Beguiled

by Joanna Chambers

  “I know what you mean,” Murdo muttered. “Those lunatics will start a riot behaving like that. Come on, let’s get inside and away from this madness.”

  Murdo took the lead, elbowing his way more roughly through the last bit of crowd that stood between them and the doors to the Assembly Rooms, and David followed in his wake.

  The entrance was beautifully decorated. Diaphanous fabric was wound around the columns and arches, and gas-lit transparencies were cleverly placed to create a winding path from the portico to the inner doors, the colourful, shivering images oddly lifelike in the faint breeze.

  “Come on,” Murdo said in David’s ear, his deep voice amused, and David realised he’d come to a standstill halfway through the magical little grotto, staring at the wonders around him like the country bumpkin he was.

  “Sorry,” he muttered and moved forward, Murdo at his elbow.

  They barely got two feet beyond the inner doors before their way was barred by a pair of redcoats brandishing bayonets. Murdo fished a pair of tickets out of his inside pocket and flashed them at the pair. One of the redcoats raised his bayonet, but the other looked unsure.

  “This one ain’t dressed right,” he said to the other. “We’re not supposed to let ’em in if they ain’t dressed right.”

  The other one eyed Murdo nervously. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Private Jackson ’ere is right. We ain’t supposed to let anyone in that ain’t in court dress. Or a skirt, of course, like your very good self.”

  “A skirt,” Murdo repeated, looking at the man who swallowed conspicuously. “A kilt, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s not ‘sir’,” Murdo corrected calmly. “It’s ‘my lord’. Lord Murdo Balfour, to be precise.”

  The poor man looked positively nauseated. “Sorry,” he said, adding after a painful pause, “my lord.”

  Murdo let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to David. “Well, Mr. Lauriston, I can only apologise for this ridiculous situation. Would you be good enough to wait here while I go and speak to His Majesty? As his personal guest, I know he will wish you to be admitted, but these fellows apparently have nothing better to do than put us to trouble of asking the King to intervene in the matter personally.”

  David truly wished he’d worn a bloody kilt now. He was mortified, both on his own behalf and on behalf of the two redcoats who were squirming now.

  “Hello there, Murdo! Are my guard dogs giving you jip?”

  The new voice came from the bottom of the staircase behind the redcoats, and when David peered round them, it was to see none other than Captain Sinclair walking towards them. He was dressed in a fancier set of the same regimentals his men were wearing, his shako under his arm and a wide smile on his handsome face.

  “Ah, Captain,” Murdo greeted him. “Apparently, your men aren’t satisfied with Mr. Lauriston’s dress this evening.”

  Sinclair chuckled and looked at the redcoat who’d been doing the talking. “Let them through, Jackson. I can vouch for the fact that this gentleman was invited by the King himself.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the man said quickly, and the crossed bayonets were drawn back, clearing their path.

  Murdo sailed through the gap, and David followed in his wake.

  “No doubt we’ll see you later, Captain Sinclair,” Murdo said as they passed him.

  “No doubt,” the captain replied with a roguish grin. “Once the guests are all arrived, we’ll shut these doors, and then I fully intend to monopolise all the prettiest ladies. Consider yourselves warned, gentlemen.”

  Murdo laughed by way of answer, and then they were mounting the magnificent staircase that led to the principal ballroom and the throng of richly dressed guests.

  The ballroom had been transformed into the King’s own personal throne room. Panels of rich blue velvet were pinned over the windows, their gold-fringed edges brushing the highly polished floor. Massive chandeliers blazed with a thousand candles. A magnificent dais with a gilded throne and a crimson velvet canopy over it had been set up at one end for the King’s sole use. He sat there, surrounded by several of his entourage, watching the dancing with a bored expression.

  The guests all seemed to be trying to invoke the spirit of the noble Gael. How many eagles, David wondered, had died to bedeck the caps and hair ornaments of the ladies and gentlemen at this night’s ball? He’d be surprised if there were any birds left in the sky. The quantity and variety of tartan was even more overwhelming: kilts and trousers for the men, shawls and sashes for the ladies. And then there was the sparkle of aristocratic jewellery. Jewels on fingers and wrists and necks; jewels twinkling in cravat folds and on earlobes. The showy dazzle of the rich and titled.

  In the open gallery above the ballroom, a small orchestra played refined versions of traditional Scottish airs, suitable only for the slowest and stateliest of dancing. The tone was distinctly sentimental. It was more of the same carefully manufactured patriotism that had overtaken the city over the last few weeks.

  “You should pay your respects to the King before we do anything else,” Murdo said. “Come along.”

  Reluctantly, David followed him, coming to a halt at the foot of the King’s dais. He did his best to copy Murdo’s elegant bow.

  “Lord Murdo!” the King exclaimed with evident pleasure. “There you are.”

  “Good evening, Your Majesty. May I present Mr. Lauriston to you again?”

  The King turned his attention to David, his expression going from confusion to understanding in a moment. “Ah, Mr. Lauriston,” he said in a jovial way. “My protector from the other day. I was grateful to you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “And are you enjoying the ball? It is magnificent, is it not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Quite magnificent.”

  “Make sure he dances, Lord Murdo,” the King said, addressing Murdo now.

  “I will,” Murdo assured him, and then the King nodded, turning his attention back to the man who sat on his right. That signalled their dismissal, apparently, and a moment later, they were walking away.

  “That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Murdo said. “And now that your duty’s done, you can do as you please.”

  David smiled. “I suppose so.”

  “What now, then?” Murdo asked. “Dancing? Something to eat or drink?”

  David had already scanned the crowd, seeking Elizabeth, but there was no sign of her in here. “I don’t much like dancing,” he admitted. “And we’ve only just had supper. I wouldn’t mind a stroll around, but you don’t need to nursemaid me. I’m perfectly capable of amusing myself.”

  “And I’m perfectly happy to accompany you,” Murdo replied. “A stroll sounds ideal. Lead on.”

  So David did, setting off at a slow pace and carefully searching out every alcove and corner with his gaze as they walked, watchful for any sign of Elizabeth. While they walked, Murdo amused him with insightful and sometimes wickedly funny comments about the entertainments and general absurdity of their fellow guests.

  “Ah, now, do you see that man standing up there?” Murdo murmured in his ear as they approached the top of another staircase. David glanced in the direction of Murdo’s subtle nod, noting a heavy-set older man in a blue coat and red waistcoat standing with his back to the wall, watching people come and go past him. He was the only man present, other than David, sporting neither court nor highland dress, and he wasn’t behaving like a guest.

  “Who is he?”

  “John Townsend,” Murdo replied, “a Bow Street runner and a great favourite of the King. He came up here with a few other runners. They’re keeping an eye out for known troublemakers, I’m told.”

  Just then the man’s colourless gaze landed on them, lingering a moment as though weighing them up before he glanced away. David shivered, perturbed for some reason by the man’s flat, emotionless expression.

  “Troublemakers? Here?” he scoffed once they’d moved past, injecting humour into his vo
ice to mask his sudden disquiet.

  “You’d be surprised,” Murdo replied. “Why do you think it takes so long for the King to arrive anywhere? Every nook and cranny is checked and double-checked before he so much as sets foot anywhere. He brought his own personal guards as well as the runners, and besides that, there are half a dozen undercover agents circulating wherever he goes—and those are only the ones I know about. I’m quite sure there are others, not to mention the official troops stationed around.”

  “There are undercover agents circulating here? Tonight?”

  “Of course. There are plenty of men who would like to see the King dead. He’s hardly the beloved monarch of the people.”

  “You think not?” David asked dryly, gesturing around him.

  Murdo gave a soft laugh. “Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it? He’s proving to be bizarrely popular up here. Who’d’ve thought it?”

  Who indeed, but it was true. The sudden and unexpected public affection for the King in Scotland was nothing short of extraordinary. The general populace appeared to have swallowed whole Sir Walter’s frankly bizarre invention of the King as some kind of highland Chief of Chiefs, despite his Teutonic ancestry.

  David glanced at Murdo, ready to share that observation, but lost his train of thought when their gazes met. Murdo wore that smile that sometimes graced his face, a curving, irrepressible thing with a deep dimple denting the cheek above and a merry sparkle in his dark gaze. What a thing that smile was. Rare and coaxing. David couldn’t help but return it, his own mouth curving up in answer, his thoughts quite deserting him for a moment.

  “Mr. Lauriston?”

  The soft, female voice stopped his thoughts short. He turned to find its owner, his mind supplying a name before he even saw her.

  Elizabeth. Standing in the shadows, a slight, apologetic figure.

  “Lady Kinnell. How nice to see you—” he began. She stepped forward to meet him, her gaze darting from side to side even as she did so, checking, checking.

  She looked fresh and rather lovely in a simple muslin gown with a broad tartan sash fastened at her shoulder by a silver-and-amethyst stag’s head brooch. Her expression was wary, though. Careful.

  “I saw you earlier,” she confided all in a rush, “and I so wanted to speak with you that I came running up here after you! I’m with Alasdair, you see, and he doesn’t like me talking to—” Abruptly, she broke off, flushing, plainly not sure how to finish that sentence.

  David closed the gap between them, moving closer to her. “I need to speak with you too,” he said without preamble. “I have something important to talk to you about. Your father—”

  But her gaze was already off him and looking over his shoulder.

  “Lord Murdo?” she whispered, sounding faintly horrified.

  David turned to see Murdo stepping closer. A stiff, social smile had replaced the rare, genuine one he’d worn a few moments ago.

  “How nice to see you, Miss Chalmers,” he said in his deep, anglified voice, bowing over her hand. “Or rather, Lady Kinnell. Mr. Lauriston told me of your marriage.” He paused, then added, “Congratulations.”

  She flinched, a barely perceptible twitch, but it was there for an instant before she pasted on a social mask. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  She glanced at David again, and he saw a hint of despair there, one that seemed to intensify a moment later for reasons he didn’t understand, till a clipped voice behind him said, “Elizabeth, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  David and Murdo turned together to face the newcomer, a tall, lean man with a harshly handsome face and prematurely grey hair. David didn’t need to be introduced to realise that this was Elizabeth’s husband. The familiarity of the man’s words and the way Elizabeth looked suddenly guilty told him everything he needed to know.

  Kinnell stared down at Elizabeth, his expression unreadable, and she looked down at the floor, avoiding eye contact.

  “Good evening, Kinnell.” Murdo’s greeting drew the man’s attention away from Elizabeth. “I wasn’t aware you were in town. Up for the celebrations, are you?”

  Kinnell looked coolly surprised to be thus addressed, and David wondered if the two men were generally on speaking terms. “Yes,” he said. “As are you, I presume?”

  “Indeed. This is my charge for the evening, Mr. Lauriston. Mr. Lauriston, Sir Alasdair Kinnell.”

  David bowed stiffly, and Kinnell favoured him with a nod. “Your charge?”

  “Mr. Lauriston made a favourable impression on the King earlier this week. He was personally invited to this evening’s ball. I was given the job of making sure Mr. Lauriston appeared.” Murdo chuckled. “He is not a man for idle entertainments, are you, Lauriston?”

  David wondered what Murdo was about even as he murmured his agreement. “Not generally, no.”

  “So you see,” Murdo interrupted, “when we passed your lady wife, whom I had the great pleasure of meeting two years ago—it was two years, was it not, Lady Kinnell?”—Elizabeth cleared her throat and said she believed it was—“I asked if she would do my friend here the very great honour of dancing with him, as I’m sure no one would be better placed to show him that dancing is not as terrifying as he believes.”

  David knew then that Murdo understood he needed to talk to Elizabeth and that he needed to get her away from her husband to do that.

  And of course, Murdo knew Kinnell of old. Knew he was a bully and brute.

  Kinnell frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Murdo interjected before he could say a word. “I know, it is the height of rudeness to opportune a married lady so shamelessly in the corridor, but I could not help myself. I believe I have had my head turned by the magnificence of the evening.” He gave a laugh and slapped Kinnell on the shoulder, then turned to Elizabeth. “I am sorry, my lady, for putting you on the spot. It was ungentlemanly. I have a feeling you were about to refuse me but could not think of a polite way to do it.”

  Elizabeth looked helplessly at her husband. He didn’t so much as glance at her but gave a tight sort of smile. “I am sure Elizabeth would not think of refusing. She would be delighted to dance with your charge, wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  Elizabeth paused, watching him, wary. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “Of course. Delighted.”

  “Good!” Murdo said. “Escort Lady Kinnell to the ballroom, then, Lauriston. Off you go.” He turned his shoulder on David and Elizabeth and moved closer to Kinnell, a sheepdog isolating a ram. “My thanks,” David heard him murmur in Kinnell’s ear. “He’s a nice enough fellow, to be sure, but rather dull. Now, I have something I particularly wanted to ask you about, Kinnell. An investment opportunity...”

  Chapter Thirteen

  David led Elizabeth back to the principal ballroom, where the music was more genteel and the dancing less boisterous. There was already a country dance in full flow, which gave them a respectable reason for strolling around the ballroom instead of joining in.

  Elizabeth checked over her shoulder more than once before she glanced at David and said softly, “I am not sure what to make of Lord Murdo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way he distracted Alasdair.” She flushed as she admitted what they both already knew—that they had silently colluded, the three of them, so that David and Elizabeth could have a few brief minutes of privacy.

  “In truth, I am not sure what to make of him either,” David replied. “He had no idea I wished to speak with you, other than by hearing what we said to one another before your husband arrived. But he must have concluded that it was important it should happen.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  David paused briefly. “He knows Kinnell. They were at school together.” He watched carefully for her reaction, noting that she flushed more deeply and looked away.

  “He pretended you and I didn’t know one another. And that story about the King—”

  “Actually that part is true. The King did invite me, and Lo
rd Murdo was indeed asked to be my guide this evening.”

  “But he pretended he didn’t know you either.”

  David paused again. “Well, we do not know each other very well.”

  “Well enough that he tells lies to help you.”

  He ignored that observation. “Why did you seek me out, Elizabeth?”

  She said nothing about his sudden, uninvited use of her Christian name, just looked at him with eyes that brimmed with unspoken misery.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wanted to speak to someone familiar, I suppose. Someone from my old life. I’m worried about Father too. I wanted to talk about him with someone who knows him. Since I married, I’ve barely seen him, or my sisters.”

  “He’s worried about you too,” David replied. “He asked me to watch out for you.”

  “Did he?” she whispered. “Why?”

  Their time together would be short. David did not have the luxury of tact tonight.

  “He’s not well. And he believes you are unhappy, that you have been so since your marriage.”

  Sudden tears welled in her eyes.

  “Is it true?” David asked. “Is he right to be worried?”

  The silence seemed to stretch unbearably until, at last, she whispered, “Yes. But what can I do?”

  David felt sick. Somehow he had imagined she would not want to admit that she was being mistreated, that she would paste a bright smile on her face and tell him that everything was all right. Her admission about her position and her palpable fear undid him.

  He placed his hand on top of her own where it rested on his sleeve. “Does he hurt you?” he asked quietly.

  She didn’t look at him, but she nodded. “I hate him,” she whispered. “He is—cruel. I regret marrying him every single day. I didn’t know what manner of man he was.”

  “I was surprised when I heard the news. You barely knew him before you were engaged.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “I was a fool,” she said. “I thought I cared for nothing anymore. I thought I was heartbroken and it didn’t matter who I married if I couldn’t have the man I wanted.”