of the North”, whose novels the King adored, had been put in charge of the preparations for the visit, and somehow he’d managed to strike a mood of extraordinary and unprecedented patriotism amongst the city’s solid and sensible burghers.
“Well, of course you must be properly attired!” Chalmers chuckled, a gallant attempt at his old good humour. “Haven’t you been listening to Sir Walter? We’ve all to be properly costumed for the grand spectacle.”
Sir Walter’s lingering passion was for all things highland—albeit the highlanders of his imagination were not Jacobites but loyal British subjects who would readily bow the knee to King George. His dearest wish was to see as many of the population attired in highland dress as possible and the city’s tailors, costumers and silversmiths were doing a roaring trade in kilts, sporrans and sgian dubhs to meet the demand. They were also doing a roaring trade in the other officially sanctioned costume of blue coat, white trousers and saltire cockade. This less showy and distinctly lowland costume was the one that David would be reluctantly adopting.
“I’m surprised you’re able to get something at this stage,” Chalmers said. “Someone told me the other day he couldn’t even get an appointment with a tailor.”
“I still might not get the clothes in time,” David said glumly. “But he said he might be able to do something for me. Though if I don’t make this fitting, I haven’t a hope, so I’d better be off.”
“Then on your way, Lauriston. We can’t have you disgracing the faculty or Sir Walter, can we?”
IT WANTED TEN MINUTES till five o’clock when David reached the tailor’s. He was on time, thankfully, if only just. But when he pushed at the door, he found it locked.
Frowning, he rang the bell. When there was no answer, he rang it again, pulling the rope several times, but still no one came. Stepping away from the door, he went to the window and peered in through one of the small, thick panes. The shop was gloomy, but he saw the dim outline of a figure moving around.
“Hello there!” he called, rapping sharply at the glass. “Let me in, will you? I’ve a fitting arranged.”
The figure moved forward into the light, and David could see now that it was a young lad, the tailor’s assistant, presumably. A few steps from the door, he froze and looked over his shoulder towards the back of the shop, then glanced back at David and gave a helpless shrug.
Angry now, David rapped at the glass again. “I’ve an appointment!” he cried. “You can check—the name’s David Lauriston. Mr. Riddell knows all about it.”
The boy gave another shrug, his expression apologetic, then scuttled off. Was he going to see Mr. Riddell? Or was he just escaping?
Damn. David hadn’t a hope of getting a suit made to Sir Walter’s ridiculous specifications if Mr. Riddell didn’t see him today.
He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles and rang the bell again, but after several minutes of this, it was beginning to look hopeless. Furious, he turned from the door, ready to stalk off, when the scrape of a key in the lock made him turn back.
The door opened, and a boy’s anxious face poked out. “Mr. Lauriston?”
David stepped forward. “Yes.”
“You’re to come in, sir, please.” The boy opened the door a little more, though not by much, as though he feared a multitude might storm the gates.
With an exasperated sigh, David stepped past him, frowning to find the shop floor empty.
“Where is Mr. Riddell?”
“He’s in the back, sir,” the boy whispered, “with a customer. A lord, sir!”
A lord. A peer who had sailed in and stolen David’s appointment.
“Is that why the door was locked?” he demanded, frowning.
“Yes, sir. He came an hour ago wanting to order new clothes, so Mr. Riddell bade me lock up and turn anyone else away.”
“Despite their appointments?”
The lad nodded and eyed the back shop nervously. “Aye, but when you kept knocking, I went back and told Mr. Riddell you wouldn’t go, and the lordship, he said to let you in if you have an appointment.”
“So I have the man who stole my appointment to thank for it being kept after all?” David didn’t know whether to resent the man or not. “I certainly don’t have your master to thank for it, do I?”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” the boy said, flushing. “Mr. Riddell always says I prattle on too much.” He swallowed, perhaps contemplating the scold he’d get for his loose tongue.
David sighed. “I won’t say anything—so long as Mr. Riddell honours my appointment, I don’t much care. But I need this new suit before the King comes.”
The boy sagged with relief. “Thank you, sir. May I trouble you to take your coat off, then? Mr. Riddell asked me to start taking your measurements.”
“Very well,” David said and took a step towards the back shop.
“No!” the lad protested, colouring again when David turned to look at him in surprise. “There’s only one room back there, and Mr. Riddell’s seeing to his lordship in there. We’ll have to do it here.”
“In the front shop?” David said disbelieving. “Where anyone might walk in?”
“The door’s locked, sir, and you only need take your coat and boots off, if you please.”
“Very well.” David sighed impatiently, lifting his hands to unbutton his coat.
Flashing a grateful smile, the lad scuttled off to find his measuring tape and notebook. Soon he was taking every conceivable measurement of David’s body: the length of each arm, its circumference in three separate places, the breadth of his shoulders, the line that ran from his armpit to his waist. The lad had just dropped to his knees to measure David’s inside leg, when the rumble of low voices, then footsteps, signalled that Mr. Riddell and his aristocratic customer had completed their business and were about to come into the front shop.
Although he was very far from undresse
d, David felt exposed standing in the middle of the front shop, being measured in his stockinged feet. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the approaching men, readying himself to say something. A quip to disguise his discomfort, and perhaps to make his displeasure known: Please excuse my state of undress; it is so difficult to find a tailor at the moment, a man has to take what he can get. Unless he is a peer, of course...
Mr. Riddell was the first to emerge through the connecting door—short, stocky and grey-headed, a measuring tape round his neck and the lapel of his coat glittering with pins. The other man was just behind him, and when he came through the doorway, he paused, his gaze raking the room till he found David. And smiled. A big, generous smile that dimpled one of his cheeks and made his dark eyes flash with infectious good humour.
Murdo Balfour.
“Mr. Lauriston.” His smile deepened. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Only then did David realise that he had frozen and that his mouth was hanging open.
“Balfour—” he said.
He was almost surprised to hear his own voice uttering the name. Or rather breathing it, disbelieving. Rooted to the spot, he stared at the other man for long moments, his heart racing.
When they’d parted, two full years ago, Balfour had kissed David so angrily, David’s lip had broken and bled.
“Don’t wish me happiness, damn you...”
For days after, there had been a mark. When it was gone, David had almost missed it.
“I see you’re being—measured up,” Balfour said, interrupting David’s swirling thoughts. He managed to make the ordinary observation sound almost indecent, and infuriatingly, David felt heat invade his cheeks.
“Yes,” he said shortly, feeling entirely at a disadvantage.
Balfour’s smile widened, as though David had said something amusing. “Will you be long?” he asked. “Perhaps after you’re finished, we could go to a tavern and you can tell me what you’ve been up to since I last saw you?”
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