Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(35)
The duke was the perfect statesman—quiet, learned, and possessing subdued taste but not parsimony. He was devoted to his mistress, so people whispered, but never let his wife or family want for anything.
“Papa,” Celia said as the duke took a precise bite of his toast. “Why does this newspaper accuse you of being a Jacobite? That is hardly accurate when you mustered troops and raised funds to put down Charles Stuart’s uprising.”
She waved her hand at the paper, which had printed a fairly virulent attack on her father, accusing him of wishing to plunge the country back under Catholic rule, which was ridiculous. Her father, like her mother, was avidly anti-Papist, and anyway, he could never accomplish such a thing even if he wanted to.
Instead of looking alarmed or ashamed, the duke chewed his toast and swallowed. “Take no notice, my dear. I had the temerity to say that the defeated Scots should not be so harshly treated. The Young Pretender must be caught and executed, lest he try again, but those swept into the conflict needn’t be unduly punished. Fined, stripped of whatever title they held, and no longer given power to command armed troops, of course, but that should be sufficient.”
He took another bite, unworried.
Celia thought of Alec in his shabby clothes, his motherless daughter with nothing to look forward to but poverty. Alec had not only been angry at the men in the salon, but also at the Scots who’d pulled his family into the conflict and lost them everything.
“This will not hurt you, will it?” Celia touched the newspaper. Though the Whigs held great power at the moment, the duke and the head of government, Pelham, didn’t always see eye to eye.
The duke shrugged. “I doubt it. Whenever a man voices an opinion that’s contrary to the most popular one, he’s called a Jacobite. The word has become meaningless, and the Jacobites’ power has been broken for good.”
He crunched down another bite of toast.
If the duke knew that a Jacobite, or at least a Highland soldier, was giving his daughter art lessons, what would he do? Arrest Alec? What about Lady Flora, for allowing Alec to live in her house? Celia had no doubt anymore that Lady Flora knew exactly who Alec was. She’d have found out straight away.
Lady Flora was the most puzzling person in this situation. She was staunchly loyal to the Protestant line of kings—King George was in fact quite fond of Lady Flora. She’d held a huge soiree after Culloden, celebrating the British victory and Charles Stuart’s flight.
So why had she suddenly invited a Highlander who’d killed King George’s soldiers to stay in her house and teach drawing to the daughter of one of the most powerful dukes in England?
The all-powerful duke brushed crumbs from his coat with a buttery hand. “Oh, my dear, I nearly forgot. The most curious thing has happened.”
“Yes?” Celia tried to listen, though her thoughts strayed to Alec and his kisses, her anticipation of continuing them today. “What is this curious thing?” It might be Lord Pelham’s new wig or her mother actually speaking to a woman beneath her station.
“The Marquess of Harrenton has been laid up.”
Celia’s chest squeezed, and the eggs she’d eaten seemed to curdle inside her. She did not want to speak of the Marquess of Harrenton. “Is he ill?” she asked politely.
“No, no. It is most astounding. He was waylaid, in Green Park. Set upon by ruffians and beaten quite thoroughly. Nothing stolen, which is the intriguing thing. He was brought down by fists and left on a path for his valet to find. I hear he is abed now, black and blue and recovering.” The duke chuckled. “Serves him right.”
Chapter 11
Celia stared at her father in shock. “Set upon?”
She pictured the Marquess of Harrenton, his rotund body spinning every which way as he tried to fend off his attackers. He’d strike out with his long walking stick, his frowsy wig slipping, curses coming from his foul mouth, bathing the miscreants in bad breath.
Why did she imagine one of those attackers as a tall man with dark red hair, large fists flying, his face a snarl of rage?
Had Alec, who’d scowled fiercely when she’d told him about the Disaster, decided to exact vengeance for her? The Highlanders were said to be quite possessive, hold grudges, and enjoy revenge.
No, she was being fanciful. Green Park was notorious for highwaymen, and Lord Harrenton was arrogant enough not to take sufficient care. Alec might have had nothing to do with it.
Celia thought of Alec’s scarred arms, his battered and bruised face, his grin shining through his wounds. He was a fighting man—he could cheerfully take down a waddling lordship despite that lordship’s walking stick and his footmen.
Celia’s fingers shook as she took up her last slice of toast. “You seem gleeful, Papa. Lord Harrenton is your great friend.”
“He was, indeed. There was much to admire about him. But he dared put his hands on my daughter—I do not care that it was his desperation to break through your stubbornness and force you to change your no to a yes. As much as I liked the match, he ought to have respected your decision. Had I been a younger man, I would have called him out. As it is, I can only cut him whenever I see him, which is sadly too often.”
Celia froze with her toast halfway to her mouth. She’d known her father sympathized with her, but she hadn’t realized the extent of his anger. Her father rarely showed that emotion. He and the marquess were still political allies, and she’d thought her father had forgotten the matter.