Page 60 of Lyon of Scotland
Stepping to the cobblestones, Hannah looked up at a massive building of creamy sandstone in a classical design with a rotunda, column-framed windows, and a soaring pillared portico. Inside, they crossed a foyer wrapped in marble and gold, and climbed stairs to a suite of rooms which a brass plaque declared to be the Lyon Court.
In the front room, a few people sat at desks or stood beneath tall windows overlooking a broad view of rooftops and a distant Edinburgh Castle.
“I want to introduce Lady Strathburn,” Dare told the group that gathered around them. “My dear, meet my staff.”
“So pleased!” Hannah greeted each one in turn, trying to retain names and faces: Mrs. Moncrieff, a tiny white-haired archivist; Macnab and Thompson, both middle-aged herald painters; Allan Grant, Lyon’s secretary; and Mr. Henderson, an elderly lawyer.
As Dare guided Hannah to his office, Mr. Grant came along. “My lord, we have received a claim about a coat of arms disputed between two families. One has held the crests for nearly four hundred years, while their cousins claim the right to use them. Mrs. Moncrieff went through the archives and says the original claim looks continuous and indisputable.”
“Then the cousins should alter their design. We can add a component indicating their relationship to the original family.”
“Both parties refuse to budge. The dispute involves a descent that may be natural and accidental rather than legitimate, if you take my meaning.”
“I will look into it. If they cannot compromise, we will decide the matter in a court session. Have Henderson review it for now.” He opened the door for Hannah to enter before him. “Thank you, Grant. Will you send in tea?”
“Sir, of course. My lady.” He went back to the main room.
Hannah turned in the large room, which was walnut paneled, masculine, and rather magnificent, with high bookshelves, tall windows carrying stained glass seals, and marble surrounding a brightly lit fireplace. Richly patterned red carpeting covered the floor, and furnishings included a massive desk piled with folios and papers, a long table, and brocade chairs. It was study, library, and meeting room all in one. “What a handsome office!”
“It is rather nice.” Dare sorted through a stack of envelopes and opened one letter. “From Sir Walter—how curious! He says he is returning to Edinburgh with John Lockhart and Oliver Huntly. They arrive by steamer today. I wonder why.”
Hannah smiled in delight. “How lovely! Oliver has not been here since he was a boy. Perhaps we could dine with them at the Waterloo.”
“Excellent thought. I want to show you a few things first, and then study your drawings. You did bring them?”
“Here.” She set her tapestry bag on the table and removed the sketches, rolled in a leather sleeve. Unfurling the drawings the opposite way to straighten them, she weighted the corners down with inkstands and two small books. Then she turned, and caught her breath.
Dare now wore a long coat and feathered hat. “What do you think?’
“Oh, my,” she said, blinking.
The ceremonial tabard coat was loosely fit with brightly colored embroidered patchwork and shoulder capelets. The panels depicted the red lion rampant of Scotland, the three golden lions passant of England, then fleurs-de-lis and a gold harp on blue velvet. The hat was a black tricorn with long white ostrich feathers, and draped over his chest was a heavy golden chain with a large pendant.
Strathburn was a tall and striking man in his everyday kilt and coat. As Lord Lyon, King of Arms, he seemed even larger and more imposing in the glorious costume.
“Magnificent,” she said. “I have seen that coat worn in parades and processions.”
“That would have been my uncle, Lord Kinnoull. This is all rather new to me. This gear is worn for public declarations, processions, coronations, and such.”
“Will you attend King George’s coronation next year?”
“And wear this gear, aye, along with a gold crown around a red velvet cap.”
“Very dramatic and rather gorgeous, all that pomp and authority.”
“That is the idea. I am no peacock, but it is tradition. The Lords Lyon have worn these things for three centuries. And for the judicial court, I wear a red velvet and ermine cloak with a long gray wig.”
As he shrugged out of it, Hannah hurried to assist with the heavy weight of the coat, which he folded, wrapped in silk, and put into a large wooden box that he replaced in a corner cover.
“It suits Lord Lyon, but my Strathburn is a quieter sort of man.”
“Who chooses to wear a kilt in the city to make his point clear,” he said.
Laughing, she slid into his arms, glad the heavy coat was gone, content to feel the lean, solid form of the kind and capable man she loved. And most content to see him in his preferred clothing, a neatly cut coat of black superfine over a kilt in the Drummond tartan of dark red and forest green.
“I am proud to be the lady wife of the Right Honorable Lord Lyon, King of Arms, Viscount Strathburn, Sir Alasdair Drummond, Esquire—no matter what he wears,” she murmured, tipping her face up for a kiss.
“Even all got up like a court jester?” he teased.
