Beguiled

by Joanna Chambers

  He scraped his chair back, moving to rise. Before he could do so, Balfour leaned forward and laid his hand on David’s forearm.

  “Wait a moment,” he said. A faint frown drew his brows together. Those brows were dark against his pale skin; his eyes were too, black as ink. It was a wild, dramatic combination, the pale skin, the dark eyes. This close, David recalled, pointlessly, what it felt like to look into those eyes when they glittered with desire. Memory flooded him; his cock throbbed.

  David jerked back, pulling his arm from Balfour’s grip even as he subsided back into his chair, ruining his pretence at cheerful unconcern. “I can’t stay,” he muttered. “I have things to do. Work.”

  “I just—I need to tell you something,” Balfour persisted. “Though you may know already, I suppose.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your friend is in town,” Balfour said. “Euan MacLennan.”

  David didn’t bother to hide his astonishment. “Euan?” he said at last. “Are you quite sure?”

  Balfour regarded him calmly for a long moment. “You didn’t know.” It was a statement rather than a question, and his still, quiet face gave nothing away of what he made of the conclusion he’d reached.

  “No. I haven’t seen him for a long time. Not since the night we spoke of earlier.”

  On hearing that confirmation, something in Balfour seemed to relax, a faint tension in his shoulders easing. He leaned back in his chair again. “Have you any idea why he might be here? Has he written to you?”

  David didn’t reply straightaway. A vague sense of unease settled over him. At last he said, carefully, “As I said, I’ve not seen him—not for two years. Nor have I heard from him in that time.”

  He watched Balfour’s reaction more carefully this time, but the man never gave much away, and he didn’t now.

  “That’s good to hear.” Balfour seemed to consider for a moment before adding, “You don’t want to be associated with him.”

  David frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  Balfour looked up at the ceiling, regarding its murky gloom for several seconds before he looked back at David. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but amongst the visitors to Edinburgh, there are a number of men—some of them Peel’s official men, some less official—who’ve been tasked with keeping an eye on certain unsavoury characters.”

  Peel. Balfour meant Sir Robert Peel, David realised. The Home Secretary.

  “Unsavoury characters? Euan’s an ‘unsavoury character’?”

  “In Peel’s eyes, yes. He’s on a list I’ve seen.”

  “A list,” David said slowly. “What kind of list?”

  “A list of men Peel wants to keep his beady eye on during the King’s visit. MacLennan’s a known radical. I don’t know what he’s been doing precisely these last two years, but I gather there’s a file on him in Peel’s office. There are others on the list too, all kinds of potential troublemakers—anyone who might be a threat to the King and who’s known to have travelled north.”

  “Why were you shown this list?” David asked, suspicion pricking at him.

  Balfour shrugged. “My father’s a minister of government. I am his representative on this visit. As such, I’ve been made privy to certain information.”

  “And why,” David continued, watching Balfour carefully, “are you telling me about it?”

  Balfour didn’t answer straightaway. He picked up his cup and drank from it. Set it down again and sighed. Looked out the window.

  Then, with his gaze still averted, he said quietly, “If you’re seen with MacLennan, it might affect you. Guilt by association. A suspicious rumour about your political leanings, and you may find your career suffers. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. I wanted to...warn you.”

  There was something melancholy about Balfour as he spoke, something sad about the slightly distant look he wore as he stared out the window. Then he turned back and gave a quick quirk of a smile. Bright and unconvincing. “And now I’ve been indiscreet enough. Please don’t mention what I’ve told you to anyone else, will you?”

  David shook his head slowly. “No. No, I won’t. Though frankly, I doubt Euan will seek me out, given how we parted.”

  Euan had been furious at David for depriving him of his chance of revenge.

  There was a brief silence when they looked at each other, really looked. For the first time, David saw, not the amused and elegant exquisite that was Lord Murdo Balfour, but another man. A man with secret desires and perhaps secret griefs too.

  Balfour was the first to look away. “I’ll let you go, then,” he said lightly. “Let you get back to your work. I know how important it is to you, and you must have a great deal to do if you’re contemplating spending the evening on it.”

  If there was a trace of sarcasm in there, David chose to ignore it. He stood, and Balfour rose from his chair too, readying himself to bid David farewell.

  God, but this was civilised. At their last meeting, two long years ago, they’d exchanged a barrage of harsh words. A kiss that left blood in David’s mouth.

  I came to regret the way we parted...

  A slow smile tugged at Balfour’s lips as they stood there, facing one another. The smile was so unexpected, it tripped David up for a moment.

  “It was good to see you,” Balfour said softly, the tone of his deep voice uncharacteristically sincere, no trace of his usual mockery.

  David nodded. Swallowed. “And you,” he said at last. He offered his hand, and, after a moment, Balfour took it. The man’s grip was warm and steady, and it grounded something in David.

  “I would...like to see you again,” Balfour said then, his voice low.

  David didn’t know what to say. He searched Balfour’s face and saw he was serious. “I don’t know—” he began. He recalled too easily the long, melancholy winter that had followed their last parting.

  “You don’t need to give me an answer,” Balfour replied. “You know where my house is. Come anytime. I’ll be in town for the next month at least. I’ll instruct my servants to admit you, even if I am not there.”

  He released David’s hand. Their arms fell to their respective sides, and they were separate again.

  “I’ll think about it,” David said, after a pause.

  He suspected he’d do little else.

  He nodded at Balfour once; then he turned and walked out the tavern.

  The door closed behind him. He lingered for a moment to turn his coat collar up against the drizzling rain before he began the short stroll to his rooms in the Lawnmarket.

  As he paced up the street, he heard Balfour’s words in his mind again.

  “I would like to see you again.”

  I would like to see you again.

  They were such commonplace words.

  Such commonplace words to make him feel so utterly hollowed out.

  Chapter Three

  Monday, 12th August, 1822

  “Why did I let you persuade me into this, Ferguson?” David grumbled as he searched his pantry for a platter to hold the fruit cake that his friend had brought.

  David’s little kitchen table was already crammed in preparation for his guests’ arrival: cold roast fowl, sliced mutton, a plate of little savoury pies that his maidservant had fetched at near dawn this morning along with gingerbread and scones. And now a rich fruit cake. It would be a feast.

  Donald Ferguson laughed, his round, merry face making David smile despite himself. “Because you’ve the best view of the procession of anyone I know, Lauriston. And because I shamed you into it, of course.”

  Donald Ferguson was a young advocate whose late father, a judge, had been a particular friend of Chalmers’s. Chalmers had sent some work the younger man’s way, and Ferguson had repaid him by taking one of his daughters off his hands. Catherine Chalmers was now Catherine Ferguson.

  The Fergusons were a well-suited pair, David thought. Both good-humoured and prone to laughter, though Catherine’s sense of humour was drie
r than Donald’s.

  Ferguson called almost every man in the faculty friend. Why he bothered seeking out the company of David, who was serious, studious and downright unsociable, was unfathomable to David. But for some reason, the man had decided to make a friend of him, insisting on having David over to his and Catherine’s small home to dine with them at least once a week, as well as dragging David away from his desk in the library at some point most days, whether to beg for David’s advice on a case, or for his company at a tavern or coffee house.

  When David had complained to Chalmers of Ferguson diverting him from his work, the older man had merely laughed.

  “It’s just as well he does,” Chalmers said. “Someone has to remind you to eat.”

  Reminding David to eat was one thing; persuading him to invite a dozen guests into his brand-new rooms at an absurdly early hour of the day to watch the “Carrying of the Regalia of Scotland” from the castle to Holyrood Palace was quite another. It was true, though, that his apartments were ideal for the purpose. Situated close to the castle on the Lawnmarket and high up on the third floor, David’s front windows were a perfect location from which to watch the procession make its way to and from the castle. Already, the street below was brimming with spectators.

  “It’s not even a real ceremony,” David grumbled as he transferred the cake Ferguson had brought onto the plate he’d unearthed. “Just some made-up pageantry of Sir Walter’s.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a misery.” Ferguson laughed. “People love Sir Walter’s pageantry. They love to feel they’re part of a rich tradition—what’s the harm in that?”

  David scowled. “And what’s wrong with the truth? Why do people want to believe in all this nonsense?”

  “It’s not complete nonsense.”

  David shifted some of the plates on the table around to create a space for the cake. “Near enough. They only found the so-called ‘Regalia of Scotland’ a few years ago. And it’s certainly never before been transported from one end of the High Street to the other by a parcel of aristocrats in tartan who couldn’t find their collective way to Holyrood Palace without written directions.”

  Ferguson chuckled. “Well, there’s a first time for every tradition,” he said. “And you can’t deny the people are enjoying it.”

  “No, I can’t,” David sighed. The public enthusiasm for the King’s visit bewildered him. He’d never have thought in a thousand years his fellow Scots could be whipped up into such eager hysteria. But then the architect of the visit, Sir Walter Scott, was an old hand at creating dramatic fictions, wasn’t he? And as Ferguson said, the people were loving the pageantry, even if it was a complete fabrication.

  “Considering how much you dislike all this,” Ferguson continued good-naturedly, “it’s good of you to invite so many fellows up to share your view. The rest of us shall certainly be glad of it.”

  David merely arched a brow at that, and Ferguson had the grace to laugh, his cheeks pinkening. They both knew that the invitations, to a number of other advocates and solicitors and their wives, had been prompted by Ferguson.

  “Oh, and I should mention, you will have one more guest,” Ferguson continued a little shamefacedly. “I hope you don’t mind. I should’ve said earlier.”

  David sighed. “Who is it this time?”

  “Catherine’s sister Elizabeth is in town with her husband. We popped in on our way over this morning—Kinnell wasn’t in; apparently he has other business to attend to today—but Catherine urged Elizabeth to come along. She felt sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  David softened. “No, of course not. I shall be pleased to see Lady Kinnell again.”

  More than pleased, actually. Ever since Balfour’s unpleasant comments about Kinnell’s supposed character, Elizabeth had been playing on his mind. David hoped that Balfour was wrong, that he’d been exaggerating about Kinnell’s brutality, and that his speculation about Kinnell’s first wife was merely that—speculation. He knew he wouldn’t feel easy in his own mind till he had satisfied himself Elizabeth was well and happy.

  “The ladies are only a few minutes behind me,” Ferguson went on. “They wanted to walk up the last bit of the High Street more slowly and see some of the spectacles going on. They’ll be here shortly, I expect. And the other guests won’t be far behind.” Ferguson cast a worried eye round the kitchen. “Don’t you have anything to drink?”

  “It’s all in the parlour,” David assured him. “There’s ale and wine punch. Some lemonade too. Will that do?”

  Ferguson smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

  David thought of the bottle of whisky he’d put away. Even amongst his fellow Scots, there’d be some disapproving looks if he started in on the hard stuff this early in the day, especially in front of ladies. Oh, why had he agreed to this ridiculous gathering?

  A rap on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  Ferguson strode to the door before David could make his feet move. Moments later, Catherine bounced in, all glossy curls and sparkly eyes.

  “Oh, Mr. Lauriston, how very nice your rooms are!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “I’d imagined some drab old bachelor apartments, but this is very cosy. And oh, do look! I have Elizabeth with me, visiting from her estate, if you please, in Galloway. Doesn’t she look well?”

  David’s gaze moved over Catherine’s shoulder to the small person standing behind her.

  If the quality of her garments was all he judged, then yes, she looked very well indeed, in a dark blue pelisse and a high poke bonnet decorated with a long curling feather. But that was not all he saw. He saw that her face was thinner and quite pale, and that her dark eyes held, he thought, a faint shadow. Her smile too—a smile he’d always liked a great deal—was a shade dimmer.

  With the old plumpness gone from her face, she was conventionally prettier than she’d been the last time he’d seen her, half a year ago. In fact, she was rather beautiful in her way. But all her joie de vivre had gone.

  “Mr. Lauriston,” she said softly. “How very nice it is to see you again.” She held her hands out to him and he stepped forward, taking both of them in his own and looking down at her upturned face. He remembered the last time they’d stood as close as this. He remembered watching the glow of happiness she’d worn draining away, leaving behind an expression of bewildered hurt.

  “I have no intention of taking a wife, Miss Chalmers.”

  Christ, he’d been clumsy. “Lady Kinnell,” he said now. He searched her face for a moment, but she quickly averted her eyes and gently tugged her gloved hands out of his grasp, her dashing bonnet obscuring his view of her face as she walked past him to join her sister, who stood at the sash windows.

  “Is this where we’ll watch the procession from?” she asked in a brittle tone. “Goodness, what a view! We’re so close to the castle, Mr. Lauriston!”

  “And once we raise the windows, we’ll see the whole spectacle perfectly,” Ferguson pointed out, joining the ladies. “Though we’ll have to take turns at the front—there’re quite a few others coming.”

  “We passed some spectator stands set up on the street, didn’t we, Lizzie?” Catherine said. “Some of them look very rickety, I think. We’re much better off up here, in comfort and with ten times the view. We’ll see everything from here.”

  David and Ferguson exchanged a grin at Catherine’s girlish enthusiasm.

  Within another quarter hour, David’s rooms were fairly bursting at the seams. The guests arrived all at once, and as soon as the introductions were made, David and the Fergusons were run off their feet making everyone comfortable and passing round refreshments.

  For the first little while, most of David’s guests milled around the windows of the parlour, which gave a bird’s eye view of the Lawnmarket below. David had opened the sash windows as far as possible, and the noise of the crowd outside—haphazard cheering and occasional outbreaks of bagpipe music and drums—was raucous enough that David’s guests had to talk loudly to be heard.r />
  Whilst the duties of hosting required David to overcome his natural reserve to some extent, as soon as he’d welcomed each guest and handed them a drink, he began to feel unsettled. He missed his whisky and gulped at his weak, hoppy ale as he circulated, filling his cup nearly as often as he fetched drinks for his guests.

  After an hour or so, he was surprised to hear another knock at the door. He was sure all the guests had arrived and, casting his gaze around the room, verified that, yes, everyone he’d invited was here already. It must be another of Ferguson’s last-minute additions.

  David began to sidle his way through the knots of guests crowding his parlour, but it was slow going, and when he caught Elizabeth’s gaze on the other side of the room, he was relieved when she waved and gestured that she would go to answer the door. Nodding gratefully, he continued to inch forward, trying not to press against any of the ladies.

  By the time he got into the hallway, the door was open and a new, male guest had stepped into the house. A tall, broad-shouldered man who held Elizabeth’s hand between his own, his fair head bowed as he listened to what she was saying. At the sound of David’s footsteps, the man looked up, revealing an earnestly handsome face with which David was very familiar.

  Euan MacLennan.

  David abruptly halted where he stood. “Euan.”

  Euan met his gaze and smiled apologetically. “Hello, Davy. I’m sorry to call on you without warning. It’s obviously not the best time.”

  It was two years since they’d last come face-to-face, on the night that David had stepped between Euan’s pistol and Hugh Swinburne—or Lees, as he’d been known then—to prevent Euan becoming a murderer.

  Despite confidently telling Balfour that Euan would never have shot him, he would probably never know how close Euan had come to it. Euan had desperately wanted to kill Swinburne, a government agent instrumental in having Euan’s brother, Peter, transported for treason, but in the end, Euan had walked away.

  Looking at him now, David had to wonder whether Euan was still angry at him for depriving him of his opportunity. The man’s politely smiling face gave nothing away.