Page 64 of Lyon of Scotland
“Where are Lord Strathburn and the lady?” Sir Frederic demanded. The girl faced them, appearing to quake in her boots.
“They are nae home at the moment, sir.” She glanced past him at Hannah, looking away as Hannah put a gloved finger to her lips and moved quietly toward them.
“Where are they? They must have said where they were going!”
“They dinna tell me where they went. I am just the maid, sir.”
“Where is the butler?” the larger man snapped.
“No one here, just—”
A door at the end of the main hall opened, and Nell Cameron came forward. She took in the scene, saw Hannah, and then stood calmly before the two men. She rested a hand high on her rounded stomach, a shawl tucked over her shoulders, and gave Dove a flat smile.
“Can I help you? If you wish to call on Lord Strathburn, you will need to come back later.”
“Where is here, and when do you expect him? Surely he told his housekeeper.”
“I do not know.” Nell motioned the maid away, who fled down the hall.
Hannah shut the door loudly behind her and walked toward them as the men spun around.
“Ah! The wife is home, I see,” Sir Frederic said.
Charles looked surprised and remorseful. “Miss Gordon! Er, Lady Strathburn.”
“Mr. Dove,” she said, ignoring Sir Frederic’s title. “Charles. Why are you here?”
“Came to finish some business. Where is Strathburn? Your housekeeper will not tell me.”
“She is not—” Before she could say more, Dove grabbed her arm and led her into the parlor, Charles and Nell following.
“Come here!” Dove took Hannah toward the sofa and pushed her to sit.
“Sir, let her go!” Nell said. “I do not know who you are, but you must leave.”
He spun. “You! Out!”
“My lady, shall I stay?” Nell widened her eyes at Hannah, who understood she was willing to play the housekeeper for now.
“Fetch tea, please,” Hannah said, hoping she would send the maid for help.
“Now,” Dove said, turning to Hannah. “I am here to collect something you have.”
“I cannot pay you. You know that. Go back to London until my husband decides how to deal with you.”
“Not that. I want the king’s coat of arms,” he barked. “Where is it?”
“What?” She stared at him, astonished, then looked at Charles. He turned red.
“Charles said you created the new royal Scottish coat of arms without Naylor’s permission. I came to collect it.”
“Charley?” She looked at him again.
“I am sorry, Miss Gor—my lady.”
“Do not deny it,” Dove said. “The boy says you have it.”
“Your son is not a boy. And my artwork is not yours.” She could not rise from the sofa, for he blocked her way, his big feet in front of her.
