Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“Stop staring at the floor,” Seth teased. “You look like you’ll burn a hole through it.”
Smoke curled through the air, mingling with the clink of glasses and low hum of laughter: acceptable vices in a place Alasdair McLoughan barely tolerated. He lounged in one of White’s high-backed leather chairs, a glass of brandy in hand.
Across from him, Seth slouched with a smirk and a glass of sherry, eyes already glassy. From the look of him, he was drinking harder than Alasdair, and the night was still young.
“I’m tryin’ to have a bit of peace an’ quiet,” Alasdair said, his voice sounding out a quiet warning.
“Here?” Seth scoffed. “You cannot be serious. You are always out. I like my drink and women, but some time at home would be welcome, too.”
“It feels far too English to bide at home,” Alasdair muttered. “That house doesnae feel like mine. It’s me name on the deed, aye, but the whole place reeks of England. Even the chairs seem to scold me, like they’re tellin’ me to sit up straight like some blasted governess.”
Seth laughed aloud. “And here I thought I was the jester. But dear friend, you are still in a place that reeks of English pomp,” he reminded his friend.
“At least it doesnae pretend it’s my place,” Alasdair explained, to which Seth shrugged his partial agreement.
“I know you, McLoughan. You don’t drag yourself to White’s just to grumble about how English your walls look. What are you really here for?” Seth asked, eyeing him over the rim of his sherry glass.
“I need the names of the lords who matter. I want those who have the power to uncover truths or even bury them. I want to ken who framed me faither. Ye ken that, Seth,” Alasdair spoke low, his voice only meant for his friend’s ears, leaning forward.
Seth straightened in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin line and brows knitting together. Alasdair could sense the weight of the moment settling on his friend.
“Are you still chasing ghosts, my friend?” he asked, looking concerned.
“Tell me, my friend. What would ye do if someone trapped yer faither, or any of yer kin? Would ye just sit back an’ hope justice comes knockin’ without liftin’ a finger?
” he gritted through his teeth. “They called him a traitor, a liar. Then they went an’ branded him a wild Highland brute who dared to dream above his station. ”
Bitterness seeped through his speech. Alasdair had had enough of people thinking the worst of them. He could take the blows he had often been dealt. However, what they did to his father was different.
And unforgivable.
Seth’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. After a moment, he nodded and rose from his chair. “Wait here,” he said, his tone brisk but not unkind.
He slipped through the smoke-filled room toward a small writing alcove near the back of White’s, where the club’s leather-bound ledgers and writing materials were kept. Moments later, he returned carrying a scrap of parchment and a quill dipped in a small inkpot.
Settling back into his seat, Seth quickly scribbled down several names in neat, confident strokes. Sliding the parchment across the table, he said, “Here are the men who hold the power you seek. But be warned; they trust few outsiders, Scots especially.”
Alasdair studied the list: the Earl of Chatham, Viscount Pennington, and several other notable names.
Each carried the weight of influence and centuries of inherited wealth—names even he recognized.
What he needed now was confirmation, and perhaps the resolve to win over men he very well might not like.
“They’ll listen. Whether they want to or nay,” Alasdair said, his tone sharp and unwavering.
“With that kind of attitude, perhaps not,” Seth commented. “We need to rehearse.”
Seth wasted no time in introducing Alasdair to the men on the list. To Alasdair, they all blended together: average height, lanky frames draped in fine but uninspired clothes, their expressions a mix of arrogant amusement and polite indifference.
They received Seth with a practiced, almost bored civility, neither openly cold nor welcoming. Their eyes flicked over Alasdair with thinly veiled curiosity, as if weighing him up but not yet deciding his worth.
“Gentlemen,” Seth began with a flourish. “May I present to you Alasdair McLoughlan, Duke of Redmoor.”
“McLoughlan? Is that a Highland name I detect?” Lord Chatham asked, lifting a brow.
“Aye,” Alasdair confirmed, keeping his voice even as he tensed; he recognized the tone Chatham used, and it was not a good one.
“Ah. Fascinating,” Lord Pennington remarked as he swirled his wine, holding his glass almost daintily. “Is it true that Highland lords are still drinking mead from horns and spend most of their time chasing sheep?”
“Ye’ve not heard, have ye? We’ve moved on to drinkin’ from glasses now. An’ our sheep—aye, they’re gettin’ schooled. Smarter than some men, they are,” he replied.
Another man further down the list, Lord Wesley, let out a sharp, high-pitched titter that cut through the low murmur of the room, his amusement thinly veiled and somewhat mocking.
Nearby, a gaunt, pale gentleman with sharp cheekbones leaned forward, his cold eyes narrowing as if probing Alasdair’s every move, radiating a quiet intensity that was far more unsettling than Wesley’s blatant laughter.
“Your Grace… I’ve heard your estate is so remote it’s home to more bears than tenants,” the gaunt man said, though Alasdair recognized the barb beneath the jest.
He expected as much. These English lords still couldn’t take Scots seriously. Yet often, jokes were a mask for fear—an attempt to mock what they didn’t understand.
“Aye, that’s the story they spin, is it? A pity it lingers. But mark me words: those bears are better company than half the men prancin’ about these halls.”
Laughter rippled around the room, but it was strained and uneasy, each side barely masking their mutual disdain.
Seth shot Alasdair a sharp warning glance.
Yet the English lords, drunk on their own arrogance, pressed on relentlessly. A powdered dandy, tightly clutching a silver-and-gold cane, finally ventured a cruel jab aimed at Alasdair’s father.
“I hear your father was quite the gambler, Your Grace,” he crooned. “Lost half a forest and a fortune—to a courtesan, no less, who was clearly in cahoots with the men at his card table.”
Time seemed to freeze. Alasdair could have sworn he heard a distant ringing, but it was more likely the roar of his own blood pounding in his ears.
In his mind, he could hear his father.
Honor above all, lad. Always.
But at that moment, all he felt was anger, deep and raging.
“Best keep me faither’s name out yer gob if ye’ve nothin’ kind to say. Unless ye fancy yer teeth stirred in with yer supper,” he growled, ensuring his tone would show that he would gladly punch his way through to get some peace.
Gasps rippled through the room. Alasdair knew his rising fury only confirmed their worst suspicions: that he was indeed the “savage” they so disparaged.
The powdered dandy with the silver-and-gold cane visibly paled.
Seth’s hand shot out, gripping Alasdair’s arm firmly, ready to hold him back if things spiraled out of control.
“Alasdair,” was all he said.
“I do mean every word,” Alasdair roared. “Ye’ll soon see what ye’ve been beggin’ for. Highland savagery isnae just some tale to scare the wee bairns at night.”
The lords now looked genuinely unsettled, eyes wide as they stared at Alasdair. Seth tugged at his arm with more insistence, and this time the Scotsman didn’t resist. He recognized the steady hand of reason in his friend.
“Come, my friend,” Seth urged quietly. “There’s no honor in actions we’ll regret come dawn.”
The moment they reached the foggy street outside White’s, Alasdair whirled around, facing Seth.
“Those are the men ye want me to beg to, Seth? Nothin’ but puffed-up fools, the lot of them!” he growled.
“Unfortunately, yes. Men of power typically have that arrogance that would make everyone else hate them. However, they do hold the keys to the doors you wish to open. I did not bring you here for nought. At least I hope not,” Seth said, sounding almost as exasperated.
“I cannae bow to anybody. It’s not in me blood,” Alasdair replied.
“I am sorry to say, Alasdair, but you must make adjustments. Sometimes, we must put our pride aside,” Seth reminded him. “There is no other way.”
Alasdair shook his head in disbelief.
That same evening, Alasdair and Seth found themselves at Lady Elsmere’s musicale, a stark contrast to the raucous tensions of White’s. The shift from chaos to calm was almost surreal, though the weight of earlier clashes lingered between them.
The drawing room was warm and softly lit, filled with perfectly poised guests seated in neat rows. A harp’s gentle notes floated through the air, adding to the genteel atmosphere.
Alasdair stood behind Seth, arms crossed, doing his best to adopt the proper manners expected of him. He was trying. For his father’s sake, for Seth’s, and for his own.
Yet despite his efforts, the truth remained: he had no desire to be here.
“Luckily, it looks like there will be less yelling, and more music tonight,” Seth said wryly.
Alasdair ignored the subtle glance that was clearly meant for him, his eyes drifting to steady himself for what might come next. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.
There she was.
The lady from the gallery.
He hadn’t expected to see her again. She looked like someone who preferred to slip away unnoticed, yet here she sat, just three rows ahead. Beside her was a younger woman with light brown hair, whispering and giggling softly. The lady from the gallery offered only a tight, strained smile.
Nearby, a few ladies glanced their way. Alasdair’s curiosity flickered to something harder—anger—as he caught the disdainful looks aimed at the two girls.
Despite the jeers, the gallery lady remained rigid. But he noticed the slight tremble of her shoulders, the subtle tension in her clenched hands resting in her lap.
Then she turned.
Their eyes met, and he caught his breath. Time slowed as they held each other’s gaze.
In that moment, the scorn of the lords and the weight of his family’s shame melted away.
Her cheeks flushed deep red, and she turned away.
But he couldn’t look away.
The music played on, but Alasdair couldn’t focus. His mind was tangled with the vision of the blonde woman, a few seats away. Her delicate nape, the loose curls framing her face…
Then, a sharp nudge from the side jolted him back.
Seth nudged him again, more pointedly this time. “You’ve got that look.”
Alasdair blinked, “What look?”
“The look,” Seth said, tilting his head toward the rows ahead. “The one that says your thoughts are very far from harp music and painfully proper soirées. You’ve been staring at the blonde three rows up like she’s a battlefield you can’t wait to charge into.”
Alasdair’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it.
Seth raised a brow. “Don’t be coy, Redmoor. Who is she?”
“A woman,” Alasdair said, his voice low but thoughtful.
He’d noticed the closeness between the gallery lady and the younger woman sitting next to her. The protective tilt of the gallery lady’s head, the way the younger held her arm.
Sisters, surely.
He hoped he was right: it meant that his gallery lady had likely had a Season or two already and, most importantly, remained unmarried.
Seth leaned back with a curious smile. “Are you planning to speak with her? I haven’t seen you take such interest in anyone since… well, since I met you.”
Alasdair gave a snort. “Nae, of course not. I’m not here for a lark, Seth. I’m here to polish up my English manners and mingle with the ‘right sort of folk,’ remember? Yer words, not mine.”
Seth sighed dramatically. “Just remember: no punching. No yelling.”
Alasdair’s grin was slow and wicked. “Nae promises, dear Seth.”