Dancing for the Devil

by Marie Laval

  ‘It must have been very upsetting for Lady Patricia to receive her husband’s letter as well as his personal items – his flask, tobacco case and gloves, and I believe an embroidered handkerchief … anything else?’

  The old man’s shoulders seemed to lose their stiffness and he let out a shaky breath. He must have thought he’d better answer at least some of Bruce’s queries because he was more accommodating suddenly.

  ‘Once again, I fail to understand how you can be in possession of such detailed personal information, sir, but you are right. Monsieur Pichet did entrust me with Lord Niall’s letter and personal effects, which I took to Westmore. There wasn’t much, just the items you mentioned.’

  ‘Nothing else, you are quite sure?’ Bruce frowned, pensive. So the medallion wasn’t destined for Lady Patricia.

  ‘Positive. I will never forget how upset poor Lady Patricia was to receive her husband’s monogrammed handkerchief, stained with his own blood. It was part of a set she had embroidered herself and given him as a wedding present, only six months before.’

  This time, Bruce’s heart flipped in his chest. ‘They’d been married only six months?’

  ‘That’s right, they were married in March 1815, only a couple of months before Lord McRae’s regiment was dispatched to Belgium. It was a terrible ordeal for her, in her … ahem … delicate condition.’

  ‘What “delicate condition”?’ Bruce repeated without understanding.

  Charles Langford nodded. ‘At the end of August, she was only halfway through her pregnancy, of course. It was all very, very sad.’

  It suddenly hit him. Of course! What a fool he’d been not to see what had been staring him in the face all along. Niall McRae was desperate to provide for his son and the woman he loved, but Cameron wasn’t born then, and that could only mean one thing. The son he was referring to wasn’t Cameron, and the woman he so wanted to protect and care for wasn’t Lady Patricia.

  That was why Langford hadn’t mentioned the half medal. McRae didn’t send it to Lady Patricia, but to that other woman – the mother of his son, and the woman he loved – together with the third letter.

  No wonder Lady Patricia was so eager to get her hands on Colonel Saintclair’s diary, and Cameron was ready to go to any length to acquire, and destroy it. What Colonel Saintclair had written in his diary changed everything.

  He remembered Niall McRae’s portrait in the library – a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. His throat tightened and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. Could it be that …?

  ‘Will that be all, my lord?’ Charles Langford stared at him, an inquisitive look in his blue eyes.

  ‘Yes, Langford, that will be all,’ he answered absentmindedly. ‘Thank you.’

  He had some thinking to do – all he wanted now was to be alone. He hardly noticed when the old man bowed and let himself out.

  ‘What do you think of the party so far? It’s rather splendid, isn’t it?’

  McRae handed him a champagne flute. Bruce drank a sip and winced. He didn’t care much for fizzy wine at the best of times, but that one left a foul taste in his mouth.

  He surveyed the ballroom, magnificent with its crystal chandeliers, gilded wall mirrors and shiny parquet flooring and the couples dancing to the orchestra’s waltzes, cotillons and quadrilles. There had been rousing polkas and mazurkas, the latest dance crazes to sweep across the ballrooms of Europe, or so an elderly gentleman had informed him a few moments before.

  Women, dressed in delicate pastels or deep, shimmering blues or crimsons, swirled past on the arm of a starched dance companion, their jewellery dazzling under the lights.

  ‘Aye, it’s very impressive,’ he replied at last, turning to look at his host.

  They were the same height, McRae a slighter build, probably because he’d never had to train hard or fight. Nevertheless Bruce had to admit the man cut a dashing figure in a sober black suit, his shirt and silk cravat gleaming white against the dark wool, and shiny gold-coloured buttons shaped like griffins adorning his jacket.

  It was no wonder he had dazzled a naive young woman like Rose. In fact he must have looked like a fairy-tale Prince Charming, the man every little girl dreamt of. Watching McRae earlier on as he paraded in the ballroom’s extravagant decor as if he didn’t have a care in the world was enough for Bruce to feel the urge to smash his fist in his face all over again.

  If Bruce didn’t like the champagne, McRae seemed to have no problem draining his flute, and from the unnatural glow in his blue eyes and the animated tone of his voice, it was clear that it wasn’t his first either. He leant toward Bruce in a conspiratorial manner.

  ‘I daresay it will soon get even better. I have a surprise for my guests – my male guests, that is – I think all will enjoy. I guarantee it’ll cheer you up.’

  Bruce arched one eyebrow. ‘Then I’ll look forward to your surprise, McRae.’

  He surveyed the room. ‘I don’t see Lady Patricia.’

  Cameron’s face clouded over. He plucked another flute from the tray of a passing waiter.

  ‘My mother has been taken ill and will unfortunately not be joining us tonight.’

  He drank more champagne and turned to watch a couple twirling on the dance floor to the lively tune of a polka. The woman, tall and rake-thin, was dressed in a pale and unflattering shade of blue. Her dance partner wore the 92nd Gordon Highlanders officer’s parade uniform.

  ‘Ah, here she is – my lovely fiancée, dancing with someone with whom I think you are well acquainted.’

  Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. There was a man he had hoped never to meet again.

  ‘Captain Frazier.’ His fingers tightened around the stem of the flute as he watched the couple dance.

  The last time he’d seen him was at the Whitehall enquiry when Frazier was cleared of all wrongdoing and Bruce discharged for misconduct. That had been their first encounter since the man had run away from the battlefield at Ferozeshah, allegedly suffering from heatstroke and leaving Bruce’s men and himself exposed to enemy fire – and the deadly explosion of the ammunition depot.

  A dull ache now throbbed on his temple, just above his right eye. He felt himself grow a little shaky, and the bright lights suddenly hurt his eyes. Damn. This wasn’t a good time to suffer another fit.

  He’d better get a grip on himself, the last thing he wanted was for McRae and Frazier to notice he was unwell. There were clearly enough rumours flying about as it was. He took a long, deep, calming breath, put his half-drunk flute down on a console, and focussed on the dancing couple.

  Lady Sophia’s lacklustre brown hair curled in tight ringlets around her slim face, her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched in concentration as she followed the dance steps. Frazier hadn’t changed in the year and a half since he’d last seen him. With his blond hair flopping fashionably on his high forehead and a gormless smile plastered on his fleshy lips, he seemed not to have a care in the world.

  And why would he not be enjoying himself? Bruce sneered. He wasn’t the one who got discharged and was now fighting to save his estate and his people – the one who was slowly, inexorably, going mad.

  ‘My dear,’ McRae held out his hand to his fiancée when the polka had finished, ‘let me introduce you to Lord McGunn who is paying us an unexpected visit.’

  The woman’s small brown eyes opened wide in shock and she recoiled as if faced with a dangerous animal. Bruce bowed as Lady Sophia recovered her manners. She muttered a greeting and curtsied quickly. Next to her, Frazier blushed a deep crimson.

  ‘Lieutenant McGunn … I never thought … ah … I’d see you here,’ he stammered.

  Bruce nodded curtly. ‘Frazier.’

  ‘I hope you are … ah … well,’ the man added, his fingers fiddling restless, with the tie of his red and yellow sash.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Frazier cleared his throat as if to speak but didn’t seem to find anything to say. Bruce would be
damned if he made it easier for him. What lay between them was more than mere enmity and wounded pride – it was the blood of many good men.

  ‘I don’t know about you, my dear girl,’ McRae said, slipping his arm under Lady Sophia’s arm, ‘but I’m in great need of a bowl of punch.’

  She nodded in agreement, and McRae turned to Frazier. ‘Would you care to join us?’

  ‘Of course,’ Frazier nodded, hardly able hide his relief.

  Bruce watched as the trio made their way through the crowd and out of the ballroom, then turned on his heel and walked out through a door at the opposite end. Hopefully people were too engrossed in the music, the dance, the buffet or the gossips, to notice him as he slipped into the library.

  His heart beat a little too fast as he closed the door behind him. Slightly dizzy, he leaned against the door panel. The room was empty and dark except for a single oil lamp on the desk that gave a little light.

  He closed his eyes, and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.

  This was madness.

  What exactly was he hoping to find? Some kind of proof that the far-fetched notion that had taken shape in his mind after his conversation with Charles Langford was indeed based on truth? The fantasy that Niall McRae might be his …

  No, this was ludicrous! He almost opened the door and walked out again when something stopped him. It wasn’t quite the sound of a woman’s voice, or the touch of a woman’s hand against his cheek. It was like a gentle whispering wind enveloping him, coaxing him, urging him to go to Niall McRae’s portrait, and lift it off the wall.

  He carried it with great care to the desk, pushed the lamp closer and turned it up to get more light. His breath short, he searched through the drawers for a magnifying glass, found one and bent down over the painting to read the inscription.

  The sound the magnifying glass made when he dropped it on the desk echoed in the library. So he’d been right. The Battle of Alexandria had taken place in 1801, his medal had borne the first two digits, 18. McRae wore the other half of the Battle of Alexandria medal, the one that read 01.

  He made himself check again.

  Was he reading too much into the portrait? Could it be that the artist made a simple mistake, and that the fact Niall McRae looked like him was a mere coincidence?

  He stared at the man in the painting, his dark hair, his proud stance, his uniform – and the claymore at his side. No, there was more than a mere resemblance. If McRae’s hair had been shorter, he could be McGunn himself.

  A long-forgotten event pushed its way into his memory. He had once called in the regimental mess where a reunion of officers who had fought at Quatre-Bras and Waterloo was under way. An old man – a colonel, judging by his uniform – had stared at him across the room most of the evening with rheumy blue eyes. Sometime after the toasts he had ambled toward him, gripped his arm in a claw-like vice, and asked his name. ‘Lieutenant McGunn?’ he had repeated, disappointment in his voice as if he was hoping to hear another name. ‘Sorry, man, you reminded me of someone I used to know a long time ago. Damn strange how you look like the man too. Thought you might have been his son. The poor chap died at Quatre-Bras.’

  Bruce had dismissed the event as the delusions of an old man who’d drunk too much whisky. He hadn’t thought about it for a long time. Of course, it now took a completely different meaning. It was obvious who the old man was thinking of. Niall McRae.

  His father.

  The light grew dimmer, the room shrank, closed in on him, and the world as he knew it collapsed.

  Part Three:

  Sword Dance

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘C’mon ye bunch of ragamuffins and dolly-mops, hurry up! What do ye think Lord McRae brought ye here for? Lazing around, playing yer godawful music or chattering all day? Come on, I said. I dinna ’ave time to sit around waiting for ye lot.’

  Only Rose understood what he was saying, but the guard’s angry voice, the sheer brutality twisting his face and the impatient way he tapped the palm of his hand with a cropped whip were enough for dancers and musicians to hurry out of the cottage without protest.

  Rose kept her head down as she walked past him to climb into the carriage. She had persuaded one of the dancing girls to swap places with her and wore the girl’s red and golden dress. Her thick blonde hair was safely tucked under a headdress which was secured with pins and decorated with chains and necklaces – some of them her own – which chimed and tinkled with her every move. Her eyes were lined with black kohl pencil like the other girls, but she would have to keep them down because, of course, they were blue. Although Ouled Nail dancers didn’t usually veil their faces, she had asked the other girls to make an exception for tonight. She couldn’t take the risk of Cameron recognising her – not until she had done what she wanted to do.

  Once in the coach, one of the musicians leaned towards her and whispered in Arabic.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Ourida? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. We could pretend you’re ill or something.’

  ‘No, I need to do this,’ she replied from under the veil as the brutish man slammed the door shut.

  ‘What if he recognises you before you speak to the young lady?’

  She shook her head, her throat tight with dread despite her apparent self-confidence.

  ‘He won’t even see me. I’ll slip away as soon as we get to the castle and hide until I find Lady Sophia. And if ever I have to dance, then I’ll just be one of the girls, and as you well know nobody will even glance up at my face – which is veiled anyway.’

  The men still looked worried, and she now understood why. She linked her fingers in her lap and swallowed hard. The things they had told her about Cameron and Morven were shocking enough to make anyone scared, but they made her even more determined to warn Lady Sophia against the man she was about to marry.

  It wasn’t long before the carriage stopped in the courtyard of the castle and they were ushered inside through the service entrance.

  ‘The ladies are all either tucked away in the drawing room or have retired upstairs, and the gentlemen are waiting in the music room,’ the manservant said. ‘By now I gather they’ll be more than ready for ye. I know I am.’

  He clicked his tongue, let out a booming laugh and slapped one of the girls on the bottom.

  Rose looked around in astonishment as they walked through the opulent reception rooms, slowing down deliberately until she fell to the back of the line. She had to find a good hiding place here before they reached the music room.

  She had never seen such splendour, except perhaps in the palace of Dar Hasan Pasha or the Dey’s Palais d’Eté in Algiers. Every ceiling was stuccoed, every mantelpiece adorned with gilded griffins, every piece of furniture, chandelier, and mirror sparkled. Her optimism soon vanished however when she realised that although the rooms were filled with elegant furniture, there was nowhere for her to hide. The silk brocade curtains weren’t long or bulky enough to conceal her. The white and eau-de-nil sofas and chairs with their high backs and fancy carved legs weren’t close enough to the wall for her to hide behind.

  ‘Almost there,’ the manservant called as he turned back.

  Immediately, her gaze fell to the floor.

  ‘Hey, ye at the back,’ he growled. ‘I know what ye’re trying to do, snooping around for something to steal. Hurry up or I’ll carry ye on my shoulder.’

  Bedbugs! She had missed her chance, and now he’d be watching her like a hawk.

  He opened a door and gestured for them to enter a large, wood-panelled room, plunged in semi-darkness and filled with a thick, acrid smoke that brought tears to her eyes and made her throat sore. Glancing up for a second, Rose saw smartly dressed men of all ages chatting in groups or reclining in deep, leather sofas and armchairs. Some drank liquor, others lifted cups of tea or coffee to their lips, but they all stopped talking when the dancers walked in and turned to stare at them.

  ‘Here they are at last
, our little doves,’ a familiar voice called from the other end of the room, making Rose’s heart beat hard and fast against her ribs.

  Cameron stood near the fireplace, a crystal tumbler filled to the brim with liquor in his hand, his cravat undone and his shirt open, and the light from the fire casting an evil, sinister glow on his face. He might look the same as he had a few weeks before, distinguished and heartbreakingly handsome, but all she felt for him right now was fear and loathing.

  Her eyes darted around the room. As she had expected, Bruce wasn’t there.

  Cameron grabbed hold of a silver spoon and tapped it against his glass.

  ‘Gentlemen, I promised you a delicious surprise from a distant and exotic land, and here it is. You will not be disappointed, but be careful … you must say not a word to our charming wives and fiancées. They wouldn’t understand.’

  There were a few chuckles, but mostly hot, expectant stares. Rose could feel the men’s eyes linger on her body – the way men everywhere gaped at dancing girls, whether they were wealthy aristocrats in a palace or sailors in a dockside tavern.

  Cameron signalled for the girls to come closer and stand in the centre of the room, and to the musicians to sit in a corner. So she would have to perform after all. Gripped by panic, all her former confidence now deserted her. She slid behind the other girls and kicked off her babouches, shivering at the feel of the smooth, cool wooden floor under the soles of her feet.

  ‘Go on, my lovelies, dance … dance for us lucky devils,’ Cameron said, lifting his glass in a toast.

  Music rose in the silent room. The beat of the drum was followed by the melodic, insistent, slightly hypnotic tune of the flute.

  ‘Don’t worry, stay at the back and dance, we’ll think of something to distract them,’ one of the girls whispered.

  Rose’s chest felt too tight, and her limbs heavy and clumsy. The heavy bangles on her wrists jingled as she raised her arms, flipped her hands above her head and rolled her hips. She had done it many times, but always in secret and with Malika as her sole audience. Her friend used to say she was as good as any native Ouled Nail, that she felt the moves, the rhythm, the flow, the heart of the music the same way as they did. She could almost hear Malika’s voice when she’d said, ‘You could be one of us, Ourida.’