Chapter Six
THE SHEEP’S HEAD Alehouse at the bottom of Candlemaker Row was not the sort of inn frequented by the aristocracy, most of whom had fled the narrow, crowded passageways of Edinburgh’s Old Town many years before.
It was dark, cramped and smelled strongly of tobacco and stale beer.
A man would not recognize his own mother in the gloom, and if he did he would be shocked to find her there.
Which was exactly why Wilfred Cardross had chosen it.
He had also changed his usual flamboyant style of dress for something a little less obvious.
It was one of the reasons he was in a bad mood; he hated not to be the center of attention.
The other reason the earl was tapping his fingers irritably on the battered wooden table was that his guest was late.
He disliked being kept waiting. It was not appropriate to a man of his elevated station in life.
So when Mr. Stuart Pardew slipped into the seat opposite, he greeted him with an ostentatious checking of his pocket watch and no offer of refreshment.
Mr. Pardew seemed completely oblivious of the earl’s ill temper.
He shook the rain from his cloak and stretched his legs toward the fire with a contented sigh.
He raised a hand to summon the servant and ordered a tankard of ale.
He looked thoughtfully at the earl’s near-empty glass and then failed to offer him a refill.
As soon as the bartender had gone, Cardross pushed his glass aside and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“Well?” he demanded.
Mr. Pardew looked at him blandly. He had a round, open face, reminiscent of a friendly dog. It was his greatest asset in a life of crime because he looked so honest that no one ever suspected him.
“Methven means to wed one of the MacMorlan sisters,” he said.
Cardross’s mouth pinched. “Will that hold up in court?”
Pardew shrugged. “Kirkward thinks it will. Descent is through the female line. He is certain he can make the case.” He took a long draw on his pint of ale and smacked his lips appreciatively.
Cardross looked pained. Silence fell. Pardew, the earl thought, measured every drop of information for its value.
He burrowed in the pocket of his cloak and took out a bag.
It clinked softly as it landed on the table.
For a moment Pardew’s eyes gleamed, revealing the true depth of his cupidity.
“Which sister?” Cardross said softly. He leaned closer.
Pardew took his time. “Lady Lucy,” he said. “Neither of the others is eligible under the terms of the treaty.”
Cardross sat back. He felt obscurely relieved. “Lucy will never agree,” he said. “She is set against marriage.” Everyone knew that Lucy MacMorlan had refused endless suitors.
Pardew yawned. “Then Methven will do whatever he has to do to persuade her.” He tilted his head slightly and looked thoughtfully at Cardross. “He is ruthless in protecting his inheritance. You know that.”
Cardross did know. From the moment that Robert Methven had returned to take up his estates, he had been single-minded in restoring the lands his grandfather had so systematically run down.
Cardross cursed him for it. The old marquis had been so neglectful that Cardross’s men had easily been able to take some cattle here, annex some land there.
They had burned villages and pillaged crops without redress.
Then Robert Methven had returned. The very next raid had met with a vicious response that had sent Cardross’s clansmen back with their tails between their legs.
“Something must be done.” Cardross was thinking aloud. “I cannot rely on fate to remove Methven’s bride a second time.”
“Too risky,” Pardew agreed, his eyes on the bag of money.
“Indeed. But I cannot do anything too obvious.” There was a plaintive note in Cardross’s voice at the trouble Robert Methven was causing him. “The Duke of Forres is a rich and influential man. I cannot afford to alienate him.”
“Perhaps you could marry Lady Lucy yourself.” Pardew looked bland again. “If you could manage that.”
Cardross looked at him sharply but could detect no sarcasm in Pardew’s expression.
“Lady Lucy would never consent,” he said. “She hates me.”
“That is most unfortunate,” Pardew agreed. For a second Cardross could have sworn he saw a spark of mockery in the other man’s eyes. “I am afraid, my lord, that you may have to accustom yourself to getting your hands dirty after all. All in aid of the greater good, of course.”
Cardross shuddered. Getting his hands dirty literally or metaphorically was simply not his style, but he thought Pardew was probably correct.
“Find some men who can arrange an abduction,” he said. “Men experienced in—”
“Violence, my lord?” Pardew said affably.
Cardross shook his head. How Pardew liked to try and provoke him. “Men experienced in kidnapping,” he said, “but with sufficient self-control not to damage the goods.”
“Ah,” Pardew said, the light of understanding breaking in his eyes. “I see.” He paused, looking at the bag of money again. “That will cost a great deal, my lord. The kidnapping is easy, the self-control very expensive.”
“Of course,” Cardross said wearily. He pushed the bag of coins across the table and Pardew pocketed it in one swift move, like a spider gobbling its prey.
“Thank you, my lord,” Pardew said with deceptive deference.
“Does Methven show any sign of visiting Golden Isle?” Cardross asked.
Pardew put down his tankard. Suddenly the expression in his eyes was very bright and very sharp.
“No, my lord,” he said.
“I need more information for my contact there,” Cardross said.
“Ah.” Pardew looked resigned. “That will need a little more...financing. The king’s officers are, unsurprisingly, very careful in whom they place their trust.”
Cardross smothered a curse. More money. It always came down to more money.
Grudgingly he pushed another money bag across the table to Pardew, who turned so that his back was to the room. He loosened the drawstring. Cardross saw the flash of gold.
“It’s all there,” he said irritably. “Though if you wish to count it like a damned moneylender, pray do so.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Pardew said. He was smiling genially. The second bag disappeared into his pocket, following the first. Cardross heard the chink of coin against the wooden table leg.
“That is very satisfactory, my lord,” Pardew said. “I will have some information for you to pass on to your contact very soon.” He drained his tankard and stood. “Such a pleasure doing business with Your Lordship.”
After Pardew had gone out, Cardross ordered another brandy and stared half-drunk into the fire.
A vague sense of self-pity plagued him. It seemed so unfair that he had gambled away his fortune and was now obliged to sell secrets to the French in order to pay his debts.
He was not at all clear how he had got into such a difficult situation.
It was even more unfair that the lucrative sidelines he had developed in the northern isles, selling island men and boys into the slavery of the navy press-gangs, smuggling, would be put at risk if ever Robert Methven chose to take back his northern territories. Cardross lived in fear of that day.
If he wed Lady Lucy MacMorlan he would not only thwart Methven’s latest round of marriage plans, but he would also gain Lucy’s sixty thousand pounds. Greed curdled in him at the thought. He needed that money. He deserved it.
He would have to act fast. Fortunately he had been farsighted enough to plant a spy in the Duke of Forres’s household a long time before. Now it was time for the woman to earn her money.
* * *
“MY DEAR, THERE is nothing remotely inappropriate in it.” Lady Kenton rested a reassuring hand on Lucy’s arm.
“Why, the practice of massage has a long and noble history as a medical and therapeutic treatment. All the ancient civilizations embraced it.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice so that the other members of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society could not overhear them.
They were taking tea in the conservatory at Durness Castle.
The chink of china and the babble of conversation rose to the glass roof and filled the air.
“My practitioner, Anton, was trained by a Swedish physician, Dr. Ling,” Lady Kenton said. “He is an expert. I recommend him to you.” She sat back and took a sip of her tea.
Lucy fidgeted with her teaspoon, avoiding Lady Kenton’s eye.
Her godmother was a fellow member of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society and was the most reassuringly respectable of ladies, but Lucy could not quite eradicate the idea that massage was decidedly improper.
The thought of a man’s hands on her body, and that man not even her husband, was truly shocking.
Except that her shoulder and her back ached badly from too much writing and she was desperate to find a remedy.
“He is medically trained, you say,” she repeated cautiously.
Lady Kenton smiled. “Indeed he is. He is practically a doctor himself. And should you have any further qualms, my love, let me tell you that Anton is not a man who...” she paused delicately “...is interested in women, if you take my point. Besides, your maid would be present to preserve the proprieties. I can send him to you this evening, if you wish. He accompanies me everywhere.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. “Well, that sounds very helpful.” Lady Kenton’s traveling entourage was legendary. On every outing of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society, Her Ladyship was accompanied by her own pastry chef, her laundry maid, a manicurist, a hairdresser and now a masseur.
Lucy flexed her fingers. “I confess I am in a great deal of discomfort from holding my quill. My shoulder aches incessantly.”
“What are you writing at the moment?” Lady Kenton inquired. She refilled the china cups and passed one to Lucy. “Last time we met you were working on a treatise on Shakespeare’s sonnets. How is that progressing?”