Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction Page 8

  Mrs. Reynolds had been absent from the house for a few days. Where she’d been and what she’d been about, Alec didn’t know, and Lady Flora hadn’t told him. Lady Flora had many plots and schemes going at once—helping Alec was only one of them. Alec had learned very quickly not to ask Lady Flora too many questions.

  Conversation was seemingly random, though Alec knew Lady Flora directed it with the ease of a master.

  At the moment, they were discussing the Venetian painter, Giovanni Canaletto, now a resident of London and painting scenes of London vistas. Lady Flora owned one of his paintings of the Grand Canal in Venice, which hung prominently on the wall opposite her. She’d not seated herself under it, because those who should be looking at her might be tempted to admire the painting instead.

  “He’s come to London because his customers have ceased traveling to Vienna,” one gentleman proclaimed. “Too much war on the Continent. Always bad for travel, war, not to mention business.”

  Alec studied the portly lord who sat steadily consuming food and drink. The man had earlier proclaimed he detested all travel but that between London and his estate in Essex. He’d been invited to the salon because he was a self-proclaimed wit—Alec had yet to hear him say anything witty—and because he sat in on trials of Jacobite prisoners.

  “Yes, it’s better in jolly old, peaceful England, is it not?” another gentleman said, his voice languid, but he gave the lordship a cold stare. “Where all war is in the past, and we never have to worry about our fields being overrun by armies while we sit on our bums eating ices.”

  “Exactly,” the lordship answered.

  “No armies overrunning your Essex estate anyway,” another gentleman said. “Bloody Scots overran mine in Derbyshire. Picked it clean, stationed troops in my outbuildings. We still haven’t cleared up the mess.”

  A few gentlemen nodded agreement. One of the ladies laughed, a shrill sound that stabbed at Alec’s ears. “Gracious, how gloomy you all are. The Scots were easily routed and sent home. Besides, I didn’t mind all those handsome men riding down upon us, skirts flying up to show all they had. Such a change from a stuffy Englishman.”

  “And what stuffy Englishmen are you disparaging, madam?” a younger man asked, turning in his seat to eye her. He wore silk stockings, blue satin breeches, and a long dark blue velvet coat sewn with jewels. His face was whitened with powder, and he wore no wig, his own hair powdered and pulled back into a tail held with a drooping black velvet ribbon. “Not those in this room, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes,” the lady said, her eyes sparkling. “I know exactly who I mean.”

  Mrs. Reynolds broke in. “Forgive us, dear sir. We ladies grow too used to the tame and the civilized. The barbaric excites us. Give us time and we will return to enjoying the civilized.”

  “Barbaric is correct,” the young dandy replied with a sniff. “Those Highlanders ran about in their tartan cloth full of lice, yelling like the devils they are, murdering all in their path. Only the prince was in any way civilized, something of a beauty I understand.”

  “A youthful beauty,” Mrs. Reynolds replied. “I prefer a gentleman who has a little more experience of life.”

  That mollified the gentlemen in the room, most of whom were well thirty.

  Alec dared meet Celia’s gaze and found her with her fan held to her mouth. The light in her eyes told him she laughed behind it.

  He wanted to send her a wide smile, but he kept it a twitch of lips. Her cheekbones flushed brighter.

  The talk turned to Prince Charles Stuart—his dress, his manners, his strategies, his charisma. Alec remembered the man too—his pride and arrogance, his inexperience and extreme sense of self-importance that got thousands of good men, including Duncan and Angus, killed.

  They discussed Charles’s decision to retreat to Scotland. Because these were men and women of some worldliness, they didn’t immediately assume the prince had been quaking in his shoes at the idea of stronger fighting if his followers tried to take London. The present company debated the question of why the Scots had turned back, speculating about the prince’s own prudence, false reports that French assistance was no longer forthcoming, news that Cumberland’s army was on the move.

  Alec knew exactly why they’d turned back. Lord George Murray had realized the futility of trying to take the whole of Britain at once, and had encouraged the retreat to secure Scotland first. If they’d continued, they’d have been cut off from the north and slaughtered to a man. Besides which, the troops, farmers all, had wanted to return to Scotland to secure their homes for the winter. In addition, by that time, enchantment with the young prince had started to wear thin.

  Alec hadn’t agreed with the adamant MacDonalds and Camerons, or even Mackenzies, who’d backed Charles, but Murray’s understanding of Highlanders and what the King’s Army could do had saved many a man—at least until Culloden.

  None of the gentlemen in this room had ever been soldiers, none had fought either for or against Charles Stuart. None knew of the long marches in the cold, the weariness that seeped into the bones, the energy that had to be dredged up to fight, to live, to defeat those trying their best to kill you.

  These men didn’t know the brutal reality of looking into the face of a friend, gray and lifeless, or finding pieces of the man you’d drunk whisky with the night before scattered over the grass, the wonder that those pieces weren’t you.

  They didn’t know the anguish of a brother dying in front of them, begging to be killed to spare him the indignity of being gutted by enemy bayonets. Never knew the grief in a father’s eyes when he shot his firstborn son, the heir of his body, granting that wish.

  Never caught their twin as he slid lifeless from a horse. Never watched a father come apart with loss, heard that father address Alec with his twin brother’s name, as though hoping Alec would become him.

  Alec found himself clenching his glass of whisky, Scots, which Lady Flora made certain was served to encourage talk of the Uprising. The goblet was heavy crystal, lead bringing out the blue depths of the glass. The facets pressed sharply into Alec’s palm and fingers.

  “Prestonpans was such a rout of British forces, no wonder there was a run on the Bank of England when he headed south,” another man said. “But though they had the keenness, the Scots didn’t have staying power when it came to it. Terrified Cope’s soldiers though.” The man chuckled. “I hear they ran so fast their shadows couldn’t keep pace.”

  Amid the laughter, Alec tightened his hand still more. He’d left Scotland before Prestonpans was fought against General Cope, the man who’d been expected to quickly put down the rebellion. Alec had been heading to France, to find Jenny, Genevieve having died. His heart had been eaten with grief as well as fear for his daughter, and he hadn’t given much thought to the Uprising.

  Hadn’t until he’d returned home in time to watch Angus ride away with Duncan, the last time he’d seen his twin alive.

  The situation had been far more complicated than these people knew. The belief that all Highlanders raised claymores to return Charles’s Catholic father to the throne to be defeated by English redcoats was too simple. Highlander had fought Highlander, some had closed themselves away from the fighting altogether but had still been punished for it.

  Clans had been divided, as had families, including Alec’s own.

  They’d fought each other and King George’s army, had died, and now were being stripped of their language, their plaids, their identity.

  “They were brutal fighters,” one man said in admiration. “Screaming gleefully as they cut their way through.”

  “Screamed when they died too,” another man said. “So I’ve been told. Brave fellows, cut down where they stood on the battlefield, never running. Made for some amusing jests—What color tartan do dead Scots wear? Red. What is the sound of a Highlander begging for mercy? Do your worst, ye bloody … agh, gurgle, gack.”

  And they laughed. Every gentleman and every lady but Celia and her mother
laughed, the duchess grimacing as though she found the entire conversation distasteful. Celia’s eyes over her fan had turned sad but watchful.

  Alec saw Lady Flora dart a glance his way, but she was lost in the red mist that formed before Alec’s eyes. Every Mackenzie male had berserker rage inside him, the bloodthirstiness of their ancestor Mackenzie, Old Dan, who had won the family a dukedom.

  As laughter surged around him, Alec seemed to float above the room, and the powdered and bewigged ladies and gentlemen reeking of perfume, musty fabric, and unwashed bodies. He wanted to launch himself at them with his Highland war cry just to watch them piss themselves trying to get away from him.

  His hand went to his boot without his permission, ready to draw his dirk before he charged.

  A cool touch cut through his haze of madness. Alec couldn’t turn his head to find the source of the touch—he only knew the mists cleared the slightest bit.

  Awareness returned. He was sitting in a hard chair with carved legs, his hand at the top of his boot while he glared at the first man he wanted to gut.

  A stomacher of brown and butternut brocade, a skirt flaring from the narrow waist, cut off his view, and breath scented with sherry touched him.

  “Mr. Finn,” Celia said in a low voice. “Would you be so kind as to show me Lady Flora’s gallery?”

  Chapter 8

  Celia tensed as Mr. Finn dragged his gaze from Lord Bradford, whom he’d been eyeing like an eagle intent on striking his prey, and fixed on her.

  His eyes burned gold, like said eagle’s, his breath came fast, and his hand was clenched next to his boot so hard his knuckles were white. One strand of Mr. Finn’s dark red hair fell to his cheek, touching his fading bruises, and his lip curled into a silent snarl.

  At the moment, he looked like nothing more than one of the brutal Highlanders the gathering mocked.

  Celia knew the men made light of the Uprising to hide their fear. Every one of them had scrambled to flee London late last year, when Charles Stuart had been within a hairsbreadth of marching on the city. They’d had ships ready to flee to the Netherlands, Austria, anywhere that would have them. The rumor that King George was preparing to dive into a barge on the Thames and race away had proved to be false, but plenty of the king’s supporters had taken their money and made ready to run to the Continent. Now they sat in their comfortable chairs, downing port and sherry and pretending they’d cheerfully faced down the Highlanders by themselves.

  Celia kept herself firmly in front of Mr. Finn and his rage. “Please,” she whispered.

  Mr. Finn rose from his chair, every limb stiff. He didn’t so much get to his feet as lift himself, as though pulled by strings. He made no indication he’d heard Celia, did not answer, did not nod.

  He turned, his body rigid, and walked to the door behind his chair, a gilded wooden portal that led to the gallery hung with paintings in Lady Flora’s collection.

  Mrs. Reynolds noticed them go. She shot Celia and Mr. Finn a speculative look. Lady Flora, on the other hand, pointedly ignored them.

  Celia shut the door, as Mr. Finn moved down the gallery, his stride swift. Celia rushed to catch up with him, her brocade slippers pattering on the inlaid floor.

  Mr. Finn walked past paintings by the artist Rembrandt he so admired, past masterful sculptures by Bernini and Donatello. At the end of the hall another paneled and gilded door led to a tiny withdrawing room, and Mr. Finn made for it.

  Celia rustled inside several steps behind him. Mr. Finn stopped abruptly on the far side of the small room, as though suddenly realizing he could go no farther.

  He swung around, and Celia froze.

  Another lock of Mr. Finn’s hair had fallen, this one to his shoulder. Celia seemed to see another man imposed over him, a soldier in kilt and coat, the plaid wrapped around his shoulders, a Scots tam on his head. This vision held a sword in one hand, pistol in the other, the light in his eyes intense and deadly.

  Celia took a final stride inside the chamber and closed the door behind her.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “I know I shouldn’t ask you that—you could kill me where I stand. But I have weighed the consequences and decided that, on a whole, such a thing would be preferable to a lifetime in a back chamber at Hungerford Park, my father’s estate in Kent. As proud as my father is of his house, every room has rising damp.”

  Mr. Finn blinked but he remained utterly still. “Ye should not be here, lass.” His voice was low, harsh, with a note of fierceness.

  “I know. But as I say, I have weighed the consequences …”

  “I mean in this house at all. With me.” The last was a snarl.

  Celia kept her gaze steady. “I prefer lessons with you, sir, to embroidering with my mother. Here I have at least an hour a day as a respite from the catalog of my shortcomings.”

  Mr. Finn briefly closed his eyes then turned to the window to stare out at the gloom. Unlike Celia’s mother, Lady Flora insisted on lit candles in any room into which her guests might wander. The window panes reflected pinpoints of flame and Ansel Finn’s broad-shouldered silhouette.

  “This is beyond your ken, lass. Ye should be well out of it.”

  “Well out of what?” Celia took a courageous step forward. “What of drawing lessons is beyond my comprehension, or a danger? Whoever you are, you are an artist, Mr. Finn. What you did to the clumsy drawing of myself was masterful. You are teaching me, and I wish to learn.”

  Mr. Finn remained ramrod straight, staring into nothing. Celia moved another step, her heart hammering. “Were you in the battles?” she asked in a near whisper. “Lady Flora should not have let them speak about it, or make cruel jokes. It was unfeeling, horrible.”

  “Aye, I was in battles.” The rumble was quiet, absorbed by the chamber’s silk-covered walls. “I killed men. Are ye satisfied now?”

  “Of course not. War is a terrible thing.” Celia’s last step brought her beside him. Cool air touched her through the window, but Mr. Finn’s solid body held warmth. “I saw your expression. You were ready to kill them. Another moment and you might have. You lost family, didn’t you? And friends. Those Highlanders they derided were your kin.”

  Mr. Finn gazed down at her with eyes of flinty gold. “What do ye wish me to say, lass? Aye, I lost m’ brothers, and my father is nearly mad with grief. I’m dead meself—the ghost is what ye see. The muster rolls list my name, and every one of my brothers and my dad as killed. If ye tell a soul, they’ll hunt me down and make sure my death sticks this time. So run off and blurt out your tale. I’ll be gone before those dandies can draw a breath in horror.”

  Celia’s lips parted as she listened, the burning in her chest rising.

  “I’d never,” she said. “I wouldn’t betray you, Mr. Finn. Or whatever your name is.”

  “Alec.”

  “Alec.” Yes, that fit him. It felt better in her mouth—Alec—a name derived from Alexander the Great. Brief but full of meaning.

  “Why wouldn’t ye betray me?” Alec demanded, his eyes hard. “Your father is a powerful aristo who holds the whip over more dogs of the British government than any man alive. King Geordie himself doesn’t command such respect. Your father says a word, and my bloody head is falling on the grass. Or my body hanged, drawn, and quartered. It’s a traitor I am. Was forced to be. Run from me, lass.”

  “If you will cease with your terrifying speeches,” Celia said, her throat dry, “you will note that I am going nowhere, blurting your tale to no one. You have hidden yourself well, and there is no reason not to remain hidden. But you will have to control your temper around Lady Flora’s guests. They are misguided and were much afraid. Bonnie Prince Charlie very nearly did win.”

  Alec shook his head. “Teàrlach mhic Seamas was a bloody fool who caused the murder of many a fine man. While my neighbors are being executed for it, he wanders the west of Scotland in search of transport. He might be in France by now. If so, I hope my father finds him.”

&
nbsp; He snapped his mouth closed, his brows drawing down into a fearsome scowl. If Alec’s father was half this forbidding, Charles Stuart might do well to fear him.

  “If you will be guided by me,” Celia said quietly. “Gather yourself. Return to the salon. Smile at them, laugh with them. They are fools, remember. It is the only way.” Well Celia knew it. While she’d never been in any danger of being hanged as a traitor, she was permanently in the pillory for her crime of thwarting her mother’s schemes.

  His scowl deepened. “Why are ye not afraid of me? Now that ye know what I am? Why aren’t ye running as fast as those shoes will carry ye?”

  Celia could not say why she wasn’t worried. She ought to be—he could kill her with his bare hands or the knife he must have in his boot. He’d killed Englishmen before, including men like her brother. Several of her brother’s friends had died, in fact, at Falkirk and more at Culloden.

  “I am not afraid, because I’ve observed you.” Celia reached up and daringly touched his cheek, his warm hair brushing her hand. “I’ve seen you with Jenny. And you’ve been nothing but kind to me. Battle is battle, no matter who you fight for. My brother has killed men, and yet he can be so very gentle.”

  Fire flared in Alec’s eyes. Perhaps the mention of her brother, a soldier in the Duke of Crenshaw’s Brigade, had been a mistake.

  Alec caught her hand, his fingers strong. She expected him to shove her away, perhaps even strike her, but he jerked her close.

  Celia landed against him, the buttons of his coat pressing through her thin fichu. His eyes held the predatory look of the lion she’d thought of him as on the first day, and they narrowed to slits as he studied her.

  Celia was too surprised to try to push herself away. She also had no inclination—Alec’s body was strong against hers, and he held the heat of fire. He smelled of wool and man, and the clean linen of his shirt beneath. This close to him, she could see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, the mark of a man of the north.