Page 7 of Lyon of Scotland
“You will find him keener for the whisky than the royal armorials,” Naylor drawled. “Is it legal, this whisky?”
Dare gave him a flat smile; Scottish whisky and smuggling did not always go hand in hand, though the English might think so. “Transported as a gift, aye. If sold, then no. That would make the brew illicit and me a smuggler.”
Naylor chuckled. “Indeed. I trust it is excellent stuff.”
“It is. While I am here, Sir George, I wonder if I might consult your archives to research some armorials that are awaitingapproval in the Lyon Court.” That excuse would keep him here longer, Dare thought, and near Hannah Gordon.
“Of course. Do you have plans for Thursday evening? My wife and I will attend a performance at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. We have seats in Lord Scarborough’s box. He is my wife’s uncle, you see. There is room for several guests. Will you join us? I have already invited your acquaintance, Miss Gordon, and her cousins. Edmund Kean has the main role onstage that night.”
And here was another chance to see her again. Fate was smiling on him. Dare smiled too. “Thank you. But by coincidence, Sir Walter invited me to attend the same performance. He sometimes uses the Duke of Gordon’s box.”
“I will look for you then. Let me show you the archives and our offices.”
“I would be very interested in seeing the art rooms as well.” He could hardly believe his luck. Fate, indeed, had brought him to London at the right time.
Perhaps Sir Walter Scott was correct; perhaps it was time to consider marriage.
“This way, sir.” Naylor opened the door.
“Miss Gordon!”
Seated at the drawing table, Hannah froze, inked pen in hand. The man’s snide, arrogant voice sent shivers down her spine. She did not look up as Sir Frederic Dove entered the room. As a lawyer for the College of Arms, he had the right to enter the offices, and no right to treat her like a servant—which he frequently did.
“Miss Gordon, we must talk.”
Shoulders tensed, she continued her painstaking work, giving her attention to the page tacked to the slanted desktop. If she stopped now, she’d lose the precision of the ink line; if she stopped quickly, she risked spoiling the meticulous design shewas creating. Just now, the drawing was more important than what Sir Frederic Dove wanted.
She knew all too well what that was: He insisted she owed him money.
That was the reason she was working as a herald painter, and why she had remained in London to earn a paltry income rather than return to Scotland as she longed to do. How had life gone so wrong for her in just a few months?
Whitworth had left her suddenly, saddled with a debt she was being pressured to repay. With her dreams crushed, she was too fraught and embarrassed to travel home and beg help from Papa. He would be disappointed, even angry when he learned what Whitworth had done…and what Frederic Dove was doing.
But Papa was away and unaware of all that, and she intended to keep it that way.
“Miss Gordon!”
She carefully lifted the nib from the paper so it would not blot. Looking up, she caught the gaze of the young man seated at the table across from her. Charles Dove stilled his own pen and glanced past her toward his father.
“Sir Frederic,” Hannah said, turning. “What is it?”
“We must talk.” Frederic Dove paused, standing in the space between the two desks. He was a big man, gray haired, burly, with red cheeks and a round torso that strained his brown coat and the buttons of his waistcoat. “Charles, leave the room.”
Charles set down his pen and pushed at the gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. “Father, can it wait? Miss Gordon and I must finish these pieces today.”
“I need a word with Miss Gordon. Get out.”
Sighing, Hannah glanced at Charles in silent apology. Blowing gently on the inked page, she turned in her seat and folded her hands. Earnest, quiet Charley, who had been a goodfriend to her, slid off his stool. “Only for a moment, Father. Miss Gordon, if you need—”
“Leave, I say!” Sir Frederic lifted a hand as if to cuff him. “Foolish boy,” he muttered as his son left the room. “He is besotted with you. I warned him against a Scottish girl,” he sneered. “Pretty enough, some value in that. But a painter’s daughter! Charles wants to be a painter too. Useless occupation. As for you, we have a matter to settle. What shall we do about that, hmm?” His words were not said kindly.
She stood, tilting her chin. “Sir, I agreed to pay some of the debt, even though it is not mine. We have talked about that.”
“The debt belongs to you, Miss Gordon. I have the promissory note you signed.”
“And I have told you I never signed it, nor even saw it. The debt belongs to Mr. Whitworth for—for gambling. I knew nothing of it until he left.” She straightened her shoulders against the hurt and regret that returned with the words.
He cocked a furry brow. “I have no sympathy for your poor decisions. Whitworth has vanished, leaving your name on the document. That makes you responsible.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Where is the money?”
