Winnifred rose and refilled everyone’s wine. “Surely affection plays some part. After all, you and your husband seem to be in remarkable sympathy, Lady Abercairn. You are a vocal supporter of his proposals in Parliament, are you not? I believe you were quoted inWomen’s Worldas saying that his latest bill, bolstering trade regulations, would serve to strengthen the United Kingdom.”
She licked wine from her lips. “I support my husband whatever his position, as all smart wives do. His position is that a strong United Kingdom results in a strong Scotland. He wants only what is best for our country.”
Winnifred set the decanter of sherry down on the table. Yes, everyone wanted what was best for Scotland. It was defining what was best that was the issue. And how far people were willing to go to attain it.
“And does your husband believe an independent Scotland is the future?” Winnifred settled back in her seat and picked up her wine. Everyone was on their third glass while she yet nursed her first. She hadn’t realized how important wine could be. It was responsible for her marriage, and, she hoped, would loosen lips enough to play a part in uncovering a treasonous plot. Sin might be focused on obtaining information from the men, but he shouldn’t ignore the knowledge of wives.
“An independent Scotland is all our futures, so my husband says,” Lady Eirlie said. “We can only hope that when revolution comes, it doesn’t follow the path of the French one.” She placed her hand on her throat. “The citizens have been behaving like louts lately. A firm hand is needed to settle them down.”
“The people are hungry,” Deirdre said. “Empty stomachs fire people’s anger. If we support our people, they’ll support us.”
Lady Margaret scooted forward. “My father says the same thing. The poor growing season is hard on all of Scotland. But he says our fighting spirit will see us through. If we focus on the good, the bad loses some of its power.”
“How quaint.” Lady Abercairn rolled her eyes over the rim of her glass.
Deirdre ignored her. “I agree with your father, dear. To that end, all Kenmore tenants are invited to the Highland gathering the day of the ball. Dunkeld believes it just the thing to raise everyone’s spirits.”
Lady Abercairn arched an eyebrow. “We’re to consort with the tenants? This should be interesting.”
“Better they fling logs about than chop off heads.” Lady Eirlie smiled wickedly. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a group of Highland lads running about in kilts.”
That gave Winnifred pause. Would Sin wear a kilt? She leaned back on her chair and took a long sip of wine. The idea held merit.
Lady Eirlie sighed. “A Highland gathering or not, I fear the people will not be easily appeased. With these latest riots, I fear none of us will live to enjoy Scotland’s freedom.”
Lady Abercairn buried her face in her glass and said nothing. But a hint of a smile played around her lips, one that Winnifred didn’t like the look of.
Like Lady Abercairn, at least, knew something that would ensure her survival.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sin drummed his fingers on the tablecloth and tried to pay attention to the discussion next to him. Why did men cease saying anything of interest when they sat at a dinner table? Six long nights of stultifying conversations. Of uninformative, tedious talk where he learned nothing but where the best brandy could be procured in Edinburgh and the latest racing rule formulated by the Jockey Club.
He eyed Winnifred seated at the opposite end of the long, wooden table. She wore a polite smile on her face, but the edges looked a bit frayed. He wanted nothing more than to secrete her away and make that smile genuine.
The man next to him chortled at his own joke, and Sin ground his back teeth. Thank the heavens the guests would be leaving in two days’ time. He was not meant for small talk and suffering simpering fools.
He sighed and pushed his turnips about with his fork.
“Then you agree with me, Dunkeld?” Lord Brandon peered at him from under bushy brows. “That latest prison reform bill was made in jest, surely. Only meant to appease the masses.”
Sin molded his features, trying to approximate interest. “Yes. But then all bills are attempts to appease the people. Very few politicians truly care if their policies succeed. As long as the goose remains fat in their own kitchens is all that matters.”
“How positively anti-monarchist of you.” Lord Abercairn swirled the wine in his goblet. “I didn’t realize that you had such democratic leanings, Dunkeld. You rarely speak in parliament.”
Sin grunted. Speaking was overrated. “Do you disagree?”
The man puckered his mouth. “Only with your conclusion. Placating the masses is often for their own good. Not everything needs a Machiavellian reason behind it.”
Sin narrowed his eyes. No, but more often than not, the people he met didn’t operate with the common good in mind. He opened his mouth to respond, but two figures at the dining room doors drew his attention.
A grin stretched his cheeks. Sin stood and strode for his friends. “Montague! Rothchild! How are you?” He shook his friends’ hands and accepted their backslaps. “I didn’t think you two would be able to make it.”
The Duke of Montague raised his eyebrows. “And miss the chance to meet your new wife? I hardly think so. I’m only sorry Elizabeth couldn’t come. She was most interested to meet the woman who would be a match for you, but I dropped her off at Rothchild’s estate. You know her sister is increasing with their first child.”
The Earl of Rothchild frowned, small worry lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes. “And it has been a difficult couple of months for my wife. If it hadn’t been for Elizabeth’s presence, I wouldn’t have left her.”
Montague coughed into his fist.
