Page 62 of Lyon of Scotland
“Excellent. The drawings should be finalized, redrawn, copied, and colored. You know the process. And I would like our archivist to review all the elements that are required for this king.”
Hannah nodded. “And then?”
“Then I will approve the final here and notify Sir George. I am sure he will accept these handsome designs. It saves work for his office, after all, and he is a sensible man. We will deliver these to London personally, with a letter from the Lyon Court and the Lord Provost expressing Scottish approval. And we will prepare draft copies for King George as well. Are you sure, Hannah?” He was concerned, wanting her to be happy above all else. “You want to work as a herald artist for a while?”
“I am sure, my dear Lyon.” Her sparkling eyes, beautifully blue, made her smile almost beatific. Entranced for a moment, Dare gathered his thoughts.
“You are a gifted artist. We are fortunate to have you here, but I want you to have time for other things.”
“I know this is important, with the coronation coming early next year, and much for your office, and the College of Arms, have to prepare for it. I am glad to help.”
“You have already helped a great deal. And I love you,” he added simply.
“I love you too, Lyon,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss him. “Oh, I nearly forgot!” she said, smoothing the leather wrapping around the sketches. She plucked an envelope from her tapestry bag. “I hesitate to bring it up, but you wanted to see it.” She handed it to him.
“What’s this?” He opened the creased page, read it, and looked at her. “This is your agreement with Dove!”
“He has a copy. He wanted me to have one so that I had no excuse to forget. This is the original.”
Dare scowled as he scrutinized it. One detail stood out sharply. “The signature is not remotely like yours. It is angular and masculine. Whitworth?”
“I believe so. Dove insists that I signed it. But I never saw it until Sir Frederic waved it in my face one day.”
He folded it and tucked it in the sporran over his kilt. “We will need this when I take Dove to court.”
“Thank you for everything,” she said softly. “Everything.”
He took her hand, but let go as a knock sounded at the door. Expecting Grant to arrive with the tea tray at last, he called admittance. His secretary entered with a loaded tray and two men behind him.
Surprised to see Linhope and Hugh Cameron, Dare beckoned them all inside.
“Pardon, sir,” Grant said. “Visitors. No appointment.” He sounded miffed, but Dare was used to that foible in his otherwise capable assistant.
“Come in! Thank you, Grant,” he added as his secretary set the tray on a table and departed. Murmuring greetings, Linhope and Cameron sat with them while Hannah set out cups and began to pour tea.
“We were just about to have some tea this morning,” she said. “If you haven’t had breakfast, perhaps we could ask for something more.”
“This is fine,” Linhope said, and exchanged a look with Hugh Cameron.
“What is it?” Dare asked brusquely. “You did not come here just for hot tea.”
“We went down to Leith harbor this morning to see if your whisky cargo had arrived on theNewhaven. It came in last night,” Linhope said. “The Glenbrae whisky should arrive in a few days.”
“Excellent. I will talk to Captain Johnston, and meet with the Lord Provost about the details. And I need to contact Sir Walter about a date for the royal introduction so we can present the whisky gift. I just had a letter from him,” he explained. “He is coming north and may dock today.”
Again his friends exchanged frowns. “That is our other bit of news,” Hugh Cameron said. “Sir Walter came in last night. I saw Scott in a tavern last evening. He sailed up from Newcastle with Lockhart, Huntly, and another fellow. He said he would find you today.”
“He’s not in London? Odd. That was sudden. Leith is a busy place lately.”
“Busier than you think,” Linhope said. “Dare—I saw Sir Frederic on the dock this morning. From a distance, but I am sure it was him.”
“Dove is here?” Hannah asked with a little gasp.
“I suspected we might see him sooner than we want,” Dare muttered. “Who was the third man with Sir Walter?”
“What was the name—a blond lad. Worth. Whitworth, that was it,” Hugh said.
Hannah dropped her cup, which cracked on the edge of the saucer, spilling steaming tea over the table and her sleeve.
