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  While they waited for Joubert to return, James offered Lord Staverton wine. Wordlessly, as he tossed his wet cloak on the back of a chair, the viscount nodded agreement. Then he stood before the fire rubbing life back into his cold fingers. James pulled up a second chair for him and they sat.

  “How long are you quartered here?” Staverton asked conversationally.

  “Until campaigning begins again. A few weeks, no more.”

  “How do you stand it?” the viscount murmured, withdrawing an enameled snuffbox from one pocket and flicking it open with a practiced turn of his wrist. He offered it first to his friend.

  James shook his head, then laughed shortly. “I’ve lived in worse places.”

  “That hardly seems possible.” As he looked around at the simple furnishings and bare plank walls, Staverton absently took a pinch of snuff and inhaled. “You could be in Vienna or Madrid, James. Why here?”

  Pent-up anger flashed in MacLonan’s hard blue eyes. “You know why!”

  Staverton contemplated his wine glass. “You found yourself in exile because you fought in the rebellion. Your brother was killed and your aging, chronically ill father was imprisoned. That does not explain why you took service with the French.”

  “Damn you, Staverton!” James crashed his glass on the table. Wine sloshed over the edge on to the scarred tabletop. “You know what went on in Scotland after the rebellion. You know about the slaughter at Culloden and reprisals through the Highlands that followed!”

  “Yes, I know!” The lazy, indolent manner fell from Staverton as easily as he’d shed his wet cloak. Beneath lay a hard, determined man, far colder and much more calculating than James MacLonan. “I know because I was there! I fought at Culloden, James. I was on the Prince’s staff and I saw the clansmen fall. I fled the field with our inglorious leader, but before I did I watched our men die. I’ve no love for King George or the Whigs who support him, but I am well aware that they are not the English people.”

  At his words, James stiffened. “I meant no disrespect, Staverton. I know there were Englishmen who supported the Prince as faithfully as the clans did.”

  Staverton accepted that with a brief nod. He eyed his friend shrewdly. “I think you feel guilty that you were not with the Prince at the end.”

  James toyed with the wine glass. “I would have been at Culloden if I could.”

  “Then you would have died beside your brother.”

  “It was not my decision to leave Scotland!”

  “No, it was mine and Neil’s and your father’s.” Staverton’s voice softened and his expression warmed. “You were grievous wounded, James, when we put you on board that ship bound for France. We all knew by then that the Prince was not capable of leading us to victory. Neil and your father… they knew the future would be uncertain. If the Whigs won, exile would be the only way for those Jacobites who fought for the Prince to survive. You were in no state to be able to move quickly. They wanted you safe, MacLonan. So we smuggled you on board a ship sailing to France when you were too weak to protest. It was for the best.”

  “It has cursed me,” James muttered.

  They were interrupted by Joubert, who crept into the hovel, bringing with him a gust of cold, damp wind.

  “Shut the door, you fool!” James snarled. Since taking up his commission he’d found it expedient to slip into the prevailing manners of his brother officers, even though he knew they were wrong.

  Joubert made haste to obey. “The horse is stabled, milord,” he whined, slinking along the wall toward the little back room.

  “Good. Then get upstairs and take your family with you,” James ordered. “And shut the trap behind you. I don’t want you eavesdropping on my conversation!”

  “Of course, milord. I wouldn’t think of it, milord.” He bowed low, almost scraping the floor. Guilt gnawed at James. The little attic room had no heat and damn little space for two adults and three children. To force his French hosts up into that tiny enclosure was a cruelty he disliked, but what Staverton had to say to him was private. Although they were speaking English, he would take no chances that Joubert might overhear and understand what was being said tonight.

  Staverton waited in silence until Joubert and his family were safely locked away. Then he reached into one pocket and pulled out a letter. “Your father asked me to deliver this.”

  James considered the sealed parchment. Mail from England was slow, but it did get through. It was read by both governments, of course, to be sure no state secrets were being communicated, but James and his father were not in the habit of exchanging bits of political news.

  “Are you mad, Staverton? You were only pardoned a few months ago! Why jeopardize your freedom now?” His face twisted as he turned the paper in his hand. “Or did you so enjoy those months you spent wandering about Europe acting the fop and proving to the Whigs how very unthreatening you could be, that you are prepared to do it again?”

  A little smile twitched the viscount’s hard mouth. “You are closer than you know, MacLonan.”

  “You were given a pardon, Staverton. Your exile was lifted. You were able to go home. Because I was serving in the French army, I was exempted from the general pardon. France and England are at war and to English minds, I am twice a traitor, first for joining the Pretender’s rebellion, then by throwing in my lot with France. But you! Why risk your freedom for,”—he held up the thin parchment—“for this!”

  “Read it,” suggested the viscount gently. “Then we can talk.”

  James scrutinized his friend’s face, but Staverton was a past master at masking his expression. Finding no answer there, MacLonan broke open the seal. It took him some minutes to grasp the contents of the letter because he had to read the shaking scrawl several times before he’d believe what he saw on the paper. He looked up, his thick, dark brows drawn tight in a frown. “You know what is written here?”

  Staverton nodded. “Not the actual words, of course. But your father and I discussed the subject before he composed the letter.”

  “He thinks he can arrange a special pardon for me. He wants me to resign my commission.”

  The viscount nodded again.

  “How,” James demanded, “does he expect to acquire this special pardon? Why would the Whigs agree to a pardon for me now? I’m still fighting for France. To them I remain the traitor I was a few months ago.”

  “Money.” Staverton laughed. “He’ll buy you a pardon.”

  “From whom?” James retorted incredulously. The Whigs in Whitehall were no more—and no less—corrupt than any other government of their day, but the rebellion had frightened them badly. For some Scottish rebels, no amount of money could buy them a pardon.

  Staverton leaned forward, his hazel eyes compelling. “Listen to me, MacLonan! The Prince of Wales and the King are feuding again and the Prince is short of funds. If you will but make an appearance of repentance, the pardon is yours! Rumor has it that peace talks to end this damnable war will begin in weeks. Resign your commission now, before that occurs, and people will assume you’ve come to your senses and refuse to fight on the side of England’s enemies.”

  “So simple,” James mocked. “And what am I to do until the pardon is bought?”

  Staverton hesitated, then grinned. “Come with me on a Grand Tour of Europe.”

  MacLonan shot him a sardonic look. “What you mean is, we must grace the salons of every fashionable idiot on the Continent!”

  “And see the sights. Visit museums. MacLonan, the Grand Tour is a perfectly respectable way for a man of your education and breeding to pass a year or more without an eyebrow raised or a question asked.”

  James downed his wine, then restlessly moved to refill his glass. The bottle was empty. He banged it down onto the scarred surface of the crude table and rose. Surefooted in the dim light, he crossed the room to retrieve another bottle. Staverton waited silently, allowing James to mull over the situation before he made a decision.

  When he
returned with the open bottle, James filled his glass and the viscount’s before sitting heavily on the wooden chair. “I hear Glenmuir was burned by the English after Culloden.”

  “The Whigs wanted to ensure that another rebellion did not occur. We frightened them, MacLonan, with our march into England.” Staverton’s voice grew wistful. “We came so close…” He shook himself and became brisk once more. “The reprisals were brutal. No one can deny that. Innocent clansmen transported or hung, women raped, homes and lands burned. The laws now forbid the speaking of Gaelic, wearing the tartan, or bearing arms. The Whigs are determined that a Jacobite host will never again march out of Scotland toward London.”

  “Forbidding men to wear the tartan will not stop them from hating the English. Nor will a law prevent them from keeping their arms. They’ll just bury them the way they did before.” James moved restlessly. “The estate needs a master, someone to take the rebuilding in hand to bring prosperity back to it. The clan also needs a leader.”

  “Your father cannot do it. When he was freed from prison he gave his parole that he would not go to Glenmuir. The terms of his freedom have not changed. He’s now allowed to stay in Edinburgh, rather than in London, but…”

  “Will this pardon give me any more freedom than my father’s has? Will it allow me to live in the Highlands?”

  “I don’t know,” Staverton said honestly. “Your father wants to see you back in Scotland. He feels the lack of a master at Glenmuir keenly. The steward there, Gregor MacLonan, does his best to manage the lands and the people, but he’s not the clan chief. Or his son.”

  “I know that!” James retorted impatiently. “But to return, only to be an exile in England—”

  “Is being an exile in France any better?” the viscount countered.

  “Damn you, Staverton, you’ve always had a smooth way with words, especially when it suits your own ends.” The comment was a bitter one, but there was a soft shading of amusement in MacLonan’s voice.

  “This is your chance, James, take it! If you do not, you will remain an exile for the rest of your life. Your father’s estates will be forfeited on his death and, I’m sure, so will his fortune. Listen to me. To return is no crime. Others have already done so. The terms of the pardon may force you to live in London for a few years to prove your reliability, but they may not. Think, MacLonan. You are needed at home, not wasting your life as a mercenary for France!”

  James stared bleakly into the fire, considering possibilities and probabilities. Finally, he looked over at his friend. A smile lightened the grim planes of his face. “A year or so of gawking at bad paintings and playing the fool at society parties. If Whitehall only knew the sacrifices I am willing to make for this damned pardon, they’d allow me to return to Glenmuir immediately!”

  Staverton laughed and raised his wine glass. “To the future.”

  James looked at the wine in his glass, then slowly followed suit. “To the future.”

  Chapter 2

  Edinburgh, Scotland,

  February 1750

  Grant MacLonan thumped his cane. He was sitting in one of the solid wing chairs that filled the drawing room. He had no use for the delicate furnishings in the style made popular by Louis the fifteenth of France. Grant labeled them spindly and not made for a man to sit in. He preferred comfort to fashion.

  “Jamie! Will you do me the honor of paying attention to me when I talk?”

  James returned to the present with a start. “I’m sorry, sir. I was thinking of other things. You were saying?”

  Grant shot his son a shrewd look from beneath bushy white brows. “I was speaking of Judge Denholm and advising you that he was a useful man to know.”

  James drank wine and considered the form of Judge Denholm’s power. “He attracts the best of Whig society, does he?”

  “Aye, he does, Jamie, and there is no reason for you to be contemptuous of it. Denholm believes in Scotland, but he’s no fool. He’s not about to cast in his lot with a quick-talking weakling.”

  James looked at his father. The expression in his blue eyes had hardened perceptibly. “I will not deny there were many who followed Charles Edward Stuart because of his charm and his way with words, but there were those of us who chose to support him because of what he stood for.” James tossed off the claret in the glass in one smooth, angry movement.

  Grant sighed. “Jamie, do you still adhere to the Pretender?”

  James pushed away from the mantel. He crossed impatiently over to the table holding the decanter of wine. “No,” he said curtly, concentrating on pouring himself another glass. It was a suitable excuse not to look at his father.

  “I’m glad,” Grant said simply. “The Stuarts have claimed enough MacLonan blood.”

  James’s hand tightened around the neck of the crystal bottle. A sharp, angry retort hovered on his lips. For the thirty years prior to the Rebellion, a wily Grant MacLonan had kept his clan free from the constant political struggle between Jacobite and Whig that had torn Scotland apart. It had taken his son Neil, hotheaded and stubborn, to embroil the MacLonan clan in war. The decision by Neil and James to support Bonnie Prince Charlie had driven a wedge between father and sons and created a rift that had taken death and exile to mend.

  The arrival of the Viscount Staverton saved James from uttering words that he would later have regretted. As usual, Staverton was able to assess the situation quickly and accurately. He interjected smoothly, “Since the Prince was exiled from France and decided to travel incognito about Europe, he has lost the respect of most of the Jacobites who were long-time supporters of the Stuart cause. I doubt that he would be able to raise another army if he returned to Britain again.”

  James carefully put the decanter back on the table. His knuckles were white, he noticed. Slowly, as he released his stranglehold on the container, the skin started to return to a more normal color. “Any man who clings to a belief the Stuarts would make better kings of Britain than German George is blind, or a fool.”

  “Alas, too true,” Staverton murmured.

  Grant shifted in his padded chair. “Aye. Bonnie Prince Charlie never fulfilled the promise he once showed.”

  James snorted. “I sometimes think the fellow became deranged during his months on the run in the Highlands.” He moved to a chair opposite his father’s and flung himself into it. “Since Louis of France threw him out, he’s been acting as if the English have a price on his head.”

  “They do,” Grant observed mildly. “Thirty thousand pounds, I believe.”

  James scowled at the glass in his hand, then suddenly grinned. “And what would they do if they caught him? Hang him? That would do the Stuart cause more good than leaving the Prince alive and free to make sane men more scornful with every one of his mad acts.”

  Staverton stirred restlessly in his comfortable chair. “Let us hope that no one in the government has the opportunity to put the idea to the test. Let the Prince continue his games. He is having a wonderful time using disguises, calling himself by aliases, and deliberately obscuring his movements. While we were in Europe one could never be certain whether or not he might turn up at a party or in a museum. It became very wearing.”

  “It was damned annoying,” James growled. “It is all very well for the Pretender to call himself Chevalier Douglas or Mr. Smith, or some such nonsense, and indulge in a game of hide-and-seek to assuage his pride, but it does his cause no good. No, King George and the Whigs don’t want to capture him. They’re too shrewd not to realize the Prince is his own worst enemy.”

  “I’m sure they would like to know exactly where he is, however,” Grant said tartly.

  Staverton said musingly, “Europe certainly buzzed with the Prince’s diverting antics. I understand that there has been much correspondence speculating on exactly where he is and what he might be doing.”

  “As long as he is harmlessly racketing about Europe, hatching one fantastic plot after another, there’s no need to worry.” James’s mouth tight
ened into a thin line. “And I pray he remains in Europe! If he is fool enough to return to Scotland…” He didn’t finish the thought. There was no need to. They all knew Scotland could not sustain another war like that of ‘45. This time England’s reprisals would be even bloodier than before.

  James downed the claret and stood up, his movements abrupt, decisive.

  “You’re going to Denholm’s?” Grant asked.

  James raised one dark eyebrow. “Was that ever in doubt, sir?”

  Slowly, Grant shook his head. His gaze ran over his son’s careless dress and he said briskly, “When you’ve donned your coat and a proper wig, come down and fetch me here. Lord Staverton will keep me company while I wait.”

  James frowned. Grant rarely stirred from his comfortable residence these days, and almost never for a mere social evening. James hadn’t expected him to be going to Denholm’s soiree. “Surely, sir, that is not necessary—”

  “Not necessary?” Grant bellowed, thumping his cane for emphasis. “Indeed, sir, it is! Do you think I would not bestir myself to see my son properly launched in Edinburgh society?”

  James grinned. He was not the only stubborn MacLonan.

  *

  The rooms in which Judge Denholm held his soiree were large, lofty, and despite the frosty temperature out of doors, overly warm. Dozens of beeswax candles provided a soft, mellow light, but added to the heat generated by a hundred silk-and-velvet-clad bodies. The atmosphere was redolent of fragrant perfumes, smoky beeswax, and earthy human sweat.

  Neither the heat of the room nor the pungent aroma detracted from the enjoyment of Denholm’s many guests. Conversation was animated and voices were raised in laughter or to emphasize one point or another. In the background, often drowned out, a violin quartet played a pleasant harmony. Good French wine flowed freely, and set apart in one of the elegantly decorated rooms, a buffet table was loaded with the exquisite concoctions the judge’s French cook had labored over for days.