“Don’t talk about Mother that way, Vicky,” Daphne protested.
“Why? Can’t you see what she’s doing to us?” Victoria burst out. “She hardly looks at us, let alone cares for us. She’d rather parade about, spending money on gowns and jewels for herself. Do you remember last year? She vanished for months, and now she returns only to remind Lizzie and Mina—and us—that we’re burdens to be married off to strange, dreadful men. I’m only grateful Marianne found someone decent.”
“Hush, both of you. Reading Daniel’s letter ought to have been a comfort, not an excuse to quarrel,” Elizabeth said gently.
Not that it was ever truly a quarrel; Victoria’s will was simply louder, sharper. And this time, Elizabeth couldn’t disagree with her. Lady Grisham offered affection only when it suited her, when appearances demanded it.
Elizabeth stared out the window, her thoughts clouded. She only wondered… just how far would Lady Grisham go to see them all married off?
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 theweight 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.”