That might all be a ruse. Niall knew better than to take anyone’s words at face value. The world was rife with deception, and he had become a master of it himself.
But as he watched her from afar, there was a sense of vulnerability about her that felt genuine. It was in the way her brows furrowed as she looked around, the way she jumped at the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, the way she clutched her strange device as if it were a lifeline.
He slowed as she approached a well-dressed gentleman. Was this her contact? But no, she just appeared to ask for directions and when the man shook his head, she started off again, moving no more quickly than before.
What was she doing? If she really was an agent, she was unlike any Niall had ever come across. He took out his pocket watch, flipped open the cover, and cursed under his breath. It was almost nine-thirty. If he kept following Charlotte, he would be late for his meeting. He glanced around. Where was Joseph? Hadn’t the old man seen the single word instruction Niall had hastily scribbled onto a corner of one of the pamphlets as he and Charlotte had left the townhouse this morning?
Follow.
A sudden rustling sound made him whirl, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the dagger concealed within his plaid.
Joseph stepped out of an alley and gave an appraising look at his hand clutching the dagger’s hilt. “Not bad. I see all the balls and liquor havenae entirely dulled yer wits.”
“Where have ye been?” Niall snapped. “I almost lost her.”
“ButIdidnae lose either of ye,” Joseph pointed out. “Have ye discovered aught?”
“No,” Niall replied, turning back to watch Charlotte stop at the junction of two streets and hesitate, looking down each one several times as if undecided which way to go. “But the bridal shop story was a ruse, as I suspected.”
Joseph nodded. “Ye go to yer meeting and leave this to me. I know what to do.”
Niall nodded. And yet he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to let Charlotte out of his sight, and it wasn’t just the fact that she was a mystery he hadn’t yet solved.
“Keep me informed.”
He gave a curt nod, then walked away. He moved swiftly through the labyrinthine streets, his boots echoing on the cobblestones. He darted around a corner, nearly knocking over a street vendor selling mutton pies, and quickened his pace. The tenement he needed was located at the end of a wynd filled with some of the city’s grander houses.
He approached a red door with a brass knocker and knocked three times in quick succession. After a tense wait, the door creaked open to reveal an elderly housekeeper. Her face was lined with age, eyes sharp and scrutinizing as she looked him up and down.
“Niall Campbell to see Alistair MacTavish,” he said with a bow.
The woman nodded and gestured for him to follow her through a long corridor adorned with finely woven tapestries and through an oak door into a grand parlor. Inside stood a group of young men, all impeccably dressed in the latest fashion. They were engaged in light conversation, sipping from glasses filled with amber liquid.
All conversation ceased as he entered, and he found himself the object of intense scrutiny.
“Well,” he said in that mocking tone he’d developed so well. “If I’d known I would cause such a reception, I would have worn red breeches. I’m told the color compliments my eyes.”
“Niall!”
The owner of the house, and the architect of this little gathering, detached himself from the group and sauntered over.
Lord Alistair MacTavish was as oily as he was arrogant. His red hair was tied back into a tail and his attire, like that of his friends, was impeccable. His waistcoat bore intricate designs of ivy leaves embroidered in gold thread, whilst a diamond brooch glittered at his throat.
“Apologies, my lord,” Niall replied, inclining his head in respect. “A matter of urgency detained me.”
“No need for such formalities, Niall,” Alistair chuckled dismissively, his hand landing heavily on Niall’s shoulder. “We’re all friends here.”
Friends?Niall thought.Hardly.
He’d met Alistair MacTavish on several occasions, the latest being last night at Lady Murray’s ball. Each time they’d met he’d plied his host with whisky, griped about the injustice of his station, and offered hints that he wanted to do something about it.
But friends? Never. This was a nest of vipers, and he knew any one of them would strike if he made a wrong step.
But he only nodded, offering a polite smile as he was led further into the room. MacTavish began making introductions. As Niall had known they would be, each of them was a younger son of a noble house, full of vitriol and bitterness at having elder brothers inherit family lands, leaving them with a ‘pittance’ of a stipend to live on.
As he listened to their complaints, Niall nodded and responded in kind, whilst inside he seethed. Fools and ingrates, the lot of them. Coddled and spoiled all their lives, what did any of them know about what hardship really meant?
“And now they want to sell us out to the English!” one of the men by the name of Robert Caldwell said. He sloshed his glass of brandy around as he gestured, spilling most of it on the floor. It might be barely midmorning, but his words were already slurring. “We willnae stand for it! These articles of union will be the ruin of Scotland! It will go ahead over my dead body!”
