Beguiled

by Joanna Chambers

  “What is your name, sir?” the King asked then, his gaze measuring David.

  “David Lauriston, Your Majesty.”

  “And you are an advocate, like your friends?” He nodded at the Dean, who looked faintly offended to be bracketed with David as a “friend”.

  “I am, indeed.”

  The King smiled, benign and in control again, comfortable now in his new, seated position.

  “Do you enjoy your profession, Mr. Lauriston?”

  “I do, Your Majesty,” David answered honestly.

  The King smiled and nodded at him genially. “Very good,” he said. It was a dismissal. David bowed and returned to his place.

  The King cast a look over his shoulder, summoning someone. The man, a military officer in a red-and-gold uniform topped with a black-plumed shako, hurried to the King’s side and bent his ear to the King’s mouth to hear his whispered instructions. When he straightened, he bowed, then returned to stand stiffly behind the King again.

  The King motioned to the Dean to continue his speech, and the Dean smoothly resumed. But David wasn’t listening. He was watching the officer who had just retreated behind the King. The officer who was standing beside none other than Murdo Balfour. After a few moments, Murdo turned his head and whispered something in the man’s ear. The military man reciprocated. Whatever Murdo heard made his eyebrows raise and his gaze seek out David, a funny little smile twisting up that mobile mouth. Then he nodded and looked away.

  A few minutes later, the Dean concluded his speech and the faculty delegation was led aside by a frosty Sir Anthony, their places taken by the good Magistrates of Leith.

  Chapter Eight

  The ceremony finally ended at five o’clock. The King left the Entrée Room first, his entourage sweeping behind him. Only then did everyone else stir. Hats were removed and cravats pulled aside. Coat buttons undone. Men stretched and paced, shaking out muscles grown cramped and achy from the long afternoon.

  The Dean didn’t give in to the general relaxation of manners. He remained as tightly buttoned up as ever, his expression chilly as he offered the rest of the faculty delegation seats in his carriage. David declined the offer. He could walk home in scarcely half an hour, he replied, and besides, he’d welcome the exercise after the long stand. He watched the Dean carefully, wondering what the man had made of David’s odd exchange with the King. It was impossible to say. The Dean didn’t mention it, even when Braeburn came wheezing up to join them, congratulating David on his quick reactions as though the only reason no one else had stepped forward had been David’s uncanny speed.

  Well, when Chalmers had asked David to take his place, he’d wanted David to make an impression on his senior colleagues, and it seemed David had done so, though whether it was the right impression, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  David hung back as the men crowding the Entrée Room began to slowly shuffle out. He wasn’t in a particular hurry to leave. There was the small matter of Murdo Balfour to consider after all. Murdo, whom David had agreed to meet again, despite his misgivings.

  At the moment, however, there was no sign of the man. Murdo had followed the King out of the Entrée Room with the rest of the royal party, and for all David knew, he’d already left—a few minutes ago, the sound of coaches rumbling away over cobbles had filtered through the windows that looked out onto the courtyard, the sound of the King and his entourage returning to his temporary residence in Dalkeith.

  David suppressed a sigh and joined the end of the line of men slowly filing out.

  It was ten minutes later, just as David was leaving the Entrée Room, that he finally saw the man who dominated his thoughts. Murdo stood waiting just outside the big double doors, one broad shoulder leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

  David pulled up short so suddenly the man behind him walked into the back of him.

  “Ooof!”

  David looked over his shoulder, apologising profusely and earning himself a filthy look from an elderly man wearing the black robes of the Kirk.

  When he turned back to Murdo, the man had straightened up and, standing beside him, was the military officer the King had summoned to his side after his exchange with David. He was carrying his shako under his arm now, revealing a head of dark hair and a handsome countenance.

  “Mr. Lauriston?” the officer said, surprising David by being the first to speak. “Do you have a moment?” He had merry blue eyes and a dashing moustache waxed into little points at the corners. Straight, very white teeth.

  David looked between the two men, feeling a little dazed. Then, “Of course,” he said, stepping towards them and away from the steady stream of men emerging from the Entrée Room.

  Murdo’s companion offered his hand. “Captain Iain Sinclair, at your service.” David shook his hand and nodded. “And this is Lord Murdoch Balfour.”

  David glanced at Murdo, unsure how to play this. When Murdo murmured something about it being a pleasure, it was more effort than it ought to have been to keep his own expression neutral and make similar noises.

  “The King asked me to speak to you,” Captain Sinclair said, dragging David’s attention away from Murdo. “He was grateful to you for your—how did he put it?—your good Scotch common sense.” Sinclair grinned at that, inviting David to enjoy the King’s whimsy.

  David smiled dutifully. “It was nothing,” he replied, uncomfortable being thanked for such a trifle. “I would have done the same for anyone.”

  “Nevertheless, I am under strict instruction to invite you to the Peers’ Ball this Friday evening, at His Majesty’s particular request, in gratitude to you for services rendered to your sovereign.” He grinned again, enjoying himself. Evidently this captain liked handing out the King’s favours.

  “How kind,” David murmured. “But I’m sure I have another commitment that evening.” It sounded like the lie it was, but David didn’t much care. The thought of going to a ball was bad enough. A peers’ ball sounded like torture.

  Captain Sinclair wasn’t to be so easily put off, though. “I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Will it, Lord Murdo?”

  “No, indeed,” Murdo agreed gravely. “The King speaks, and we obey. He wishes you to attend, Mr. Lauriston—now Captain Sinclair and I must see that it happens.”

  “Or rather, Lord Murdo must,” the captain said apologetically. “I am already taking care of several other of the King’s personal favours that evening. But Lord Murdo here will see you are all kitted out if you require highland dress—we would not wish you to be uncomfortable, Mr. Lauriston—and he will escort you there in his personal carriage, won’t you, Lord Murdo?”

  “Like Mr. Lauriston’s own fairy godmother,” Murdo agreed dryly, and the captain chuckled.

  “There is no need for that,” David protested. “If it came to it, I have formal evening clothes, but I truly have another engagement—”

  “My good fellow, it will not do for you to reject the King’s kindness,” Murdo interrupted him. “If Captain Sinclair hasn’t convinced you, let me try. Come and I’ll buy you an ale and set about persuading you to accept the King’s invitation. Will you join us, Sinclair?”

  The captain sighed. “I wish I could, but I’m to ride straight to Dalkeith after this. Can I leave you to take care of things with our new friend?”

  “Consider it done,” Murdo replied.

  “Then I’ll away. Mr. Lauriston.” Sinclair clapped David on the shoulder. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir. Pray, do not disappoint the King on Friday evening. He remembers these incidents, you know.” He gave one last bright grin, turned on his heel and hurried away.

  “That sounded like a threat,” David murmured, watching the departing captain’s uniformed back.

  “No,” Murdo replied in an amused voice. “He merely means that the King can become emotional when he feels let down, and it’s tedious for those closest to him, like the good captain. You’re perfectly at liberty not to attend if you truly don’t wish
to.” He paused, then added more seriously, “But I hope you will come. It will brighten a very dull occasion for me.”

  David glanced up at that. An unfamiliar expression on Murdo’s face made something in his chest shift and alter, a cliff edge crumbling into the sea. He couldn’t find words to respond and had to look away. It was a relief when Murdo spoke again, his tone lighter.

  “Let’s go and have that ale. The tavern we went to last time—is it near your rooms?”

  David glanced back at Murdo. His expression had changed. Now he was smiling again, his dark gaze promising.

  That was easier. Better.

  “Yes,” David said. “Very near. I’ll show you.”

  THE SAME INNKEEPER welcomed them into the tavern. He found them a pair of stools, which they pulled up to the scarred wooden bar. There were no free tables today. The tavern was swollen with visitors to the city for the King’s visit. They ordered ale and two plates of mutton stew.

  It seemed that standing idly around at Holyrood Palace had been oddly hungry work—David polished off his stew quickly and gulped down the ale, agreeing to another tankard when Murdo suggested it.

  Murdo told him tales of the King and his entourage while they ate and drank. Of the King’s emotional nature and of his sometimes childish petulance. Of the foibles of his closest advisers. He spoke of who was truly influential and who was merely tolerated. He spoke about the King’s adoration of his garish, frowsy mistress, Lady Conyngham, and of their absurd antics, often conducted in front of the lady’s well-rewarded husband and children.

  “You are shocked,” Murdo observed, considering David’s expression.

  David realised his brows were indeed drawn together in a disapproving frown.

  “Well, it is shocking, is it not?” he said. “When you think of the power and riches vested in such a man while ordinary people struggle and starve. Look at what he’s spent on his pleasure palace in Brighton.”

  “I agree, it’s appalling,” Murdo said. “But even so, I would love to show it to you. In the banqueting room there’s a chandelier that hangs from the claws of a great dragon. It’s magnificent.”

  “It’s a shocking waste,” David said, even as he tried to picture that chandelier.

  “Yes, it is,” Murdo agreed, capturing David’s gaze with his own. “But extraordinary nonetheless. Should we knock it down now because it ought never to have been built?”

  “Perhaps we should.”

  “Says the man who stepped forward and stopped the King falling over today. Knowing full well what a profligate wastrel he is.”

  “He looked poorly,” David said defensively. “I saw him sway and acted without thinking. I would have done the same for anyone.”

  “I know you would,” Murdo said and smiled.

  David didn’t much like his actions being examined so closely. He cast around for a change of subject. “Tell me about Captain Sinclair,” he said after a moment. “Is he a favourite of the King?”

  “Ah, now he is an interesting one,” Murdo replied. “He’s fairly new to the King’s circle and does not occupy an especially high position yet, but he is a man who hears all. There is something about him men like to confide in. They want him to like them, I think. They give him information to curry favour with him.”

  David thought of the man’s comely form and bright gaze, his sharp uniform and handsome moustache. He could see what Murdo meant. Even a man who did not share their proclivities would admire Sinclair, with his confident masculinity and dashing appearance. He was the sort of man both men and women would be drawn to.

  “Tell me something he has heard, then,” David invited, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Something I could not know.”

  “You assume he would confide in me?” The beginnings of a smile played at the corner of Murdo’s mouth.

  “Some things, yes, or you couldn’t know how much he learns. Besides, you seemed friendly—and he must trust you if he handed you the errand the King gave him.”

  “Getting you to the Peers’ Ball, you mean? Perhaps I asked Sinclair to give that errand to me.” Murdo smiled, but his face was unreadable. David wasn’t sure if he preferred this Murdo, ambiguous and unsettling, or the one from earlier with his tender, unguarded gaze. Both incited feelings in David that were uncomfortable.

  “All right, then,” Murdo said, interrupting David’s thoughts. “Here’s something he told me. Have you heard about Lord Londonderry?”

  “That he’s dead? Yes.”

  The news of the Foreign Secretary’s demise had only just arrived in Scotland. The man had taken his own life around the same time the King had set sail for Scotland.

  David paused, then added, “I also heard that it was suicide.”

  Murdo inclined his head, acknowledging the accuracy of that statement. “He severed his own throat with a pocket knife.”

  David shuddered. “Christ—”

  “Oh, but there’s more—here’s what Sinclair told me.” He bent his head close to David’s ear and said, his voice very low, “Londonderry went to see the King just before the King left for Scotland. He was raving. Told the King he was a fugitive of justice, that he’d been accused of the same crimes as the Bishop of Clogher. He was kissing the King’s hand and begging his forgiveness one minute, then ranting like a madman the next.”

  David swallowed against the sudden nausea in his throat. The arrest last month of the Bishop of Clogher when he was caught in a compromising position with a grenadier guardsman in a public house had been the biggest scandal in years. All the more so when the bishop broke bail and disappeared. It had caught the public imagination, and it seemed to David that whenever the case came up, people spoke as though the crime of buggery was responsible for all the world’s ills. As though the actions of two men in a private room could somehow leak out of windows and wall-cracks and infect everyone else with wickedness.

  But then, was it so surprising people thought that way? It was what David had been brought up to believe, after all. And he had believed it. He’d been convinced that his fascination with the act, his desire for other men, was a sign of a weak and sinful nature. Something to be suppressed at all costs.

  Had that changed? Had he changed?

  It used to be, when he heard people sneering about sods and buggers, his chief reaction was shame. Self-loathing. But more recently—like when the scandal of the bishop came out—he’d found himself growing angry when he heard such comments. Angry that people seemed to think they had a right to know what others did behind closed doors. Angry that they wanted to rip people apart for it, even blamed the state of the nation upon it. That they assumed the men who did these acts were mad with a depraved sort of lust.

  That they presumed to know how a man in that position felt—

  “Are you quite all right?”

  David started and found Murdo regarding him with a concerned expression.

  “Yes—I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just such a horrible business. Londonderry, I mean.”

  Murdo frowned. “I oughtn’t to have blurted it out like that. I forget sometimes that you’re not like the people I usually circulate amongst.”

  Aristocrats, he meant. Aristocrats and politicians. People with power and influence.

  “Wouldn’t your friends have found it as shocking as I did?”

  “I don’t consider those people friends, and no, they’d have thought it a delicious bit of gossip.”

  “Oh.” David wondered what Murdo inferred from that. That David was hopelessly naïve, perhaps?

  “Look, do you want the rest of that ale?”

  The unexpected change of subject set David back on his heels.

  “Ah—not especially, no.”

  “Shall we leave, then?” Murdo sent David a sidelong look. “I’d like to see your rooms, if that would be all right.”

  David didn’t hesitate for a moment. He put down his tankard and stepped off his stool. “All right. Let’s go. They’re only a few minutes’ walk
away.”

  Murdo’s smile blossomed, quick and surprised. “Good,” he said, as though he hadn’t expected such easy agreement. “Good, that’s good.”

  He turned his head, lifting his hand to catch the innkeeper’s attention, and the man immediately came over to them, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “Can I get you anythin’ else, gents?”

  “No, thank you.” Murdo drew a handful of coin from his pocket and dropped it into the man’s meaty palm without even checking what he was handing over. It was enough that no more need be said apparently. The innkeeper murmured his thanks and his hope that they would come again soon.

  They jammed their hats on and left the cosy tavern, emerging into a night that was cool and somewhat misty.

  “It’s this way,” David said, turning to walk up the hill. “On Castlehill.”

  “Let me speak to my coachman first,” Murdo said. “I won’t be a minute.”

  He sauntered over to where his carriage waited and passed a minute’s conversation with the man sitting on the box.

  As he walked back towards David, the horses began to move, the carriage rumbling away.

  “Where is he going?” David asked when Murdo reached him. “You can’t stay with me, I’m afraid—I only have one bed and my maid comes very early in the morning. And you can’t possibly walk back to Queen Street dressed like that.” He gestured at Murdo’s exquisitely elegant clothes. “You’ll be set upon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Murdo replied with an amused smile. “I’ve only sent him away for a few hours. He’s coming back for me.”

  “Oh.” David relaxed, relieved. “Well, in that case, follow me.”

  Chapter Nine