Page 21 of Lyon of Scotland
“Uisge beatha.Your father makes good stuff.” He sipped. Truly it was harsh, and again he tasted an odd bitterness.
“My father is dead.” Dove downed the rest. “Distillery failed. The Scottish competition ruined him—barley brew takes more time to produce and the upper crust wants quality. It took a few years to sink us though. One night he confronted a group ofScots at the docks bringing their stuff in. It went bad. He was killed.”
“My God. Sorry to hear it.”
“So I came poor to London, instead of inheriting a business and fortune. Had to work to pay the rest of my school and make something of myself. But I did it. My son will do it too if I have to drag him upward. He has my father’s name but no backbone, that boy. Artist,” he sneered. “Drink up! To my son!”
Dare sipped, thinking of Charles Dove with sympathy, and set the glass down. It had a strangely bitter taste and an odd effect on him. His head spun. He wavered. Dove’s voice faded, came back.
“Your son—does good work,” he managed.
“Hmph. An artist. He would marry an artist if he could. It will not happen. Pretty Miss Gordon would ruin him.” Dove sent him a sideways glance.
“Listen to me.” He stood, wavering a bit, looming over seated Dove. “Leave her be. You may dislike Scots, but that is not hers to bear. She has done nothing to you.”
“She owes me money. A good deal of money.”
That took him aback, so that he physically rocked back on his heels, being oddly off balance. “Money? Is that what this is about?”
“I work hard for every cent. I loaned it out and thought it would come back in spades.”
“The risk of moneylending,” Dare said.
Dove sipped. “My cousin keeps a stock of this whisky for her clients. But I imagine the stuff you are transporting is even better quality than this.”
So much better, Dare thought. “Highland whisky is exceptional.”
“Risky enterprise, a Scot shipping a quantity of whisky to London. I would buy the whole lot—give you a good price. Reduce the risk.”
Dare’s balance wavered. He folded his arms, locked his knees. “It is not for sale.”
“No? Give it to me and I will help you avoid trouble. You know what I mean.”
If he was hinting at smuggling, it was ridiculous. “I do not intend to sell it.”
Suddenly he felt sick. One knee buckled. Mustering his strength, he straightened. Dove rose from his chair. “Did your Highland relatives make that whisky?”
“They—” He lost his reply, forgot the question, felt ill.
Dove pushed at his shoulder with a single finger. About to hit back, Dare began to move his arm. Something was wrong. He was not sure where his arm had gone. His legs folded, and he fell to one knee, the floor tilting under him.
“Drunkard,” Dove called out. “Titan! Come get this fellow. Take him upstairs to lie down. Disgusting Scots—they drink too much.”
Struggling to rise, Dare managed to stand. The bitter taste rose again in his mouth, and he tried to recognize it. He had tasted such in the war when he was wounded and treated for pain—
The floor felt soft and hardly there as he fell into it.
The morning was gray and drizzly as Hannah walked past St. Paul’s and turned the corner at Godliman Street toward the College of Arms. She had shared Oliver Huntly’s carriage for a bit, then got out to walk the rest of the way. She needed the cool October air to clear her head after the late evening at the theatre. And this morning, she wanted the art room to herself to focus on her work before the others arrived.
Tugging at the brim of her black bonnet, hoping its pleated ribbons would survive the rain, she pulled her short black jacket closer over her dress of Prussian blue wool, long sleeved against the autumn chill. She carried her largest tapestry reticule today to protect its contents, several sketches rolled in a leather cover.
For weeks, she had worked at home to design royal armorials with appropriate Scottish emblems for the king’s coronation. She had not told Sir George about them, fearing he might take the work and assign it to Charles or someone else rather than a Scotswoman. She hoped he would change his mind when he saw her work today.
Her instinct to keep her work secret had been correct, for she had heard that Lord Lyon wanted the work of the Scottish armorials to be given to his heraldry office. Naylor had refused, so she had heard. With her precise line drawings nearly ready, only needing coloring and approval, she had decided to show them to Sir George now in case he would reconsider Lord Lyon’s request and either give them to Lyon, or allow her, a Scot, to continue working on them in London.
She had nearly mentioned them to Sir George last night, but Dove had flustered her so much that she could not find the moment. And Lord Strathburn’s unexpected chivalry had been so thrilling and distracting that she had forgotten entirely about the drawings. Last night, a dream reminded her of them, and of Strathburn, too.
In the dream, he had leaned close to her, murmuring of lions and crowns, hawks and swords, bars and shields and stars. Whispering of armorial emblems in a deep and seductive voice, he had taken her into his arms and kissed her. She woke yearning to see him, and also longing to be home in Scotland.
