“Sorry to disappoint you,” Garrett replied, attempting to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. By his brother’s raised eyebrow, he knew he had failed utterly.
“Ah,” Gordon murmured. “So the tone is set.” He moved purposefully to the mantelpiece. “A brandy, Garrett?” he asked over his shoulder. He poured two tumblers without waiting for a reply, returning to hand one to Garrett. “Here, you seem tense. This might help you relax.” He clinked his glass to Garrett’s, then took a good swallow. “Go on, drink up. It’s the best quality, I can assure you. You probably haven’t tasted good brandy in some time.”
Garrett set the untouched glass on the table next to his chair. “I’d rather talk first, Gordon. Perhaps I’ll share a drink with you later.”
“As you wish,” Gordon said lightly, sitting down at his desk. “Dammit, man, at least take a seat. And you might cease that glowering.” He chuckled wryly. “I’ve already surmised this isn’t purely a social call or necessarily a friendly one.”
Garrett resumed his chair, not taking his eyes from his brother. “It’s a personal matter, Gordon, and I’ll come right to the point. I take it you’re still interested in possessing Rosemoor?”
Gordon’s gaze widened slightly, his expression tightening. “An unexpected question, Garrett, I must admit,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, studying Garrett thoughtfully. “I’m sure you can guess my answer. Why do you ask?”
Garrett felt an oppressive weight lift from his chest, though he knew the battle was not won yet. “I may be interested in parting with it—for a small price, of course.” He watched Gordon’s face, gauging his reaction. He could see his brother was stunned, though he was trying hard not to show it.
“What has brought about this change of heart?” Gordon inquired shrewdly. “Gambling debts, perhaps? I’ve been told military officers spend much of their leisure in such idle diversion. Have you gotten yourself into a bit of financial trouble, Garrett?”
“Again, sorry to disappoint you,” Garrett responded with a short laugh. “My finances are secure.” He sobered quickly. “My price is this. I have a friend, a young woman I met in Scotland, who desperately needs my help. Unfortunately, I cannot help her without your assistance, Gordon.”
“Have I heard you correctly?” he asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “You puzzle me, Garrett. You speak of Rosemoor in one breath and a mysterious Scotswoman in the next.”
“Exactly. They are intertwined, Gordon. If you are able to assist me in this matter to my full satisfaction, I shall present you with Rosemoor. Then we shall both have what we want.”
Gordon did not reply for several long moments, his eyes boring into Garrett’s. His voice was barely above a whisper when at last he spoke. “You have captured my full attention, Garrett. Now, what has this woman done? It must be something serious for you to consider striking such a rare and priceless bargain.” His gaze narrowed knowingly as Garrett sharply exhaled. “Ah, so it is just as I thought.”
Garrett was not surprised by his brother’s astuteness. “Her name is Madeleine Fraser,” he began. “She’s the daughter of a baronet who was killed at Culloden—”
“A Jacobite?” Gordon interjected archly. “I’m sure you can hear Father spinning in his grave. You and he were always far apart politically, but this…” At Garrett’s frown he hastily apologized. “Go on. I’ll not interrupt you again.”
Garrett quickly recounted the entire story, doing his best to ignore Gordon’s changing expressions: incredulity, contemplation, and grim humor. Finally a serious look settled on his countenance as Garrett relayed General Hawley’s plans for his prisoners.
When Garrett finished, a weighty silence fell over the room. It seemed to stretch interminably, filling him with dread. He felt an added chill when Gordon tossed his head back and downed the fiery contents of his glass in one draft, then rose to refill it once again. He returned slowly, stopping in front of Garrett’s chair. He lifted the tumbler as if in salute.
“I applaud you, Garrett,” he said sarcastically, shattering the grim silence. “You could not have presented me with a more difficult task. A king’s pardon, and the restoration of an estate, for a Highland wench nicknamed Black Jack who will shortly be tried for treason against the Crown, if she hasn’t been already.” He laughed under his breath. “If you were not dangling Rosemoor before me, I would have told you right out I could not help you.” He paused, taking a quick sip. “Even so, I cannot guarantee my efforts will prove successful. You may find yourself alone and growing old in Rosemoor.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Garrett shouted angrily, jumping to his feet. “Either you can help me or you can’t!”
Gordon grabbed the glass on the table, sloshing some of the brandy onto the carpet. He shoved the glass at Garrett. “Drink this,” he demanded between clenched teeth. “When you’re calmer, we’ll talk.” He walked around the desk, pausing to peer out the window as a glossy black carriage clattered to a halt near the front door. His tone softened somewhat. “Ah, Celinda must have completed her afternoon calls.” He turned around just as Garrett slammed his empty tumbler on the table.
“There, I feel better,” Garrett said, his throat burning. “Do we have an agreement, Lord Kemsley?”
Gordon nodded, eyeing Garrett steadily. “I will draft a petition of pardon and present it to the king tomorrow morning. I well understand the need for haste in this matter. “
“What will you tell him?”
Gordon impatiently waved off Garrett’s question. “Leave the particulars to me, Garrett. I know the king’s mind. His Highness has an intense dislike for Jacobites, as you’ve seen displayed in the Duke of Cumberland’s and Hawley’s recent behavior, both being sons after his own heart.”
“I’d call them butchers,” Garrett spat.
“Now, now, brother, you’d best be careful what you say, or you might find yourself being tried for treason,” Gordon warned, throwing him a dark look.
Garrett’s jaw tightened, his eyes flaring. “Don’t even think of it. You know such a scheme would only drag you down with me, blackening your name along with mine.”
“Believe me, Garrett, I realized long ago that that idea lacked potential,” Gordon commented dryly. He began to pace behind his desk, idly playing with the frothy white lace at his throat. “A young woman stealing food to save her starving people… Well, even if she is a Jacobite the story does have a decided touch of pathos.”
“Pathos?” Garrett snorted. “You have a gift for reducing brave and desperate acts to a matter of little consequence, Gordon. You should see what’s been done to the Highlands, see the innocent people struggling to survive on what little we’ve left to them.”
Gordon pointedly ignored his outburst. “Yes, it just might sway the king,” he considered aloud. “After all, the Highland Scots are his subjects as well, though they’d be the last to admit it. King George has already granted pardons for some of the misguided fools who participated in the uprising. Why not pardon a woman who has wisely seen fit to charm an English officer?” Suddenly he stopped pacing to stare at Garrett.
“What?” Garrett snapped, glaring back at him.
