Rothchild clapped his shoulder. “So, it is up to us to feel him out.” He nodded toward Abercairn. “Shall we have a go at it?”
Sin nodded and stomped to an unoccupied sofa near the earl. He plopped down and tried to think of another angle of attack. It seemed he and Abercairn had spoken of everything and nothing over the past five days. Aside from threats of physical force, he was at a loss of how to proceed.
Rothchild sat next to him and crossed one silk-clad leg over the other. “Where are Sutton and Summerset? I thought they were yet in Scotland?”
Lord Abercairn turned in their direction and leaned forward in his chair. Sin’s chair. “Last I’d heard, Sutton was causing trouble in Glasgow. Something about a fight in a distillery. Several casks of whisky were destroyed apparently.”
Damn. Sin hadn’t heard about that yet. Which raised the question … “Where did you hear that? I’ve heard no such report, and if the baron or Summerset found trouble in Scotland, I do think I’d be the first they’d write.”
“Would you?” The man licked the tip of his index finger and ran it along his eyebrow. “Perhaps you aren’t as informed as you think of your friends’ activities, or who directs them.”
An uneasy silence descended. Montague, standing next to the sofa, stiffened. Rothchild grew deeply interested in a scuff on his boot.
“I’m sure there is much of the inner workings of the British government that I’m unaware of.” Sin examined Abercairn’s words from every direction. Did he know Sutton and Summerset worked for the crown as spies? Did he know about the rest of them? “My friends don’t go about starting fights.” Not unless it was necessary. Or diverting. “And in these times of unrest in Scotland, I’m sure they’d know not to rouse unnecessary anger.”
Abercairn shrugged. “The line between necessary and unnecessary grows slimmer every day.” He glared up at Brandon as the earl stepped to close and jostled Abercairn’s drink arm. “Careful. Save the physical sport for the games tomorrow.”
“You intend to participate in the games?” Montague asked.
“Of course.” Abercairn finished his whisky and waved to a footman to refill his glass. “A Highland gathering is a way for real men to demonstrate their skills, and an uplifting display for our downtrodden countrymen.” He raised his glass Sin’s way. “I commend you for holding them before your ball.” Even though Abercairn was seated, he somehow managed to look down his nose at a standing Montague. “But dunnae worry, your grace. No Englishmen would be expected to muddy his boots in them.”
“I quite like muddying my boots.” Rothchild gave the man a smile that was all teeth. “Besides, as you say these are difficult times. I think it would be a good show if the English and Scottish were to join together.”
Abercairn raised his eyebrows. “I look forward to meeting you on the field of play tomorrow. Perhaps a gentleman’s wager would be in order?”
Sin tuned the voices out, having no interest in the Thomas-wagging contest. He and his friends had been agents of the crown for over ten years now. He supposed it was only to be expected that their activities would be uncovered with time. Since their marriages, Montague, Rothchild, and Sutton had cut back on the jobs they’d taken. As the thought of leaving Winnifred for any extended period of time made his skin itch, he supposed he’d curb his activities, as well. But if word was getting out, they’d all be forced into early retirement.
That would put Summerset’s back right up.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Sin lifted his head. Montague raised an eyebrow at him, expectant.
Sin grunted. Right. Host duties. This was why he never held ball or parties. He stood. “Shall we join the ladies?” Not caring if anyone objected, he turned and strode for the door. A footman swung it open just before he reached it.
The evenings with his guests were interminable. At least Winnifred would soon be by his side. He could survive anything with her next to him. Even two more nights of mindless gossip and failed attempts at espionage.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Winnifred tugged at the bit of plaid fabric that hemmed her new kid gloves. New bits and bobs seemed to appear in her wardrobe almost daily, and almost all with the Dunkeld tartan on them. Another way to mark her as his, she supposed. Another way to make her feel as though she belonged.
“Lovely day for a festival.” Lady Margaret pulled a hamper towards her and rooted through the wicker. She, Winnifred, Deirdre, and Lady Abercairn sat on a wide blanket spread on a hill overlooking the loch. The rocky shore was to be the central grounds for the games, and it seemed as though everyone in the whole county had come out to watch or participate.
Horatio inched toward Lady Margaret on his belly, sniffing the air. “Do ye know I’ve never actually seen any of these games,” she said. “Unless ye count the summer my brother and his friends decided to attempt a caber toss on their own. It didnae go well.” She bit into an apple.
Lady Abercairn wrinkled her nose. “If you consider freezing on this hill a nice day then I don’t wonder what you consider a bad one. And please, use a knife. You look like a horse eating an apple in that manner.” Banquo flopped down next to her and rolled to his back, offering his belly up for a hopeful rub. Lady Abercairn pulled her cloak more tightly about her.
Lady Margaret paused, apple poised at her lips, then slowly lowered the fruit to her lap, looking downcast.
Winnifred exchanged a look with Deirdre. Her mother-in-law rolled her eyes before picking out her own apple and taking a large, noisy bite.
Winnifred turned towards the loch, pressing her lips together to hide her smile. She leaned back on her palms and surveyed the mass of burly men thronging the beach. The Dunkeld colors encircled the waist of most men, but some reds and blues dotted the field of play, the guests from other clans. Winnifred had never seen so many bare knees and hairy thighs before in her life.
She scooched forward on the blanket, searching for a familiar pair of knees. Sin had dressed and left Kenmore before she’d awoken, and the thought of seeing her own burly Scot in a kilt did something queer to her insides.
Two familiar faces strolled toward their blanket. Unfortunately, Montague and Rothchild wore trousers, the duke in a pair of fine, black wool breeches and the earl in a worn pair of buckskins.
Winnifred wasn’t the only woman disappointed. “Had our host no kilts to lend you gentlemen?” Lady Abercairn asked. She looked the men up and down. “Even though neither of you are Scottish, I’m certain no one would object to wearing our uniform while you play in the games.”
Banquo flipped to his feet and bounded up to the newcomers. He raised on to his back legs, poised to jump, when Montague held up a hand and stared down at the dog. Caught mid-leap, Banquo whined and flopped to the side, stumbling. With a grumble, he lowered to his belly and stared up at the duke, watchful.
