The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  To her annoyance she was the first to look away, angry and ashamed that she had tried to provoke him, and failed.

  “Your name would be a good start,” she said icily.

  “My full name is Alexander Iain MacGregor,” he replied. “I’m the eldest son of my parents. For my sins, I have Angus for my youngest brother, and there’s another between us, Duncan, although he’s away hame at the minute. Ye’ll meet him at a later date.”

  “I assume by ‘away hame’ you mean in Scotland,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Well that was a relief at any rate. If he intended her to meet his brother, he clearly did not mean to do her any harm in the near future. She thought for a moment, wanting every question to count, occupying herself by spreading butter on a roll, while her mind raced.

  Whether friend or foe, he was truly remarkable, she thought with reluctant admiration. Not just his physical appearance, but everything about him was different from Sir Anthony; his stance, his voice, accent, manner. Which observation brought her neatly to her next question, for her the most important one in determining their future relationship, if there was to be one.

  “Are you a spy for the Hanoverians or the Jacobites?” she asked bluntly, watching him carefully in the hope that his eyes would betray the true answer to her query, whatever his lips might say. But apart from a brief flicker of shock at the unexpected question his expression was unreadable. Of course, he had no doubt had years of practice at veiling his true feelings, she thought sourly.

  “I thought I’d made it as clear as I could where my sympathies lie,” he replied earnestly. “Why else would I give ye back your rosary when I proposed to you, unless it was to let ye know that I was Catholic, like yourself? Why would I suggest that we visit King James and Charles in Europe, unless I was a Jacobite?”

  Why indeed? Oh God.

  He watched with interest and curiosity as the colour flooded her cheeks. She bit her lip.

  “Emm…I…ah…think I may have misunderstood those gestures,” she said in a low voice. “Is that really what you were trying to tell me?”

  “Of course. What else would I be trying to say?”

  “That you knew I was Catholic, that you had heard the argument between me and Richard and were warning me that if I refused to marry you, you would tell everyone, causing me to be ostracised from society. And when you talked about visiting the king, I thought you meant George and the duke of Cumberland, and that you were just reminding me that I was trapped, were rubbing salt in the wound.” She had no idea how he would respond to her confession, and looked up at him nervously. Whilst she had some idea how Sir Anthony might react, this man was a completely unknown quantity. His face was blank, unreadable. “I was so sure you were Hanoverian, in spite of the fact that you claimed to have no allegiance. You’re a friend of George’s, and you’ve said many times that the Jacobite cause is a lost one,” she cried defensively. “How was I to know?”

  He leaned forward, placing one elbow on the table, and rested his forehead on his hand for a moment, before looking across the table at her. His eyes were soft, gentle, not at all angry. When she would have looked away, he reached across and placed his hand under her chin, turning her head back towards him.

  “I see now that there have been many misunderstandings between us. I’m sorry, but I couldna be more open with ye then. I think perhaps I should tell you a wee bit about myself, so you can judge me better.” He removed his hand from her face and sat back in his seat.

  His touch had been disconcerting, and for a few moments after he had removed his hand, she could still feel its warmth against her skin. She had an irrational urge to stroke the place where his fingers had been, and mastered it with difficulty. He was very attractive, this man, compelling even, and she marvelled at the transformation a layer of paint and a few affectations could make. She covered her confusion by pouring herself a cup of chocolate, and waited for him to begin.

  “To answer your question, first, I am without any doubt whatsoever, a supporter of the Stuart king, and yes, I am a spy, had been for just over a year before we met,” he said. “Sir Anthony has several functions. The first is to convince George and his son that James, and more particularly his son Charles Edward, present no threat to them, that the Jacobites have grown too complacent to rise in any force, to reassure him that the French will no’ give military support to the Stuart cause and generally, to lead him and his sycophantic followers into a false sense of security so that they will be unprepared when the invasion comes. He does this by letting slip useful pieces of information that he claims to have gleaned from his many acquaintance in all walks of society.”

  “Does this mean then that the Earl of Derwentwater has not in fact lost heart in the cause?” Beth asked.

  Alex laughed.

  “I see that has been worrying you for a long time. Ye mentioned the matter once before, I remember. No, I can reassure ye now, the Earl Charles is as fervent as ever. And far from the earl thinking Prince Charles Edward incapable of finding a whore in a brothel, as I seem to recall telling your cousin, in fact he is actively fighting to secure funds and support in France for an invasion. Christ, his brother was executed. A man doesna forget that easily.”

  “Go on,” Beth said, fascinated. “What are your other functions?”

  “I’m sure ye’ve noticed, think yourself, in fact, that Sir Anthony may be educated, but is nevertheless a superficial fool, who doesna fully understand the import of what he’s saying, or what is said tae him?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that gives him the chance to let slip all kinds of information to the Hanover crowd, all unaware, of course. And it also puts them off guard. They are less worried about talking of important matters within his hearing, because they think he’s too stupid to realise the import of what they’ve said. That’s why he’s friendly with everyone, and claims allegiance to none.”

  “Does that not also mean that some people are wary of talking to you because you may let all sorts of things slip to the Jacobites – all unaware, of course?” Beth asked.

  “Aye, you canna have everything. But if Sir Anthony devoted himself to the cause of Hanover, then he’d have no reason to hear things from other quarters, and wouldna be able to divulge information without people growing suspicious as to how it was he’d come by it. There are others who do that. It doesna fit with Sir Anthony’s character. But it does mean that while he is chatting merrily away about the merits o’ this or that silk, he can be listening to a conversation nearby about the military capacity of Fort William, or whatever, without anyone being any the wiser. In short, he is generally treated like a woman by many men. He’s there, he’s human, just, but of no great relevance. No one would dream of confiding military secrets to him directly, but they have no qualms about discussing such matters within a few feet of him when he is apparently deeply involved in a trivial conversation with others. Ye must have heard all kinds of useful information because the men havena even registered your presence as an intelligent being in the room?”

  He smiled at her, and she smiled warmly back, her fear of him temporarily forgotten.

  “He behaved differently with George,” she commented, unconsciously falling into the habit of referring to Sir Anthony in the third person, as Alex did. She had no difficulty in doing this. In her mind, Sir Anthony Peters and Alexander MacGregor were so unlike it was easier to envisage them as two different people than as two aspects of the same man.

  “Aye, he did. But no’ so different as to cause comment. He just tones down the more outrageous aspects of Sir Anthony. George is lonely, in many ways. Until his recent victory at Dettingen he’s been living in the past, retelling over and over again the stories of his glorious achievements in Oudenarde in 1708. No one wants to listen to him. People call at St James’s at the start of the season because it would be improper not to, stay for as little time as possible, then leave. George bores them. He isna what they expect from a king. He’s
dull, ignorant and boring. So of course he appreciates greatly the company of an Englishman who is not only willing to listen to endless repetitions of his past exploits with rapture, but to whom he can also speak his native language.”

  “And while he is talking about the past, he also lets slip his plans for the future,” Beth said.

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you feel sorry for him?” she asked. “You paint him as quite a pathetic figure.”

  “No, I dinna feel sorry for the man. He holds my people in contempt. In fact, he holds the English in contempt too, if they could only see it. He drones on about religious tolerance whilst exacting punitive measures towards Catholics and other non-conformists just because they choose to worship differently. He hasna any interest in being king of Britain, except in that it benefits his beloved Hanover. He would far rather live there than in London. He is unpopular and unfit tae be king, and I would admire him greatly if he had the courage to abdicate. I think he probably would if William Augustus were his eldest son instead of Frederick, whom he hates.”

  Beth shuddered at the thought of the duke of Cumberland ever taking the throne.

  “Do you think it possible that William will ever be king?” she asked.

  “Aye, but only if Frederick and his bairns die, or are done away with. If that were to happen, I think I’d seriously consider regicide. William is arrogant and brutal, and what is worse, intelligent too. What angers me is that we have a king here who is not only unfit but doesna even want the throne, whilst in Rome is a man who would make a fine king, and who is eager to do it, as well as having the hereditary right.”

  “Although there are those who argue James is too weak to rule, and lacks charisma,” Beth said, engrossed in the conversation.

  “I’m no’ speaking of James Stuart,” replied Alex. “I’m talking of his son, Charles Edward. But I’m supposed tae be telling you about Sir Anthony, no’ blethering on about the usurper and his family. We can discuss them at any time. I think it more important we sort out what’s between us, do ye no’ agree?”

  She nodded and nibbled at a roll, her appetite suddenly diminishing as she remembered her present circumstances. He was disarming, this man. With his relaxed and pleasant attitude, he had succeeded in getting her to completely forget that she was his prisoner, and that she still had no idea what he intended to do with her.

  “Well, then, those are the main functions of Sir Anthony, in England, in any case.” Alex continued after a moment. “In the meantime, my men are raising money from English Jacobites, trying to persuade them tae get off their apathetic ars…posteriors and fight, when the time comes, and of course, we are smuggling weapons into the country, as I assume ye ken already, if ye’d been listening at the door for a while that night.”

  She flushed a little, remembering last Christmas Eve, and reflecting that she was in only a little less danger now, however friendly her jailer might appear to be. Honesty had worked for her then; would it also suffice now? Alexander MacGregor appeared to be being truthful with her. She would repay in the same coin; it was the easiest way, in any case.

  “Yes,” she said, “I did hear something about swords, and a problem with storing them, but not as much as you seem to think. My mother taught me the Gaelic, but it’s years since I heard it or spoke it. In fact that’s why I stayed long enough to be caught,” she admitted. “I couldn’t resist it. I was listening to the tone more than the words, really. It reminded me of my mother. When I was discovered, I was sure that I was dead.” She remembered his words of the previous evening, then, and the colour left her face in a rush.

  “I was tired last night. I shouldna have said what I did,” Alex said, clearly sharing Sir Anthony’s facility for reading her mind.

  “You meant it, though,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Aye, I did,” he admitted. “We’d been discussing a good many things that night, any of which would have sent us and others to the gallows, had they been reported. Ye’re lucky that we didna expect anyone south of the border tae speak our barbaric gibberish, as the Gaelic’s called by the English. If I’d kent ye did, I couldna have taken the chance of trusting you. Many of the men thought I’d run daft that I didna kill you anyway. But I already had a liking for ye, and was willing to take the chance that ye’d no’ tell. We didna use that room again in any case, and I knew that, myself excepted, the chance of you meeting any of the others again was slim. I thought I’d hidden myself well enough.” He flexed his hand, glancing down ruefully at the scar that had betrayed him.

  “And now?” she asked, meeting his eye. “What do you intend now?”

  “I dinna intend to kill you, if that’s what you’re feart of,” he said.

  It was. The relief was so obvious on her face that he closed his eyes momentarily, ashamed that he had frightened her so, when his only intention in marrying her was to release her from fear.

  “Why did you marry me?” she said, finally asking the question he’d expected to be her first.

  “I told you why I wanted to marry you when I proposed to you,” he said, gathering his breakfast dishes together and placing them on a tray.

  “No,” she replied. “Sir Anthony told me why he wanted to marry me. Alexander MacGregor did not.”

  “Alex,” he corrected, standing, and moving across to the fireplace. In spite of the fact that it was August, the large room was chilly, and the fire gave out a pleasant heat “True. But in this case, we were one and the same. We do overlap on occasion.”

  “So, then,” she replied. “Rather than being murdered in my bed, I can expect to travel widely, have adventures, and meet exciting and intelligent people, once we have consummated the marriage, that is?” A strange frisson ran through her at her last words, and she realised that she was actually attracted to Alex, in a way she never had been to his alter ego.

  “We have consummated the marriage, as far as society is concerned, which is what matters in this case,” he replied impassively. “As for the rest, that is up to you. Once matters are clear between us, ye can do as ye will.”

  His indifferent tone stung her and she replied without taking the time to think about what she was saying.

  “And what if I want to denounce you? What’s to stop me doing that? I would gain great favour with King George if I did. I would be the toast of society.” These were hardly the words to guarantee her safe passage, and she regretted them the moment they were out of her mouth.

  “Aye, ye would,” he replied consideringly. “For a wee while. Everyone would love you. You’d be invited to every party in London. But then you’d rapidly become an embarrassment to King Geordie. Every time your name was mentioned, he’d be reminded of what a fool he’d been, that he’d been cozened by a Jacobite, and a barbaric, savage Highlander at that. Give it three months, at best, and no one would want to know ye. But there are other reasons why ye’d no’ even consider betraying me for a moment.”

  “Such as?” she asked, annoyed by his assumption that he knew her so well.

  “Ye’re a Jacobite, for one, and the daughter of a MacDonald, for another. And the MacDonalds are loyal to the cause. And if that’s no’ enough, which I think it is, there’s the small consideration that ye’re married to Sir Anthony Peters, not Alex MacGregor. If you denounce me, ye’ll be in the unenviable position of being single again, without your dowry, at the mercy of the brother I’m trying to save ye from, and, as far as the world is concerned, deflowered by a traitor. I wouldna give much for your marriage prospects or your life, for that matter, if your brother’s as ruthless as I suspect he is.”

  He smiled coolly at her and sat down in a chair by the fire, beckoning her to take the seat opposite him. He forbore from telling her that if she were to betray him, she wouldn’t live long enough to either enjoy or regret the fruits of it, as every one of the fifty or so clansmen who called him their chief would make it their life’s work to kill her.

  Beth stayed where she was, reasoning that the further awa
y from this disturbing man she was, the more clearly she would be able to think.

  “So,” she continued after a moment, “do I assume rightly then that the only reason you married me was to give me my freedom, and to obtain twenty thousand pounds, which, judging from your circumstances,” she took in the opulent room with a glance, “you have no need of?”

  “No,” Alex replied. “When I proposed to you, I told you that my marriage would stop eager parents of prospective brides looking in depth into my background, which you’ll now appreciate is risky for me. As for your dowry, you’re wrong on both counts. I do have need of your twenty thousand pounds. What you see, and Sir Anthony’s fine clothes, carriage, everything, dinna belong to me, but to my sponsor. Having said that, I have no intention of using it.”

  Beth was flabbergasted.

  “What do you then intend?” she asked, finally coming to the crux of the matter.

  “I intend for us to separate, immediately,” he said, matter-of-factly. “That’s why I behaved so badly towards you yesterday, ignoring you, reciting hurtful poetry, and although I didna intend it, giving ye a nasty-looking bruise on your jaw, which you can say I inflicted on you whilst I was beating you terribly after we arrived home. Ye can then retire to set up house in the country, or wherever ye choose. Even after Richard’s commission is paid for, you’ll still be able to live verra comfortably on what remains of your dowry. No one will dispute the validity of the marriage, and no one will look into Sir Anthony’s dubious background again, as he’s no longer an eligible bachelor. That is what I intend. Sir Anthony meantime, will proceed with his tour of Europe, in an attempt to restore his shattered nerves. He has business there.”

  She stared at him from her place at the dining table.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt since I’ve been in London, it’s that no one does anything for nothing, or for such little gain. What other reason did you have for marrying me?”