Page 65 of Lyon of Scotland
“I am the legal authority at the College of Arms. I can take it from you.”
“Why do you want that so badly?”
“Tell her!” he snarled at his son. Before anyone could speak, the parlor door swung open and Nell entered, carrying a tray with teapot and cups.
“Get out of here!” Dove roared.
“Just tea, sir,” Nell said, her eyes meeting Hannah’s. Nell set the tray on a table and stood by. Hannah realized she had no intention of leaving.
“Go on, Mr. Dove,” Hannah said.
“He told me you designed the king’s Scottish crest. But Sir George wants my son to do that,” Dove snapped. “So I want that coat of arms—drawing, painting, I do not care what it is. Give it to me. Charles will design it instead.”
Charles was a competent artist, Hannah knew, but his research skills in the archives were lacking, especially for Scottish emblems. If he tried to design the royal Scottish armorials, there would be flaws. “The Scottish office needs to do that.”
“Lord Lyon requested that, but the Crown rules Scotland. England’s College of Arms takes precedence in this matter. And my son will have credit for the work.”
She lifted her chin. “I gave them to Lord Lyon. He will decide how to use them.”
“You had better get them back,” Dove snarled. “You know that I have some sway over you—some things you do not want known. Listen, girl. Give me those drawings now, or send someone to fetch them. Or I will get them myself with a policeescort if I must. And while I am here, you can pay that debt now as well.”
“Why do you want the drawings and the money so badly that you would come all the way up here? You do not need the money. And they are just sketches. It makes no sense, sir!”
“It does to me,” he said, leaning down and lowering his voice. “I needed you out of the way, so I made sure you were responsible for the debt. I knew you could not pay it. Then I arranged for Strathburn to marry you—he had no choice. I wanted to make sure you were never available.”
“Available!” she said. “What on earth—”
“My son is still smitten with you, a Scottish nobody!” he snapped. “He would have married you, the fool. I had to get rid of you.”
“Father!” Charles said. “Miss—Hannah,” he said, stumbling over what to call her. “I did not know any of that, and I am not sure what he is talking about. But I came with him because of the drawings. He was incensed.”
“I am incensed!” Dove roared. “You, girl, are taking way the privilege my son would have had. Those blasted drawings, that damned royal crest, should be his work! I want it destroyed, do you hear? Or I will destroy you and Strathburn both. Give me those designs and pay what you owe—or go to debtors’ prison while your husband is charged with smuggling. I swear I will find a way to get rid of both of you. Troublesome Scots. Always causing problems. Taking what I want—what I care about—”
“Your threats will never hold.” Hannah stood then, toe to toe with him, so fast that he was startled and stepped back to keep his balance.
“Tea, sir?” Nell came toward him, holding a silver teapot.
“No tea! Get out. I am talking to Miss Gordon.”
“Lady Strathburn. And I believe she does not want to talk to you.”
“Good God, send your housekeeper away!” he told Hannah.
“I am not the housekeeper! I am Lady Cameron!” Nell said loudly.
A tall girl, she raised the silver teapot high and brought it down on the side of Dove’s head with a heavy clang. His eyes popped wide and he stumbled back, dropping to the sofa, which sagged under him. He raised a hand to his head just as Charles dove toward him.
“Father!” He knelt beside him, then looked at Nell. “What have you done!”
“Only what he deserved,” Nell said, and calmly set the pot aside.
Stunned, silent, Hannah realized it held no water. The girl had brought a weapon.
“Aye, empty,” Nell told her. “Why waste good tea on this horrible man?”
Dove lay sprawled on the sofa, blood trickling from a lump on his head. He groaned as Charles sat beside him.
“Put this on his head,” Hannah said then, picking up a linen tea towel. “We do not want to spoil the damask.” She sat on Dove’s other side. He looked pale and dazed as she wadded the cloth and pressed it against his head. He moaned, leaning back, and Charles took the cloth to continue to hold it to his father’s head.
