Chapter 4
The house being large, Lochranza had part of a wing to herself, her own domain. Interaction between herself and her uncle was distant and polite. And yet she wanted to know him better, to understand what he did, why he had visitors in the dead of night, why great men beat a path to his door.
On those nights when a storm had hold of her mind, when tentacles of memory resurrected scenes she’d prefer to forget, she watched the comings and goings. Listening in to their conversations helped her ignore a dark night, a horrible scene that made her heart thud against her ribcage.
Her uncle and his secretive visitors incarcerated themselves in the library. The small room next to the library was used primarily for storage. The walls were thin and cracked in places, though not big enough to see in. But she could listen.
Mrs Mackintosh had once told her that she would never be proficient with a needle and thread, nor watercolours. But her knowledge of literature and history was exemplary.
‘You will either end up as Queen of England, or a spinster, more interested in books and maps than marrying a man of means.’
For some reason, Mrs Mackintosh regarded either possibility as something of a failure. Marrying a man of means was far above either.
Talk of trade, war and the negotiating of one country with another fascinated Lochranza, but also made her hungry to hear more, to be involved, to discuss exactly what was going on and who was scheming behind whose back, who was likely to be bankrupt if they didn’t stop their gambling, and how a mighty man could possibly fall for the pretty charms of a stage actress.
Intrigue, diplomacy and general skulduggery seemed odd bedfellows.
Hearing her uncle discussing the international situation and how the information to hand might be used thrilled her.
Blackmail. That was the word. Blackmail led to control, and it seemed her uncle, on behalf of the country, was adept at using this sly and rather cruel method. Lochranza wanted to know more.
One of the visitors showered praise on his ideas. ‘It’s no wonder His Majesty says that you are his eyes and ears in the outside world. A spymaster of note!’
Spymaster! The very word thrilled her.
I could do that, she thought to herself. I could be my uncle’s eyes and ears.
Women were frilly silly things. That was how most people – especially men – regarded them.
If they thought about it, they would realise that gossip was information, that feigning innocence or stupidity, women could gather information more easily than men.
Nobody suspected them, simply because they were women.
By being women, using womanly wiles, they could influence men.
My goodness, if they really thought about it…
So where could she start to become what he was?
Tonight might give her that chance. Tonight, a ball was being held in honour of esteemed guests. Some of them were of national fame. Some not quite so, but all were rich. With little exception, all regarded women as mere decoration, not gatherers of information or manipulators of thought.
Tonight, she thought, her eyes shining as she prepared for the evening ahead.
Her maid’s light touch did little to erase her confusing thoughts but did bring some control to her heavy auburn hair, tresses too glossy to be easily tamed.
‘You could end up with a fiancé tonight,’ said her maid, her voice laced with excitement.
‘Hmm.’ Lochranza eyed her reflection thoughtfully.
‘Let’s be honest, my uncle is not giving this ball purely for my benefit.
Neither will he attend it for long.’ She didn’t go into details but knew he would retire to his study with his titled and powerful friends.
It was in there that the greater excitement would occur.
* * *
In the ballroom, the light from a thousand candles was reflected in gilt-framed mirrors that swept from floor to ceiling, the best dressed, the most beautiful, the best educated, but not necessarily the most intelligent, raised crystal glasses, greeted, flattered, observed and flaunted their jewels.
Men of means, some stout, some thin, some with faces that were rippled with veins, played the gentleman to ladies with deep, shallow, pert or no cleavage at all.
Ostensibly, this was a ball where the social elite had gathered to preen and propagate by means of marrying off their offspring.
Eligible young ladies tittered and blushed so that young men should be in no doubt of their unworldly disposition.
Bachelors, not all in the first flush of youth but eligible by virtue of their money, their estates and other property they held with the tenacity of a fox with a spring lamb in its jaw.
Silks, satins, muslins and lace, cravats, jabots, heaving bosoms and high-heeled shoes; there was little difference between the materials used to clothe the elite who looked and acted as though they would be in command forever.
Clothes were only an outer display. Attraction could not settle on brocade and lace alone.
Lord Ethan MacKinnon moved among them with the elegant grace of a leopard seeking his prey. No flowery pomade held his hair tight to his head or made his whiskers froth in frizzy curls. Only at the base of his neck did his hair escape any semblance of order, springing into finger-deep profusion.
His complexion was rugged and more akin to that of a man from the lower orders than of a scion who was rumoured to own a vast tract of Virginia, in addition to being heir to the ancestral home in Scotland.
The result of a past duel scarred his right cheek, giving a slightly sardonic downturn to one side of his face.
To a discerning eye, it was obvious that his healthy colour looked to have benefitted from his seagoing exploits and the outdoor life he was rumoured to lead in the thick forests and virgin lands in the colonies.
‘They say he consorts with Indians,’ the dowagers whispered over the heads of their daughters and granddaughters, warning in their tone, youthful memories making their eyes sparkle.
On enquiring exactly what was meant by ‘consorting’, their young charges were instructed not to trouble their silly little heads.
‘He indulges in masculine pursuits. Hunting and fishing,’ they whispered.
‘I hear he maps the terrain,’ offered another.
‘Many gentlemen like going out into the wild places to collect flora and fauna.’
The young ladies didn’t care what he collected or what he did when fraternising with the Indians. His presence intrigued. Nobody knew for sure how he’d come by the scar on his cheek, but it made him look very distinguished and even slightly wicked and therefore intriguing.
Ethan MacKinnon was an enigma, wealthy, though with a careless reputation and an air of not really caring what people might think of him. It was known that he harboured a polite disdain for society, the London season and country house gatherings.
So why was he here?
Tonight he was being as intriguing as ever, drawing attention and whispered comments behind raised hands, on account of the fact that he had arrived at the ball in the company of a man of colour.
‘Surely he shouldn’t be here,’ remarked Lady Lakeland, her upper lip slapping like a landed fish against her prominent teeth.
Lochranza heard her remark. ‘Ask him.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lady Lakeland looked shocked at the suggestion.
‘Ask him,’ said Lochranza. ‘If you’re too afraid to ask him, then I will.’
Lady Lakeland threw her open fan in front of her face. ‘Oh, my word. My word! And where is his lordship? Has he left you to play hostess all by yourself?’
Her response was instant. ‘He’s presently in the library in the company of Arthur Wellesley.’
There were gasps of delight at the fact that Arthur Wellesley, recently promoted from general to field marshal following his victory at the Battle of Vitoria, was in the house.
‘In the same house as a black man?’ ventured the Marchioness of Minsterworth, a lady of the same age and outlook as Lady Lakeland. She looked quite horrified.
Lochranza considered Lady Lakeland’s remark distasteful and also uninformed.
‘That black man is Nathaniel Wells. He happens to be Lord Lieutenant of Monmouthshire and Master of the Chepstow Hunt.’
Both the marchioness and Lady Lakeland frowned, and their ringlets bounced. Fans fluttered like butterflies keen to retreat from the prospect of being singed.
Lady Lochranza Margaret Kildare was only eighteen years old, but of strong character and thus too forthright for Lady Lakeland’s taste.
‘But he’s decidedly touched with the tar brush—’ Lady Lakeland began.
‘He’s a gentleman! And I believe my uncle knows him well. So do a number of other like-minded people.’
‘People? What kind of people?’ The marchioness was a redoubtable matron with thick hips and slightly protruding eyes.
Coupled with a rosebud mouth and red cheeks, she had the waxy look of a Dutch doll, one of the sort with a china face and a well-stuffed body.
Her bushy eyebrows were of similar shade to the profusion of bluish-grey feathers she wore in her hair.
Lochranza lowered her voice and held her hand before her mouth; the actions of one person betraying a secret to another. ‘Let me first say that my uncle knows him well, but there is much more to it than that. Think of a pyramid, my uncle situated on the east slope, a small distance from the peak.’
The face of the marchioness rounded in surprise, her hairy eyebrows, as prominent as bat’s wings, flapping as though about to take off. ‘You mean…?’ she rasped as vocally as she dared.
Lochranza rasped her reply. ‘The very top.’
The top meant the king himself.
The marchioness slapped a palm onto her heaving chest. Lady Lakeland looked more sceptical than the marchioness, but not for long.