Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9) Read online

  Alec folded himself into a chair, resting his hands on his knees, trying to be patient while Mrs. Reynolds thanked Lady Flora for her generosity, and Lady Flora again praised her performance.

  When the play of dear friend being kind to dear friend was at last finished, Mrs. Reynolds gave Alec a knowing look and began.

  “I am not sure I discovered anything of use to you, Mr. Finn,” she said. Lady Flora had decreed at the outset that they should always use Alec’s assumed name, in case a servant might happen to hear and repeat any part of Lord Alec Mackenzie, even inadvertently. “I stayed with Lady Westwood, in her husband’s house, which lies between Cambridge and Newmarket. A regiment of Foot are billeted there—her husband, Sir Amos, has a large property, and the regiment uses outbuildings on the far edge of the estate. Lady Westwood will certainly not have soldiers in the house.”

  She and Lady Flora exchanged a look and a smile, old friends discussing people they’d known for years. “Certainly not,” Lady Flora agreed.

  “But the commander is often invited for supper, being a crony of Sir Amos. He and Sir Amos discuss many a military matter, as Sir Amos served in the same regiment until his retirement. Lady Westwood enters with her opinions instead of sitting in silence, as she has many, and apparently Colonel Graham is used to this, as he speaks openly with her and is not offended. She apologizes to me afterward for making me listen to tedious conversation.”

  Alec imagined Mrs. Reynolds, with her polite air, pretending to be interested in her roast fowl and sorbet while the colonel and Sir Amos discussed the business of the regiment, all the while listening avidly.

  “And what do these military gentlemen have to say?” Alec asked, his fingers tightening on his knees.

  “Much about France—they were both at Fontenoy. Colonel Graham returned home with the Duke of Cumberland when he was recalled to put down the Jacobites. The colonel himself did not fight in Scotland, but he helped move prisoners to London for trial.”

  And execution. The word was not spoken but hung in the air.

  Mrs. Reynolds continued. “Colonel Graham was surprised that some of the Scotsmen he escorted were perfect gentlemen, educated and well-read.” Her lips twitched into a cool smile. “So many expect all Highlanders to be rough barbarians who can barely speak, and daily crush rocks with their bare hands. Colonel Graham said these men changed his mind.”

  “Are any of these well-read Highlanders known to us?” Alec kept his tone casual but his heart thumped. Not that he expected Will would let himself be anyone’s prisoner for long, and Colonel Graham must be speaking of men who’d surrendered after Culloden or who’d been taken at the forts along Loch Ness. Will had been long gone by then, escorting Mal and Mary to France.

  “No.” Mrs. Reynolds gave Alec a sad look from her brilliant blue eyes. “I’m sorry, he never mentioned your brother. As I said, I might not have anything to report that can help you. But one evening, Colonel Graham began to speak of a group of prisoners, and Sir Amos cut him off with a significant glance at his wife and me. After that I kept my ears open for any snatch of conversation about it.”

  She leaned to Alec, pitching her voice so that anyone outside the door would hear only a murmur.

  “The colonel mentioned a house, and he spoke of prisoners in the same breath. I don’t know what house—whether Sir Amos’s or another, I could not discover. But from what I gathered, not all the prisoners were taken to London. There are some that have been neither executed nor tried, nor transported, but are in limbo somewhere. Whether your brother is one of them, I have no idea.”

  Alec chilled, though his heart beat faster. Was Will among them? Or had he found these prisoners and tried to help them escape—Will would do something like that—and been caught? Captured, or killed in the act?

  “A name was also spoken in regard to this house,” Mrs. Reynolds went on. “That name was the Duke of Crenshaw.”

  Celia’s father. Alec sat back, waves of rage, worry, and hope crashing over him. A house with Highlanders imprisoned, which might or might not have anything to do with Will.

  The Glaswegian he’d met at the tavern had mentioned a house with Scotsmen inside it, and then he’d been killed. Because he possessed information? Or had that fight been a simple robbery? Plenty of footpads roamed London’s back streets. Or had Crenshaw sent toughs to make certain any knowledge was crushed out?

  The house was worth investigating, Alec told himself, trying to cool his anger. Will had taught him that keeping his head was the wisest thing, no matter how he felt. How Will managed it Alec didn’t know. His rage rose, the need to go to that house and tear it open to find out who was inside strong.

  He’d have to do more than investigate—if Highlanders were there, Alec could not pluck out Will and leave the others to their fates. Will would be the first to agree. They’d have to all be freed.

  Whether or not Will was among these prisoners or had anything to do with them at all, Alec needed to find out more about them. And the knowledge seemed to be lodged in the head of the Duke of Crenshaw, whose daughter had shared with Alec kisses of fiery passion.

  Celia set aside her newspaper and turned to the Duke of Crenshaw, who serenely buttered toast at the head of the breakfast table.

  Her father was not a big man, plump, yes, but small and round rather than broad. His simple wig was subdued, as were his dark blue frock coat and waistcoat, his fine cotton shirt and stock barely visible above the high-buttoned waistcoat. The Duke of Crenshaw could never be called ostentatious. Yet, his clothes were made from the most expensive fabric and lace brought home in the East India Company’s ships, so he was by no means dull or puritanical.

  The duke was the perfect statesman—quiet, learned, and possessing subdued taste but not parsimony. He was devoted to his mistress, so people whispered, but never let his wife or family want for anything.

  “Papa,” Celia said as the duke took a precise bite of his toast. “Why does this newspaper accuse you of being a Jacobite? That is hardly accurate when you mustered troops and raised funds to put down Charles Stuart’s uprising.”

  She waved her hand at the paper, which had printed a fairly virulent attack on her father, accusing him of wishing to plunge the country back under Catholic rule, which was ridiculous. Her father, like her mother, was avidly anti-Papist, and anyway, he could never accomplish such a thing even if he wanted to.

  Instead of looking alarmed or ashamed, the duke chewed his toast and swallowed. “Take no notice, my dear. I had the temerity to say that the defeated Scots should not be so harshly treated. The Young Pretender must be caught and executed, lest he try again, but those swept into the conflict needn’t be unduly punished. Fined, stripped of whatever title they held, and no longer given power to command armed troops, of course, but that should be sufficient.”

  He took another bite, unworried.

  Celia thought of Alec in his shabby clothes, his motherless daughter with nothing to look forward to but poverty. Alec had not only been angry at the men in the salon, but also at the Scots who’d pulled his family into the conflict and lost them everything.

  “This will not hurt you, will it?” Celia touched the newspaper. Though the Whigs held great power at the moment, the duke and the head of government, Pelham, didn’t always see eye to eye.

  The duke shrugged. “I doubt it. Whenever a man voices an opinion that’s contrary to the most popular one, he’s called a Jacobite. The word has become meaningless, and the Jacobites’ power has been broken for good.”

  He crunched down another bite of toast.

  If the duke knew that a Jacobite, or at least a Highland soldier, was giving his daughter art lessons, what would he do? Arrest Alec? What about Lady Flora, for allowing Alec to live in her house? Celia had no doubt anymore that Lady Flora knew exactly who Alec was. She’d have found out straight away.

  Lady Flora was the most puzzling person in this situation. She was staunchly loyal to the Protestant line of kings—King George w
as in fact quite fond of Lady Flora. She’d held a huge soiree after Culloden, celebrating the British victory and Charles Stuart’s flight.

  So why had she suddenly invited a Highlander who’d killed King George’s soldiers to stay in her house and teach drawing to the daughter of one of the most powerful dukes in England?

  The all-powerful duke brushed crumbs from his coat with a buttery hand. “Oh, my dear, I nearly forgot. The most curious thing has happened.”

  “Yes?” Celia tried to listen, though her thoughts strayed to Alec and his kisses, her anticipation of continuing them today. “What is this curious thing?” It might be Lord Pelham’s new wig or her mother actually speaking to a woman beneath her station.

  “The Marquess of Harrenton has been laid up.”

  Celia’s chest squeezed, and the eggs she’d eaten seemed to curdle inside her. She did not want to speak of the Marquess of Harrenton. “Is he ill?” she asked politely.

  “No, no. It is most astounding. He was waylaid, in Green Park. Set upon by ruffians and beaten quite thoroughly. Nothing stolen, which is the intriguing thing. He was brought down by fists and left on a path for his valet to find. I hear he is abed now, black and blue and recovering.” The duke chuckled. “Serves him right.”

  Chapter 11

  Celia stared at her father in shock. “Set upon?”

  She pictured the Marquess of Harrenton, his rotund body spinning every which way as he tried to fend off his attackers. He’d strike out with his long walking stick, his frowsy wig slipping, curses coming from his foul mouth, bathing the miscreants in bad breath.

  Why did she imagine one of those attackers as a tall man with dark red hair, large fists flying, his face a snarl of rage?

  Had Alec, who’d scowled fiercely when she’d told him about the Disaster, decided to exact vengeance for her? The Highlanders were said to be quite possessive, hold grudges, and enjoy revenge.

  No, she was being fanciful. Green Park was notorious for highwaymen, and Lord Harrenton was arrogant enough not to take sufficient care. Alec might have had nothing to do with it.

  Celia thought of Alec’s scarred arms, his battered and bruised face, his grin shining through his wounds. He was a fighting man—he could cheerfully take down a waddling lordship despite that lordship’s walking stick and his footmen.

  Celia’s fingers shook as she took up her last slice of toast. “You seem gleeful, Papa. Lord Harrenton is your great friend.”

  “He was, indeed. There was much to admire about him. But he dared put his hands on my daughter—I do not care that it was his desperation to break through your stubbornness and force you to change your no to a yes. As much as I liked the match, he ought to have respected your decision. Had I been a younger man, I would have called him out. As it is, I can only cut him whenever I see him, which is sadly too often.”

  Celia froze with her toast halfway to her mouth. She’d known her father sympathized with her, but she hadn’t realized the extent of his anger. Her father rarely showed that emotion. He and the marquess were still political allies, and she’d thought her father had forgotten the matter.

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, her throat dry. “I had no idea the incident upset you so much.”

  The duke’s eyes widened. “Well, of course it upset me, child. You’re my daughter—the sweetest young lady who ever graced my presence. I want only the best for you. Harrenton is very wealthy and you’d have never wanted for anything, but I’d not have you live in misery with a man you despised. You were quite right to refuse him, your mother wrong to push you at him. I admire your courage in defying them.”

  Celia’s astonishment didn’t leave her. The duke spoke with warmth, and that warmth touched her heart. She’d always loved her father, but as he was not an overly sentimental man, she hadn’t realized how much the affection was reciprocated.

  Her mother was not in love with her father—Celia knew that—nor he with her, but neither the duke or duchess was miserable. The duchess adored being one of the most admired hostesses of the ton, while her father found his affection with Mrs. Barnett, a woman Celia had never met.

  Celia wasn’t quite certain what to say. Her parents didn’t advocate gushings of endearment. Her father might like them, but they embarrassed him.

  “Thank you, Papa.” Celia smiled fondly, her heart warming. “Unfortunately, my stubbornness has made me ineligible to marry anyone else.”

  “Oh, I do not believe so,” her father said. “One day you will meet a gentleman who will see your fine qualities and wish to marry you regardless—a gentleman you will esteem and like, I mean. When that happens, you will come to me, and I will give you my blessing and make the marriage happen. Never mind your mother.”

  For all his quietness, Celia’s father was a very powerful man. He could shove any marriage he wanted to down society’s collective throats, and he’d do it with a smile and a sip of port.

  Celia flung down her toast, sprang to her feet, rushed to the head of the table, and squeezed her father in a fervent embrace. He started and blinked, and Celia bent down and kissed his powdered cheek.

  “You are the most wonderful father in the world,” she declared, hugging him again. “Thank you, Papa.”

  “Oh. Er.” Her father flushed and looked relieved when Celia let him go. “Quite. But—hem—don’t mention it to your mother. There’s a good gel.”

  Celia left the breakfast room and rushed through preparations to depart for her lesson. She wanted to demand Alec tell her whether he had anything to do with the attack on the Marquess of Harrenton and also to explain to him what a wonderful gentleman her father was. Alec needed to see that not all Englishmen were cold and heartless.

  She bundled herself into the sedan chair and fidgeted as the bearers lumbered around the square with her, arriving at the front door of Lady Flora’s house just before eight. The footman admitted her and silently led her, not to the studio but to Lady Flora’s breakfast room, where Celia had gone the first morning.

  The sun was muted today, dark clouds covering the sky. The gold gilt in the breakfast room, however, shone bright, and tiny mirrors embedded in the moldings reflected the painted blue sky full of cherubs on the ceiling. No need for real sunshine in Lady Flora’s house.

  Lady Flora was in the act of pouring a dark stream of chocolate into a tiny porcelain cup when Celia entered. “You have no lesson today, Celia.” She ceased pouring when the chocolate reached exactly one quarter inch below the cup’s rim, and set the pot down. “I had no time to send word before you set off. If you’d like, I can ring for coffee for you and anything you wish to eat.”

  Celia’s breakfast still roiled in her stomach. “No, thank you. Why is there no lesson?” she asked in worry. Had Alec been arrested for beating Lord Harrenton? Or was there another dire reason? “Is Mr. Finn’s daughter ill? Is he?”

  Lady Flora’s brows puckered. “No one is ill. Mr. Finn is simply not here.”

  Celia’s fears escalated. “He is not? Where is he?” Had he fled London after attacking Lord Harrenton, was even now pursued by soldiers?

  Lady Flora’s frown deepened. “I’m certain I have no idea. He did not confide in me, simply told me this morning he had an errand and would return too late for your lesson.”

  “Oh.” Celia drummed her fingers against her skirts. Calmly leaving the house on an errand did not sound like the actions of a man fleeing for his life. Still, something was amiss, she was certain. Why should Alec be running errands before eight in the morning when Lady Flora had a houseful of servants to do it for him? “Where is Mrs. Reynolds this morning?”

  Whenever Mrs. Reynolds was in residence, she graced every room Lady Flora did. It was unusual for Lady Flora to breakfast without her.

  “My, you are full of questions,” Lady Flora said impatiently. “That is unbecoming in a young lady, Celia. Mrs. Reynolds also had an errand, and that errand is none of your business. Now either sit down in a civilized manner and Rivers will bring you coffe
e, or return home. Your lessons will resume tomorrow.”

  Celia had no wish to rush back to the cold emptiness of her house and explain why she’d returned. Her father would have departed by now, and Celia would be left alone with the duchess. “May I go up to the studio and draw on my own? Mr. Finn was showing me how to flesh out the tracing from the camera obscura, and I’d like to continue.”

  Lady Flora waved a languid hand. “If you like, child. But stay there and don’t wander the house. It upsets the servants.”

  “Yes, Lady Flora.” Celia babbled the politeness before she turned and hurried out. She heard Flora sigh behind her, no doubt unhappy with Celia’s choice, her frenzied pace, and the way her skirts barely missed a delicate table full of porcelain figurines.

  Celia hastened up the stairs, aware of the silent footman carrying her portfolio behind her. The footman deposited the leather-bound portfolio on the table in the studio and withdrew, as he did every day. Celia briefly wondered if he’d be happy when the lessons were over.

  After the footman departed, she paced the room, trying to suppress her anxiousness and consider things logically.

  If Alec had been in fear for his life, surely he’d have run away last night, not retired to his bed and then stepped out on an errand this morning. He might simply be purchasing pigments for mixing paint, or canvases and brushes from merchants who sold that sort of thing. Artists were particular about their accoutrements, and perhaps he didn’t trust a servant to buy the correct things.

  Besides, Celia had no evidence that Alec had pummeled the Marquess of Harrenton in Green Park. Any footpad might have done so—London was full of thieves and desperate men.

  To try to stem her worry, Celia opened her portfolio and spread out the tracings of the London skyline she’d done with Alec the day before. There was not enough light today to use the camera obscura—the fog was lowering, not clearing.

  Celia pinned the drawing they’d already begun to the easel and continued to transfer lines from the preliminary sketches as Alec had showed her. The form of Grosvenor Chapel took shape, a newish building with clean lines and a simple steeple tucked among the houses on South Audley Street. The chapel was unembellished inside as well, she knew from her occasional churchgoing with her mother—with clear windows, white-paneled galleries, and a white-painted ceiling. No clutter of popery, her mother would say with satisfaction.