Chapter 7 #2
She waited. She already knew how the entrapment schemes worked.
The English government used many underhanded methods to coerce or dupe people into doing their bidding.
Maisie’s husband, Niall Campbell, was one they targeted this past year.
They held Fiona, his sister, as a prisoner without ever charging her with a crime.
Aidan continued. “Wemys has, or had, a talent for insinuating himself into the circle of trust in the society of reformers. He would put forward plans for acts of violence, plans developed by Sir Rupert Burney and other scoundrels working for Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary.”
“And I know the outcome,” Morrigan responded.
“The plot gets ‘miraculously’ discovered, the leaders arrested, and the orchestrated disaster thwarted. The event—as well as the subsequent public outcry—is then used to justify tougher laws and more restrictions on people’s right to gather and protest.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re well-informed about their tactics.”
“I lost my father to these villains.”
Silence hung between them for a heartbeat. Morrigan didn’t want his pity, however. She motioned to him to continue. “And you think this . . . relation of mine can help?”
“In past cases, by the time the accused radicals have arrived in court, Wemys and others like him were long gone, squirreled away in a new place, with a new name, and with a new plan to ruin some other group of trusting idealists.”
“And you say he is now willing to testify on your client’s behalf?”
“I believe he is.” Aidan plucked a remaining petal from a nearby rose. “He promises to tell the truth.”
“But you said he didn’t set up the Chattans himself.”
“He didn’t. But he knows who did. He can provide names and dates and where the agent provocateur was sent after the arrests. Wemys’s testimony will be crucial.”
Morrigan had no doubt Aidan Grant was a capable barrister.
“When I met your . . . met Wemys, he said he didn’t care to be sent to the Cape colony in Africa,” Aidan continued. “He asked me to protect him in return for his testimony. Now, however, I know it was because he’s dying. I think he’s known it for some time.”
Morrigan recalled the momentary shudder that ran through her when Isabella mentioned cancer. She knew it was not a good way to die. But that was before she knew the devil himself lay in that bed.
Aidan’s grey eyes focused on her face. “I’m asking you to let him be. Let him live until his sickness takes him.”
“I’m not an assassin, Mr. Grant.”
“I saw the way you attacked that pell in the training yard.”
Morrigan wasn’t sure if his words were spoken in seriousness or in jest. “Assassins kill without passion. And as you now know, I do have a temper.”
“Tell me why you were following him in Inverness.”
Morrigan considered but then dismissed the possibility of an evasion. She doubted the barrister would let her be until he had a satisfactory answer. She shrugged. “I thought I recognized him. I wanted to be sure.”
“Do you hold him responsible for your father’s death?”
“No,” she replied truthfully.
“Then why the dagger? Why try to kill him?”
“That’s what you thought?” Feint, sidestep. “I was walking in a deserted alleyway in a dangerous seaport town with no escort. Don’t you think it reasonable to be ready for any possible threat?”
“You could have explained this to me when—”
“Explained to you? To a stranger?” Parry, lunge. “You attacked me, sir.”
“I knocked the knife out of your hand.”
“In my eyes, you were a brute, showing up suddenly from behind, physically assaulting me.”
“You nearly unmanned me.”
“And you caused this.” She pointed to her mouth and chin.
He jerked a thumb toward his swollen eye. “I didn’t come by this banging my head against the wall.”
Morrigan and Aidan glared at each other.
“How convenient. Just the two I hoped to find.”
They turned in unison, surprised by the sound of another voice. Isabella stood, medical bag over her shoulder, near enough to have heard their discussion.
“Is this true, Mr. Grant? You are responsible for the bruise on Morrigan’s face?”
Isabella’s tone was sharp enough that Morrigan feared she might order Blair to throw Aidan into the dungeons.
“I confess that I am responsible.”
“He’s not.” Morrigan turned to him. “You’re not at fault for this at all.”
“But I am. Clearly and regrettably.”
She ignored him and turned to Isabella instead. “There’s an explanation. Mr. Grant misunderstood my intentions. He thought I planned to do harm to someone.”
“I know now that Miss Drummond was seeing to business of her own. I’m entirely at fault.”
“You, sir, have obviously not visited Dalmigavie’s cells,” she hissed under her breath at him. She turned back to Isabella. “He didn’t hurt me. I tripped and fell. But it’s true, we fought.”
“We didn’t need to. It was wrong of me to interfere.”
Morrigan couldn’t understand why he was being so deucedly agreeable. “It’s completely justifiable to interfere when one sees a person draw a knife on a deserted street. I’d say that’s a reasonable cause for alarm.”
“Not if that person is a woman. You were rightfully concerned when you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. I’ll not have you take the blame for this. You were in the right. I was wrong.”
“But you simply knocked the knife out of my hand. I kicked you in the . . . the . . .” She wanted to motion toward his groin area but thought better of it.
Isabella cleared her voice, drawing their attention back to her. She stared at Morrigan, then at Aidan, and then back at her again.
“I suggest you two agree on a story. A good story. A plausible story. Then tell it to anyone who asks.” She shook her head in disbelief and walked away.
Neither said anything until Isabella went into the castle through a door leading to the kitchens.
“I have it,” Aidan said, breaking the silence. “A company of British dragoons. Dozens of them. All drunk. They cornered us. You used your knife. I used my fists.”
With a story like that, Morrigan knew she’d never be able to leave her room, never mind the castle grounds.
“It would be best if you allowed me to handle this. You, sir, cannot be trusted.”