Part 17 (1/2)
And when he left the following morning, she wept her own broken heart into her pillow.
Chapter Ten
He had missed London, the pace of it, the look of it, the smell of it. Most of his life had been spent there or at the graceful old manor home of his ancestors in the country. He was well-known in polite society and had no trouble finding company for a game of cards at one of the fas.h.i.+onable clubs or interesting conversation over dinner. Mothers of marriageable daughters made certain to include the wealthy earl of Ashburn on their guest lists.
He had been six weeks in town, and spring was at its best. His own garden, one of the finest in the city, boasted vistas of lush lawns and colorful blossoms. The rain that had drummed almost incessantly as April had begun had worked its magic and was now replaced by balmy golden days that lured pretty women in their silk dresses and feathered hats into the parks and shops.
There were b.a.l.l.s and a.s.semblies, card parties and levees. A man with his t.i.tle, his reputation and his purse could have a comfortable life here with little inconvenience and much pleasure. He had indeed missed London. It was his home. It had taken him much less than six weeks to discover that it was no longer his heart That was in Scotland now. Not a day pa.s.sed that he didn't think of the hard Highland winter or of how Serena had warmed it. As he looked out at the crowded streets and the strollers in their walking coats and hats of the latest fas.h.i.+on, he wondered what spring was like in Glenroe. And whether Serena ever sat by the lake and thought of him.
He would have gone back weeks earlier, but his work for the Prince was taking longer than had been thought, and the results were less satisfactory than anyone had foreseen.
The Jacobites in England were great in number, but the number among them who showed eagerness to raise their sword for the untried Prince was much less. On Lord George's advice, Brigham had spoken to many groups, giving them an outline of the mood of the Highland clans and conveying what communications he had received from the Prince himself. He had ridden as far as Manchester, and had held a council as close as his own drawing room.
Each was as risky as the other. The government was uneasy, and the rumor of war with France louder than ever. Stuart sympathizers would not be suffered gladly, and active supporters would be imprisoned, at best. Memories of public executions and deportations were stil l fresh.
After six weeks he had the hope, but only the hope, that if Charles could act quickly, and begin his campaign, his English followers would join him.
They had so much to lose, Brigham thought. How well he knew it Homes, lands, t.i.tles. It was a difficult thing to fight for something as distant as a cause when you gambled your name and your fortune, as well as your life. Turning, he studied the portrait of his grandmother. His decision had already been made. Perhaps it had been made when he had still been a schoolboy, his head on her knee as she wove tales of exiled kings and a fight for justice.
It was dangerous to tarry much longer in London. The government had a way of uncovering rebels and dealing with them with nasty efficiency.
Thus far, Brigham's name had kept him above suspicion, but he knew rumors were flying. Now that war with France was once more inevitable, so was talk of a new Jacobite uprising.
Brigham had never hidden his travels to France, to Italy, to Scotland. If anyone decided to s.h.i.+ft the blocks of his last few years around, they would come up with a very interesting pattern.
So he must leave, Brigham thought, kicking a smoldering log in the dying fire. This time, he would go alone and under the cover of night.
When he returned to London next, it would be with Serena. And they would stand where he stood now and toast the true king and his regent.
He returned to Scotland for the Prince, as Serena had said. But he also returned to claim what was his. Rebellion aside, there was one battle he was determined to win.
Hours later, as Brigham was preparing to leave for a quiet evening at his club, his sober-faced butler intercepted him.
”Yes, Beeton?”
”Your pardon, my lord.” Beeton was so old one could almost hear the creak of his bones as he bowed. ”The earl of Whitesmouth requests a word with you. It seems to be a matter of some urgency.”
”Then show him up.” Brigham grimaced as Parkins fussed over his coat, looking for any sign of lint. ”Leave off, man. You'll drive me to a fit.”
”I only desire my lord to show himself to his best advantage.” ”Some of the female persuasion would argue that to do that I must strip.”
When Parkins remained stone-faced, Brigham merely sighed. ”You're a singularly humorless fellow, Parkins. G.o.d knows why I keep you.”
”Brig.” The earl of Whitesmouth, a small, smooth-faced man only a few years Brigham's senior, strode into the room, then pulled up short at the sight of the valet. It only took a glance to see that Whitesmouth was highly agitated ”That will be all for this evening, Parkins.” As if he had all the time in the world, Brigham crossed to the table by the bedroom fire and poured wine into two gla.s.ses. He waited until he heard the adjoining door click quietly shut ”What is it, Johnny?”
”We have trouble, Brig.” He accepted the gla.s.s, and downed the contents in one swallow.
”I surmised as much. Of what nature?”
Steadier for the drink, Whitesmouth continued. ”That pea-brained Miltway drank himself into a stupor with his mistress this afternoon and opened his mouth too wide for any of us to be comfortable.”
After taking a long breath, Brigham sipped and gestured to a chair. ”Did he name names?”
”We can't be sure, but it seems likely he spilled at least a few. Yours being the most obvious.”
”And his mistress... She's the redheaded dancer?”
”The hair on her head's red,” Whitesmouth stated crudely. ”She's a knowing little package, Brigham, a bit too old and too experienced for a stripling like Miltway. Trouble is, the young idiot has more money than brains.” Miltway's romantic liaisons were the last of Brigham's concerns. ”Will she keep quiet, for a bribe?”
”It's too late for that. That's why I've come. She's already pa.s.sed on some of the information, enough that Miltway's been arrested.”
Brigham swore viciously. ”Young fool.”
”The odds are keen that you'll be questioned, Brigham. If you have anything incriminating-”
”I am not that young,” Brigham interrupted as he began to think ahead.
”Nor such a fool.” He paused a moment, wanting to be certain his decision was made logically and not on impulse. ”And you, Johnny?
Will you be able to cover yourself?”
”I have urgent business on my estate.” The earl of Whitesmouth grinned.
”In fact, I have been en route several hours already.”
”The Prince will do well with men like you.”
Whitesmouth poured a second drink and toasted his friend. ”And you?”
”I'm for Scotland. Tonight.”
”Flight now will show your hand, Brig. Are you ready for that?”
”I'm weary of pretense. I stand for the Prince.”
”Then I'll wish you a safe journey, and wait for word from you.”
”G.o.d willing, I shall send it soon.” He picked up his gloves again. ”I know you've run a risk by coming to tell me when you could have been on your way. I shan't forget it.”
”The Prince has my pledge, as well,” Whitesmouth reminded him. ”I pray you won't tarry too long.” ”Only long enough. Have you told anyone else about Miltway's indiscretion?”
”That's a cool way of putting it,” Whitesmouth muttered. ”I thought it best to come to you directly.”
Brigham nodded. ”I'll spend a few hours at the club as I had planned and make certain word is pa.s.sed. You'd best get out of London before someone notes that you are not indeed en route to your estate.