Page 69 of Lyon of Scotland
“Thank you, Mr. Whitworth,” Dare said. He left the others to walk over to Frederic Dove. He handed him the draft. “I believe this is owed to you by Whitworth.”
Dove hardly glanced at it, and groaned. Dare handed it to Charles.
“What’s this?” Charles asked. Dare realized that he did not know about the debt, let alone all that had happened to Hannah Gordon in London.
But Dare knew one thing for certain—Charles Dove was another who loved Hannah Gordon.
Returning to his wife’s side, Dare took her hand, their fingers intertwined in the folds of her gown, hidden from view. He wanted her to know she was safe and all was well. She had resolved this without his help, and he was simply here to support her—always.
“Finally! The constable.” Nell opened the door to admit a law officer and the little upstairs maid who had rushed to fetch him. The constable, in a brown coat that hardly hid the pistol and short wooden staff tucked in his belt, doffed his tall black hat.
“Trouble here?” he asked.
Then the explanations began, and three lawyers and a doctor—Scott, Hugh, Dare, and Linhope—conferred with the constable. The fourth lawyer, Dove, sat looking dull and weary, patting at his headwound.
“We can let the gentleman cool his heels for a few days behind bars—since you say he needs rest, but we want him to stay in one place,” the constable said. “And then he will be brought before a judge, if that is what you want. It is up to you, sirs. And ladies,” he added.
“Some of this is up to the ladies.” Dare turned. “My dears,” he murmured to his wife and sister, who had taken seats in the parlor, patiently waiting, both looking spent, “what do you think?”
“Let him sit in jail,” Nell said. “Then you have time to draw up warrants of assault.”
“Do not let him stay in Scotland,” Hannah said. “Send him home to be judged there, not here. I never want to see him again.”
“There you have it,” Dare told the constable. “You can take him for now, and we will think about appropriate charges. Thank you, sir.”
“I will need to fetch some help, don’t want to take the fellow by myself. I will be back, my lord. My lady,” he said, addressing Hannah.
“Thank you,” Hannah said, sounding weary.
When he had left, the others drifted back into the parlor. Nell called for the maid and asked for tea and scones to restore everyone. Remaining in the foyer with Hannah, Dare took her hand. “Aye so?” he murmured.
“Aye so.” She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment and sighed, then looked up at him. “Is it truly done?”
“Not yet, but it will be, once we have seen to all the details.”
“What about Charley?” she asked then. “Should he go south or stay to wait for his father?”
“I will talk to him and see what he prefers. I know you care about him.”
He tipped her head, her smile faint and weary, yet her eyes were bright—perhaps with vast relief, deep love, and hope. He saw them all at once, shining there. Leaning down, he kissed her, tender and lingering. He did not care who might see, though he guessed his sister and his friends would discreetly turn away and give them the moment they needed. Then he drew back.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“My love,” he said. Just that. It was enough to fill his heart, his home, his life, and lend more sparkle to the light in her eyes. “My dear lass.”
Epilogue
Unwrapping the paperand string covering the paintings of the new royal coats of arms, Hannah slid them one by one across the table toward Sir George Naylor. Silent, waiting, she glanced up at Dare. He gave her a subtle nod.
“What do you think?” Dare asked after a while.
Sir George did not answer, looking at each painting in turn, bright colors and clean ink lines on thick paper, each one sandwiched between a paper frame and a backing board for protection. He picked up a painting, examined it, set it down, picked up another, and continued his silent scrutiny. Red lions, white unicorns, bright quartered shields in scarlet, gold, cobalt blue and more, scattered over the table in white paperboard frames.
Those carefully crafted paintings were like children to her, Hannah thought. She set a hand to her abdomen, briefly wondering at something she had begun to suspect. Pressing away a smile, she felt her heartbeat quicken with anxiety as the quiet stretched out in Sir George’s handsome London office.
Dare set his hand to the back of her waist for a moment, and her breathing calmed. Beyond the tall windows, snowflakes gently dusted London’s gray skies in the days before Yuletide.
“You did all of these?” Sir George glanced at her from under his brows.
