A Most Dangerous Profession(39)

“Princess Caraboo was an amateur, pretending to be from some made-up country,” Moira scoffed. “I convinced the Russian ambassador that I was a princess from his own country.”

“Thank goodness they have so many.”

“That was a boon. He kept asking for specifics, and I had to put him off repeatedly. Meanwhile more and more members of the ton began to receive me. Eventually it became easier for him to believe the deception, too.”

“You were accepted everywhere, even by the prince.”

“People see foreign royals as exotic and exciting, so I was giving them something they wanted. As I speak very good Russian, it was relatively easy. I was invited everywhere, to elaborate dinners and luncheons, and modistes all along Bond Street begged me to use their services without charge.”

“That rapacious lot gave away their services for free?”

“They profited from their gifts, as it brought them more business.”

“Ah, of course. They could announce that they were the modiste dressing the beautiful Princess Alexandria.”

“And then raise their prices accordingly.” She smiled. “It was fun and exciting, while it lasted.”

“You were very convincing. You must have traveled extensively to have managed that.”

“Aunt Talaitha and I traveled all over Europe, especially Russia, where she has many friends. She was determined I should be accomplished; she taught me Greek and Latin, history, philosophy, even some mathematics. She said a brain was all we had between us and starvation, so it was important to feed the brain first.”

“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”

“She was. Very much so.”

He caught the sadness in Moira’s eyes. “She is gone?”

“Two years ago. She came to live with me when I had Rowena. The Scottish winters were too damp for her and—” A noise out in the hall caught her attention. “I believe our haggis is arriving.”

Within seconds, the clattering in the hallway turned into the innkeeper’s wife and her daughter, a plump young miss. Robert tried to hide his impatience, but when he caught Moira’s unguarded expression, he realized it was for the best. Though he was fascinated to finally meet the real Moira MacAllister, she needed food and sleep.

After the women had deposited their platters and utensils, the innkeeper’s wife beckoned them to the table. “That’s a lovely sight, if I say so meself. There’s yer haggis with tatties and neet, in a malt whiskey sauce. If’n ye need anything else, ye’ve but to ask.”

With that, they left Robert and Moira alone.

He went to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “Shall we?”

Moira stood, and though she still wasn’t steady on her feet, she appeared stronger for having rested. As she walked toward him, he had a new appreciation for her outfit. To fool people into believing her a male, she’d bound her chest and then dressed in the French fashion of an exaggerated collar, bunched trousers, and wide coattail, which was a perfect way to hide a female form. Her hair, wrapped about her head in a thick braid easily hidden by a hat, was close to its natural red. Another good wash and the dye would disappear completely.

He held her chair and then took the seat opposite, saying in an aggrieved tone, “You had to ask for haggis.”

Feeling comforted by the intimacy of the small parlor, Moira chuckled. “Afraid?”

He sent her a flat look and ate a piece of haggis.

His face flushed, and a faint sheen appeared on his forehead. She eyed her own plate with misgiving and poked at the haggis with her fork. The grayish blob, already removed from the stomach in which it had been cooked, crumbled apart, and a spicy odor like sausage lifted from it. Pretend it is sausage, she told herself.

She took a forkful, closed her eyes, and put it in her mouth.

A moment later, she was gasping and reaching for her glass of water. “The pepper!” she said when she could finally speak, her voice cracking in protest.

Robert nodded in sympathy. “My brother-in-law Alexander MacLean takes great delight in forcing me to eat all sorts of Scottish foods, though he knows that my grandmother is more Scottish than he. I’ve had all sorts of haggis, which comes in an amazing variety, some much stronger than others, which is why I rarely ask for it. But this one . . . I’ve never seen so much pepper in a haggis.”

“I should have ordered the goose.”

He looked at his plate. “I’m glad I didn’t serve myself a generous portion.”