He’d no doubt made the offer because of Bolingbroke’s reputation for hating Scots and being a savage executioner in the Highlands. His moniker ofHangmanwas well earned. Regardless of her lies to Slade, her current clandestineoccupation, the violent tragedy befalling her seven years ago, and the fact that Slade’s presence stirred something unexpected and unsettling inside her, Slade was indeed an old and dear acquaintance.
“I value your friendship a great deal and am thankful for your offer of help. Rest assured if ever I find myself in need, I will come to you,” she said, to which he nodded with a satisfied quirk of his lips.
When they arrived at the jewelers, Slade alighted and gave her a hand in stepping down from the conveyance.
“Should I accompany you inside?” he asked, still holding her hand in his much larger one, making her heart hum. His touch was gentle yet strong, and steady, his warmth enveloping her hands even through the layers of their gloves.
“I don’t think it will be necessary. Monsieur Gustave is usually very quick and efficient. I will only be a minute.”
Inside, the jeweler had Lady Bolingbroke’s necklace and earrings already cleaned and wrapped.
On the return carriage ride to the manor, Slade’s friendly tone made Phoebe wonder if she’d imagined the previous crackling heat and tension between them.
“I haven’t seen Egan in some time. What is he getting up to these days?” Slade said.
“Mother’s last letter said he and a Dunbar delegation are on the Isle of Coll negotiating peace with Clan Campbell. There’ve been some hostilities betwixt our two clans recently.”
Slade snorted. “Hostilities no doubt instigated by the Campbells. They’re troublemakers. I don’t envy Egan his task. I imagine the Dunbar retainers would rather do battle.”
Phoebe took in the autumnal, yellowing leaves of prominent trees on either side of the road. “My father is the one who is pushing for peace,” she said, knowing that Egan would dowhatever their father told him, even if he himself hated the Campbells, like many Highlanders.
“Egan always did the honorable thing, acting for the greater good,” Slade said.
Phoebe found herself smiling, as her good-hearted but overbearing brother’s past behavior came to mind. “When I was younger, he was so protective of me, barking like a fierce guard dog whenever any lad spoke to me or any of his friends even looked in my direction.”
Slade chuckled, sending her a warm, playful glance. “I recalled how Egan use to chase away your admirers when we were younger.”
Phoebe laughed at Slade’s teasing tone. Warm fondness filled her belly as she recalled the same tone from when they were younger. She’d simply adored Slade’s teasing and warm friendship when they were younger, she still did. But then the memory of her brother confronting Ross pulled her mood down. Seven years ago, Egan had challenged Faye Ross, and the ensuing fight had nearly proved fatal to her brother. Phoebe had never told Egan the truth but knew that Egan suspected Ross had done something untoward. She’d been too ashamed and scared of Faye Ross’s retaliation. Since then, Egan had been a terror against any man coming near her.
CHAPTER 13
CAMBERLEY MANOR, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
On the night of the Earl of Clarendon’s charity ball, an hour after General and Lady Bolingbroke departed in full livery, the activity in the manor died down. But Phoebe’s stomach roiled with excitement, dread, and anticipation.
When she was sure all the staff had retired to their quarters, she cracked open her door. The hall was quiet. Sliding the black velvet vizard mask in place so she wouldn’t be readily identifiable beneath the dimly lit wall sconces, she exited, closed the door and tiptoed down the hall and up the stairs towards the general’s study. She glanced around to make sure no one was about before turning the cold brass knob with clammy palms. Phoebe slipped into the study to the scent of cheroot and whisky and closed the door behind her without making a sound. She placed a hand on her chest to calm her heart as it threatened to escape her ribcage. Falcon’s voice sounded in her head:Remain dispassionate and calm.
“Simple for you to say,” Phoebe whispered to herself.
A loud gong reverberated in the study and Phoebe’s heart dropped to her stomach. But then her eyes snapped to where the sound had originated, landing on the gilded face of a long caseclock. She narrowed her eyes at the offending hands reading half past eleven. Then ignoring the ceiling-to-floor bookcases stacked with books, the classical bust, maps and globe, she headed straight for the leather-trimmed mahogany desk and its hidden drawer.
By Phoebe’s estimation, the Bolingbrokes should be arriving at the ball now, for the earl’s residence was an hour’s ride from the manor. She would allow herself one hour in the study. She didn’t think the Bolingbrokes would ride to the ball to simply return home, but to be conservative she would assume so. Typically, these events lasted until the wee hours of the morning.
The pale light from the gargantuan hearth’s dwindling fire and the illumination from the two wall sconces above its mantel glinted off three lustrous silver-trimmed flintlock muskets mounted on the wall. An image of Slade’s breathtakingly beautiful green eyes flashed across her mind.Blast!She didn’t need any distractions now.
But there’d been something in the way he had looked at her during their brief tête-à-tête to the jeweler, that heated her from the inside out.
Phoebe pushed aside her thoughts and sat in the general’s enormous, leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. She reached into her pocket and removed the two three-inch metal prongs which had been mailed to her by Falcon’s assistant, codename Blue Jay. Blue Jay had expertly sewn the prongs into the taffeta lining of a caraco jacket to keep them safe and undetected while being transported by the Royal Mail. They often had to resort to extreme measures to safeguard the tools of their trade.
Aided by the pale light from the wall sconces, she stuck the first metal prong into the keyhole of the pin and tumbler lock. Phoebe gingerly tilted it in a clockwise direction with her left hand while she inserted the second prong with its three ridgesinto the top of the keyhole with her right hand. Phoebe lightly jiggled and raked the prong back and forth, feeling for an opening.
The resistance gave way. Her mouth relaxed into a slow smile. She turned the prong until it clicked. Phoebe pocketed the two prongs and pulled on the handle of the drawer. It slid open as if on well-oiled slides. There were several sheets of folded paper in the drawer atop a leather-bound ledger. She lifted everything and paused, eying the unlit silver-plated candelabrum. It wasn’t safe to light it, so she walked everything over to the dim light of the hearth.
Her hands trembled as she opened the pulpy folded papers one by one and scanned their contents. Phoebe ignored the first few pages concerning routine army matters and focused on the last pages discussing the Abolition of Heritable Jurisdictions. Centuries ago, the law of Scotland granted jurisdiction to privileged persons or heritors and their heirs, allowing clan chiefs to govern their lands and clans. The abolition of this right stripped governing power away from the Scottish clan chiefs in favor of the English crown. The last page Phoebe now held discussed forcibly upholding this law with extreme measures in the Highlands including torture and death for offenders, but redcoats didn’t need a reason to torture and kill Highlanders who followed clan tradition like their fathers and their fathers before them. She walked back to the desk, recorded the information on a blank sheet of paper, then pocketed the copy.
The remaining parchments appeared to be of more standard Army matters; as she was about to put them aside, however, one titleNew Artillery Cannondesign and another titledGlenfinnan Missionstood out. Phoebe’s heart hammered against her chest as she pulled it out of the stack and read further. TheNew Artillery Cannondesign would be an easy copy butGlenfinnan Missiontook up most of her attention. It was a rejection notefrom Field Marshal Pelham to take part in a raid on Jacobites at Glenfinnan, where Charles Edward Stuart had first raised his flag on August 19, 1745. The field marshal ended the rejection by saying while he couldn’t sanction such a raid through official Army channels, it was up to the general if he wished to proceed through unofficial ones. Phoebe then noted the scrawled names of Bolingbroke’s first and second lieutenants, Hughes Cope and Walter Hawley, with three words below.Mission a go.But when?
The rebels should have been shielded by the Indemnity Act of June 1747 after the Battle of Culloden, yet Phoebe somehow wasn’t surprised Bolingbroke was still conducting raids.This is it.This is what she’d come for.
