Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(34)
When the play of dear friend being kind to dear friend was at last finished, Mrs. Reynolds gave Alec a knowing look and began.
“I am not sure I discovered anything of use to you, Mr. Finn,” she said. Lady Flora had decreed at the outset that they should always use Alec’s assumed name, in case a servant might happen to hear and repeat any part of Lord Alec Mackenzie, even inadvertently. “I stayed with Lady Westwood, in her husband’s house, which lies between Cambridge and Newmarket. A regiment of Foot are billeted there—her husband, Sir Amos, has a large property, and the regiment uses outbuildings on the far edge of the estate. Lady Westwood will certainly not have soldiers in the house.”
She and Lady Flora exchanged a look and a smile, old friends discussing people they’d known for years. “Certainly not,” Lady Flora agreed.
“But the commander is often invited for supper, being a crony of Sir Amos. He and Sir Amos discuss many a military matter, as Sir Amos served in the same regiment until his retirement. Lady Westwood enters with her opinions instead of sitting in silence, as she has many, and apparently Colonel Graham is used to this, as he speaks openly with her and is not offended. She apologizes to me afterward for making me listen to tedious conversation.”
Alec imagined Mrs. Reynolds, with her polite air, pretending to be interested in her roast fowl and sorbet while the colonel and Sir Amos discussed the business of the regiment, all the while listening avidly.
“And what do these military gentlemen have to say?” Alec asked, his fingers tightening on his knees.
“Much about France—they were both at Fontenoy. Colonel Graham returned home with the Duke of Cumberland when he was recalled to put down the Jacobites. The colonel himself did not fight in Scotland, but he helped move prisoners to London for trial.”
And execution. The word was not spoken but hung in the air.
Mrs. Reynolds continued. “Colonel Graham was surprised that some of the Scotsmen he escorted were perfect gentlemen, educated and well-read.” Her lips twitched into a cool smile. “So many expect all Highlanders to be rough barbarians who can barely speak, and daily crush rocks with their bare hands. Colonel Graham said these men changed his mind.”
“Are any of these well-read Highlanders known to us?” Alec kept his tone casual but his heart thumped. Not that he expected Will would let himself be anyone’s prisoner for long, and Colonel Graham must be speaking of men who’d surrendered after Culloden or who’d been taken at the forts along Loch Ness. Will had been long gone by then, escorting Mal and Mary to France.
“No.” Mrs. Reynolds gave Alec a sad look from her brilliant blue eyes. “I’m sorry, he never mentioned your brother. As I said, I might not have anything to report that can help you. But one evening, Colonel Graham began to speak of a group of prisoners, and Sir Amos cut him off with a significant glance at his wife and me. After that I kept my ears open for any snatch of conversation about it.”
She leaned to Alec, pitching her voice so that anyone outside the door would hear only a murmur.
“The colonel mentioned a house, and he spoke of prisoners in the same breath. I don’t know what house—whether Sir Amos’s or another, I could not discover. But from what I gathered, not all the prisoners were taken to London. There are some that have been neither executed nor tried, nor transported, but are in limbo somewhere. Whether your brother is one of them, I have no idea.”
Alec chilled, though his heart beat faster. Was Will among them? Or had he found these prisoners and tried to help them escape—Will would do something like that—and been caught? Captured, or killed in the act?
“A name was also spoken in regard to this house,” Mrs. Reynolds went on. “That name was the Duke of Crenshaw.”
Celia’s father. Alec sat back, waves of rage, worry, and hope crashing over him. A house with Highlanders imprisoned, which might or might not have anything to do with Will.
The Glaswegian he’d met at the tavern had mentioned a house with Scotsmen inside it, and then he’d been killed. Because he possessed information? Or had that fight been a simple robbery? Plenty of footpads roamed London’s back streets. Or had Crenshaw sent toughs to make certain any knowledge was crushed out?
The house was worth investigating, Alec told himself, trying to cool his anger. Will had taught him that keeping his head was the wisest thing, no matter how he felt. How Will managed it Alec didn’t know. His rage rose, the need to go to that house and tear it open to find out who was inside strong.
He’d have to do more than investigate—if Highlanders were there, Alec could not pluck out Will and leave the others to their fates. Will would be the first to agree. They’d have to all be freed.
Whether or not Will was among these prisoners or had anything to do with them at all, Alec needed to find out more about them. And the knowledge seemed to be lodged in the head of the Duke of Crenshaw, whose daughter had shared with Alec kisses of fiery passion.
Celia set aside her newspaper and turned to the Duke of Crenshaw, who serenely buttered toast at the head of the breakfast table.
Her father was not a big man, plump, yes, but small and round rather than broad. His simple wig was subdued, as were his dark blue frock coat and waistcoat, his fine cotton shirt and stock barely visible above the high-buttoned waistcoat. The Duke of Crenshaw could never be called ostentatious. Yet, his clothes were made from the most expensive fabric and lace brought home in the East India Company’s ships, so he was by no means dull or puritanical.