Celia was perfecting the lines of this chapel and trying to decide how to draw the gap between it and the roofline of the houses partly obscuring it, when she heard a commotion in the street below.
Grosvenor Square was full of noises all day long, as vendors sang out their wares, delivery wagons rolled up with the necessities of life, and carriages rumbled through on their way to other parts of the metropolis.
This was different—a clatter of hooves, shouts of men, and what sounded like barked orders. Celia set down her pencil and made her way to the window, resting her hands on the sill as she peered out.
Two horses had halted in front of the house, ridden by men in uniform, and about a dozen uniformed men surrounded them. They were in a regiment of Foot, from their scarlet coats, but she was unsure which one. Edward was in the Duke of Crenshaw’s Brigade, now in France. She was familiar with that insignia but not ones from other regiments.
The man who dismounted was an officer, she knew not only from his sleek wig and the tricorn hat he tucked under his arm, but by his bearing and the deferential way the soldiers stood to attention for him. The second horseman, who dismounted behind the first as Lady Flora’s footman came to take the reins of both horses, was also an officer but not as high ranking, apparent from the way he stayed back from the other gentleman.
Nausea bit her stomach. British soldiers preparing to enter a house where a Highlander hid. Had Alec known they’d be coming, and fled?
Celia pressed her hands to her skirts and hurried to the door and out along the hall to the stairs. Keeping to the shadows, Celia peered over the railings as one of Lady Flora’s efficient footmen ushered the two officers inside.
Rivers emerged from the back of the house, taking his haughty time. “Good morning. How may I assist you, gentlemen?”
“Captain Jamison of the Twenty-Sixth Foot, at your service, sir.” The captain put his hand to his chest and gave Rivers a shallow bow. “I should like to speak to the lady of the house, if it is at all convenient.”
“Her ladyship sees no one without an appointment,” Rivers said haughtily. “I will convey a message to her if you wish.”
Captain Jamison’s annoyance floated up to Celia. “My mission is more of a warning to her. Last night, his lordship, the Marquess of Harrenton, was assaulted and robbed. The miscreants were seen fleeing into Mayfair, and more specifically, Grosvenor Square. We are conducting a search of the area for the culprits. Your ladyship would be wise to remain indoors today.”
“Oh dear.” Rivers’s note of alarm was subdued. Celia had never seen Rivers grow fully agitated about anything. “Very well. I will explain to her ladyship.”
“We are also searching the houses, in case the villains have found a corner in which to hide. I will take my men downstairs and root out the fellow if he is here.”
An iciness worthy of Lady Flora entered Rivers’s voice. “Certainly not. You will need her ladyship’s permission, and as I say, she cannot be disturbed. She is still abed.”
Both Rivers and Celia knew full well Lady Flora was not in bed, and was likely listening to the conversation from some vantage point.
“We will search below stairs and the public rooms only,” the captain said with gruff concession. “The marquess has commanded it. Her ladyship may discuss it with that gentleman if she has a mind to.”
Rivers drew a breath for another disdainful reply, but at that moment, Lady Flora herself appeared on the second-floor landing and sent a cold look over the railing to Captain Jamison.
“By all means, conduct your search, sir.” She took a few steps down and halted, poised in a chance beam of sunlight through the fog. “I certainly would not like to be murdered in my bed. But please do not upset the servants. Rivers, accompany the men and ensure that they behave themselves.”
Her voice was chillier than Celia had ever heard it. When she peered hard at Lady Flora several floors below her, she saw that Lady Flora clenched the railing hard, the fall of lace from her sleeves trembling.
Captain Jamison sent her a look that was not flattering, but he nodded. Celia knew from Edward that soldiers could be unruly, tearing up houses and terrorizing those within on any pretense. The more civilized officers kept such goings-on at bay, but at times the officers could be as unscrupulous as their disorderly men.
Celia had no doubt that Rivers would keep them tame with his cold disapproval, but she wondered what the servants would tell the soldiers. Would they mention Alec? Did they believe him anything other than poor Mr. Finn, Irish drawing tutor? Would he be significant enough for the soldiers to want to question?
She held her breath as the infantrymen moved past the officers and headed for the back stairs. The lieutenant, who’d remained silent the whole time, broke away and strode to the dining room, wresting open its pocket doors to begin his search inside.
Celia’s blood went cold. Though Alec might have departed in anticipation of this visit, if he was innocently purchasing supplies, he could reappear from his errand and walk right into a houseful of British soldiers. Any of them might recognize a fugitive Highlander when they saw one and arrest him on the spot.
Celia silently fled back to the studio, where she hurried to the window to scan the streets for any sign of Alec. She could signal to him somehow when he appeared, warn him off.
She grasped the window’s latch, but it was stiff with disuse. Celia tugged at it impatiently, but it wouldn’t move. Why on earth had a window this high off the ground been given a latch? Did Lady Flora fear burglary from a bird?
A cry cut through her nerves as she struggled with the window, a baby’s wail, strong and unhappy.
Jenny.
Anxiousness washed through Celia in cold waves. What would the captain do if he heard a baby up here? She couldn’t imagine how Lady Flora would explain the child’s presence, though she had no doubt Flora would come up with something plausible.
Even so, Celia rushed from the room and up the stairs to the top of the house. A corridor ran under the sloping roof of the garret, which had been partitioned into rooms. Celia traced the crying to a chamber at the end of this corridor.
When she pushed open its door, she found a plump maid—Sally—her cap half fallen from her frizzy brown hair, bouncing baby Jenny in her arms.
Jenny had been swaddled, wrapped tightly from head to foot, a method believed by physicians to help a baby grow strong. Jenny’s head, covered with bright red hair, stuck out of the bundle, her mouth wide as she screamed her displeasure.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Sally said over the noise. “She’s hurting from the teething, and she wants her dad.”
“Here, let me.” Celia reached for Jenny, and Sally reluctantly gave her over.
“Lady Flora says I’m to keep her quiet,” Sally babbled, wringing her hands. “Mr. Finn gave me the chamomile ice, but she won’t take it today.”
Poor Jenny must sense something was wrong. Her father absent, soldiers in the house …
Celia began to loosen the tight cloths. She’d not been around babies much, being the youngest child in her household, but she had the feeling Jenny would be much happier if she could move.
“My lady?” Sally cried in alarm. “Should you do that?”
“The poor thing wants a bit of freedom.” Celia held the squirming child with difficulty as she tugged off the cloths. “There you are, love.” As the last of the swaddling fell away, Celia hoisted Jenny, clad in a thin nightdress, to her shoulder. “Papa will be home soon.”
Celia wasn’t certain Papa would ever return, and she knew Jenny couldn’t understand her, but she said the words anyway. What would become of this child if Alec was caught and taken prisoner?
Nothing, Celia thought with determination. I will look after her.
It was an absurd thought—Celia had no idea how to take care of a child, and her father and mother would hardly let her bring an orphan into their house. But she’d find a way. Alec would never have to worry about his daughter.
/> Jenny’s wails grew fainter as she dug her fists into Celia’s soft fichu. A bit of dribble from the child’s mouth landed on the embroidered cotton, but Celia only held her closer.
“Give me the chamomile,” she said to Sally.
Sally fetched a covered bowl with small balls of ice floating in water, the soothing scent of chamomile wafting from it.
Celia took a chunk of ice between her fingers and offered it to Jenny. “Here, now, love. This will soothe you.”
Jenny fretted and cried, but at last she parted her lips, as though curious. She then suckled Celia’s finger, and the ice, her sobs quieting.
Sally grinned. “There now. Ye have a way with you, my lady. She likes you.”
Celia cuddled Jenny closer. Holding the babe against her heart, Alec’s pretty child, sent a warmness through her she’d never experienced. Affection for Jenny grew and swelled.
Yes, she would take care of this child if she had to. It would be a pleasure.
Meanwhile, she glanced out the chamber’s tiny window over the gray city and wondered where the devil Jenny’s father had got to, and whether he was safe.
Chapter 12
Rain streaked the carriage windows, the cold making the glass steam with its passengers’ breath. Mrs. Reynolds, prim in dark cloak and hood, sat opposite Alec, her gloved hands in quiet repose.
Alec was anything but composed. He craned to look out the window as the carriage bumped over the rutted and rain-soaked road, the outline of a house near the estate of Sir Amos Westwood in the distance.
Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora had concluded this house was a possibility for where Scottish soldiers might be held. They knew every estate within a hundred-mile swath outside London, and they’d pared down the possibilities to three. This was one of them. Mrs. Reynolds offered to look it over herself—very few noticed what a widowed lady’s companion did—but Alec insisted on accompanying her.
Was Will inside the crumbling brick walls of the Cambridgeshire estate, held in chains? Alec pictured Will’s long, lanky body, his red hair coated with dirt and blood, lying on an earthen floor, beaten and starving. Bloody hell.
His worry had escalated earlier this morning when Lady Flora had wordlessly handed him a letter from his brother Malcolm.
Mal had written in French, being fluent in the language, and smuggled the letter to Alec via friends of Lady Flora. Very few excise men were willing to search the baggage of an aristocratic English lady landing after a sojourn on the Continent, especially ladies who were close to the daunting Lady Flora.
I don’t know whether to give credit to this tale, Mal wrote, but I heard it from a Borderland lad newly arrived in Paris who was acquainted with Will. He says Will was arrested in the west of Scotland while helping Teàrlach mhic Seamas escape.
I didn’t believe it, but the lad insisted Will jumped in front of a horde of English soldiers, declaring he was Prince Teàrlach himself, and they should bow before the rightful heir to the Scottish throne. The soldiers promptly clapped him in irons. When it was pointed out later by their commander that he wasn’t Teàrlach but an unknown Highlander, they took Will off, and the Border lad doesn’t know where.
I don’t know why Will would do such a daft thing, and the lad might be mistaken, but he swore by all that’s holy it was Will.
Dad’s out of his mind with worry, and Mary fears he truly is going off his head. Now Dad is convinced King Geordie’s men have you as well. Write and tell me it isn’t so, so we don’t have to lock him in the basement and feed him gruel and weak whisky until your return.
Mary sends her love to you and Jenny.
Your distracted brother,
Malcolm
Alec had committed the letter to memory and burned it.
He could imagine Will popping up in front of British soldiers to mockingly claim he was Charles Edward Stuart, son of the rightful King of all Britain, because that was the sort of thing Will would do. Why was beyond Alec’s understanding, but Will did things for his own reasons. If he’d let himself be arrested in the prince’s place, it meant he was following some mad plan he’d concocted.
Will would not sacrifice himself out of compassion and loyalty to the prince, Alec knew good and well. Damn and blast him. Will couldn’t be bothered to get a message to the rest of them, let them know what he was doing, could he?
“How the bloody hell are we to know if he’s here?” he growled at Mrs. Reynolds.
“We don’t.” She spoke coolly, as calm as Alec was agitated. “We are taking in the lay of the land, reconnoitering, if you will. We should do the same at the other houses and then decide which is best to approach.”
“Meanwhile, they drag Will off to a sham trial and hang him,” Alec said, scowling at the rainy window. “Or transport him, if they haven’t already. Will might not be in any of these places.”
“If you rush in and demand to know whether the owner of the house is holding prisoners of war, you’ll only be captured yourself,” Mrs. Reynolds pointed out. “Wise heads must prevail, my lord.”
Alec’s father would laugh that a woman was more collected and competent at the spy game than his sons—or maybe he would not. Their mother had been the calm one. It was said that Allison Mackenzie had great intelligence and could debate most men under the table in matters of science, mathematics, astronomy, and studies of the humors. Mal had inherited her logic and intellect, while Alec had been graced with the volatility and restlessness of their father.
No, they all had that restlessness, Alec reflected. Which was what had gotten Duncan and Angus killed, Mal looked upon as a terrifying demon, and now Will taken God knew where.
What would Mal do in this circumstance? Alec missed his favorite brother, but at the same time was glad Mal was in France with Mary, waiting for his first child to be born, all of them well out of danger.
Alec knew exactly what Mal would do, because Will had taught both brothers all his tricks. Mal would sneak through the countryside in the dead of night to lay traps or play pranks to scare the life out of the guards, and slip in to rescue Will.
So Alec would. He’d return, with the help of those he or Lady Flora had already contacted, and reconnoiter, as Mrs. Reynolds termed it. Or Alec would come alone, trusting to his own instincts.
Working with others had already proved perilous. The Glaswegian friend of Will’s had been killed, and the two ruffians who’d waylaid the Marquess of Harrenton and beaten him thoroughly last night had nearly been caught. The fools had rushed to Lady Flora’s house for sanctuary—and payment—and Alec had sent them off with their money.
Mayhap scouting alone was best.
“I’ve seen enough,” Alec said abruptly. “We should go.”
Mrs. Reynolds frowned. “Patience. Let us continue. If there are sentries, that will tell us something here is important enough to be guarded.”
Alec meant he’d seen enough to know the lay of the land. He was good at memorizing spaces—he’d noted the position of every window in the house, every tree on the ground, every possible entry into the building, and he would not forget.
The nearby fields, most of which lay fallow, were empty, no farmers tilling them. They’d seen no riders on the road, nobody going into or out of the house. It was strangely quiet here, a good place for highwaymen to lurk.
Highwaymen would get more than they bargained for if they attacked this carriage. Alec was on edge enough to become the berserker Highlander, and Mrs. Reynolds carried a pistol tucked somewhere about her person—the woman was reputed to be a dead shot.
They rolled along the tree-lined road, tall grasses bending in the wind and rain. Rain drummed on the carriage roof, and the vehicle bumped hard through ruts, at times nearly dislodging Alec from his seat.
Alec spied a man in a long coat and wide hat leaning against a tree, not doing much of anything. He could barely be seen with his dark garb against the rain-soaked trunk, and Alec might not have noticed him at all if he hadn’t been looking.
The man gazed across the rainy fields and didn’t turn his head to study the carriage as it went by. It would be less strange if he did stare at them, Alec wanted to tell him. A carriage trundling down a back country road should be of interest to the local men, an event to speculate on. The man’s seeming lack of interest betrayed him.
“Well, we know they have a sentry,” Mrs. Reynolds said after they’d passed him. “Something to guard. Interesting.”
Alec boiled with anger and impatience. “Far more than interesting. The Duke of Crenshaw knows about these places? Were the prisons his idea?”
“I have no notion, my lord.” Mrs. Reynolds gave him a steady look. “I can only report what I heard from Sir Amos and his colonel.”
“I will shake the duke until he tells me.”
“And be arrested alongside your brother or killed where you stand? We must go softly.”
“There’s no time for that.” Alec moved restlessly. “Who knows when the prisoners might be moved or simply executed? And Lord knows what Will Mackenzie will get up to inside a Sassenach gaol. He’ll get himself killed before he knows it.”
“You must continue as you have. Gain Lady Celia’s trust. Her father dotes on her.”
“Celia is no fool,” Alec said. He already admired her for that.
Thinking about her calmed him slightly. Celia also had a beauty he’d not encountered before in his life, like the sudden gleam of a candle in the darkness.
He’d kissed her in Lady Flora’s anteroom in rage and passion, and he’d kissed her in the studio for the fun of it, when he’d showed her the camera obscura. Both times he’d found her kisses soothing, healing.
“No, but she is unworldly and lonely,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Her mother is the foolish one for not recognizing her worth. You are a handsome gentleman, Lord Alec. You could make Lady Celia your servant if you chose—she will be malleable because she’s been raised to be. She showed her good sense when she turned down the Marquess of Harrenton, a disgusting man, but that act reveals her romantic notions. She wants a marriage of equals and one of love. She has yet to learn, as I did, that there is no such thing. Her sense of romance is where you will win.”