A Secret Scottish Christmas (Agents of the Crown Book 4) Page 21

  Robbie nodded. “It troubles me as well.”

  On the walk back to the Stephens’ estate, William said the words Nash had been expecting. “By the bye, one of the men attending the service told me George Kinloch has been proclaimed an outlaw for failing to appear at his trial.”

  With that, Nash despaired of being able to persuade Robbie to let Kinloch go free, for he was now officially a fugitive.

  Chapter 17

  Ailie followed the others through the front door, breathing in the wonderful aroma of the wassail heating on the stove and their dinner cooking. Her stomach growled. “What delicious smells.”

  Footmen stood ready to accept their coats. Nash helped Ailie out of her cloak. She could tell from his distant look he was preoccupied. A glance at Robbie suggested his mind, too, was somewhere else.

  They had spoken little on the walk back from town, making her wonder at the cause. Was it something in the minister’s sermon? “I’m not Anglican, but I thought the service was lovely. Don’t you agree?”

  “What? Oh, yes…” muttered Nash. “St Mary’s is smaller than St Martin-in-the-Fields in London where we attend, but the smaller church made the service more intimate.”

  Certainly it had been an intimate experience for Ailie sitting so close to Nash. For once, she minded not at all a crowded service with bodies pressed close.

  Emily drew everyone’s attention. “In the parlor you will find sherry, brandy and hot wassail to warm you. Dinner should be served in an hour.”

  A footman opened the double doors and, with grateful nods, the couples headed into the parlor.

  Muriel made as if to join them, but took only a few steps before turning back to Emily. “I much enjoyed the walk, my dear, however, a blazing fire and a cup of hot wassail are just what I need at the moment.”

  “You shall have it, Madeira, too, if you like,” offered Will.

  Muriel’s eyes lit up as she sallied forth to join the others.

  Still in the entry hall, Ailie told Emily and Will, “I am glad we are to dine early. I didn’t eat much breakfast, knowing a feast was coming.”

  “Have you ever attended an English Christmas feast?” Nash asked Ailie.

  “Not precisely, but we have roast pink-footed goose quite often during the winter.”

  Emily smiled at Will. “I will join you in the parlor as soon as I check on the feast.” She had only taken a step when Will looked up at the kissing bough hanging from the chandelier above them and pulled Emily under it.

  “Before you go, I must have a kiss. Setting the example for the others, don’t you know?” Emily laughed but submitted willingly, bringing a smile to Ailie’s face.

  “Happy Christmas, Leannan.”

  Emily was radiant as she left him to join their plump housekeeper, who appeared in her lace mobcap at the base of the stairs.

  And why shouldn’t Emily be radiant? Thought Ailie. She had a loving husband, a bairn on the way and a house full of happy friends. Ailie wondered if she would ever have those things. She had knowingly chosen a path rare for a woman, becoming part of her family’s shipbuilding enterprise. While she delighted in her work, there were times—and this was one of them—when she wanted more, when she wanted all that a woman who had chosen wisely could have.

  Will motioned toward the parlor. “Shall we?”

  Ailie and the twins followed her brother into the parlor where the Yule log burned brightly and their guests sipped cups of the warm spiced apple drink. A helpful footman held out a tray. Nash took two cups and handed one to Ailie.

  Robbie went off in search of brandy. “I prefer it untainted by honey and fruit juice.”

  Ailie sipped the warm spicy drink. “I do like your wassail,” she told Nash, “but all that dancing around apple trees that went with the drink would have been frowned upon by the Kirk.”

  Nash laughed. “Well, that might have been true at one time but, like the Yule log, the drink has become just another sign of the season.”

  “Today, we’ll dine on your English dishes,” she told Nash, “but on Hogmanay, you’ll dine on those favored by us Scots.”

  “More haddies and kale?”

  His expression was decidedly bleak, but she believed he was only teasing her. “Aye. And cock-a-leekie soup, steak pie, roast salmon and haggis with tatties.”

  “Haggis?”

  “Practically our national dish, ’tis sheep’s intestine, oatmeal and spices cooked in a sheep’s stomach.”

  A grimace of epic proportions emerged on Nash’s face.

  Ailie gave him an indulgent smile. “Do not look so disgusted at our beloved haggis. Rabbie Burns himself thought the dish worthy of an ode. He called those who looked down upon the humble haggis ‘poor devils’, while those who delight in the rare taste he called ‘warriors’.” She began to quote from the poem she had learned as a young girl, “But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, the trembling earth resounds his tread.”

  “I would be willing to try it,” Nash said, bravely she thought. “For you.”

  She laughed. “If you could see the look on your face, Nash, you’d see how unconvinced you appear. You might want to confine your celebration of the New Year to salmon and dessert.”

  His countenance brightened at the word dessert. Teasing him about food had become great fun, but she didn’t want him to dislike anything about Scotland. Perhaps she might encourage him with talk of sweets. “For dessert we’ll have shortbread, Dundee cake and clootie dumpling.”

  “I have had your shortbread and it’s very good, and cake I understand, but I have no idea what a clootie is.”

  “That’s just the cloth in which we cook the sweet dumpling. Emily tells me the dumpling is a little like your Christmas pudding, but not as rich. The one Martha makes is her mother’s recipe made with treacle and served with custard.”

  “I do know what treacle is,” he said proudly, “and I approve.”

  “At last we find common ground,” she teased. “You will like the dumpling. Oh, and sometimes the cook stirs in charms that speak of the future.” She pursed her lips, concentrating. “Let’s see… Finding a coin means wealth; a ring signifies marriage; and a wishbone promises the finder his heart’s desire.”

  He took a sip of his wassail and winked. “Some of those possibilities appeal.”

  “Some are not so popular. A man who finds a button and a woman who gets a thimble are destined to remain unwed.”

  Nash frowned. “I wouldn’t want a button, not since I met you, Ailie.”

  Her cheeks flushed at his words and the intense gaze that went with them. Did he hint at a future together? She took a sip of her wassail. “Nor do I desire a thimble since meeting you.”

  Fortified by the wassail and warmed by Nash’s presence, Ailie was ready for the English Christmas dinner. When their butler announced, “Dinner is served,” Nash offered his arm and the two of them strolled into the dining room with the others.

  On the way Nash, explained that after the Christmas feast they would typically play games, which, if one lost, one had to pay a forfeit. “Such as a kiss under the kissing bough.”

  His seductive smile reminded her of their walk in the snow early that morning. She might have to let him win. It would be the first time she looked forward to losing at anything.

  Nash pulled out a chair for her, whispering in her ear, “I’m just not sure I want to kiss you while others are watching. It would have to be a very proper kiss, which, all things considered, would require great restraint on my part.”

  Having observed Nash in conversation with the Mistress of the Setters, oblivious to all around them, Robbie had taken his leave from the parlor to undertake a reconnaissance of the Stephens’ property. He wanted to see if any of Kinloch’s protectors might be lurking about. Though he couldn’t be positive that he had been followed that day on Marketgate, there was still the matter of that morning when he and Nash had been clearly observed in church.

  Only one of the guards he had seen in
St Thomas Tavern impressed Robbie as being astute enough to take note of those sitting around him. That man was the one called Derek whose penetrating gaze Robbie had felt more than once.

  Careful to take cover under an eave or behind a tree, Robbie made two slow circles of the house and shipyard before returning. While he hadn’t noticed anyone, save a stable boy tending the horses, that didn’t mean someone hadn’t been there, silently lurking, making note of the fine estate that hinted at connections to London. Then, too, there were landed Scots who supported the government. Kinloch’s guards might assume the Stephens were among them. Derek would consider all of them a threat to the fugitive he guarded.

  Robbie only hoped that with the Panmure sailing tomorrow, Kinloch’s guards had more important things to consider.

  He entered the house, handed the footman his coat and went first to the parlor to warm himself by the fire, lest he signal to the others he’d been outside. Explanations were bothersome.

  When he finally arrived in the dining room, everyone was already seated.

  Ailie waved to him. “Nash told me you had been detained, so I saved you the place next to me.”

  Robbie slipped into the chair, nodding a greeting to Nash, and gave the Mistress of the Setters a brilliant smile. “There is nowhere else I’d rather sit.”

  Ailie smiled with her beautiful eyes. “A rake’s supreme compliment.”

  “You missed the soup,” said Nash shortly from Ailie’s other side.

  “But here’s the fish, now,” Ailie encouraged. She peered at the silver platter the footman carried. “Cod, I think.”

  “Better late than never, Mr. Powell,” chided Muriel.

  Robbie returned the countess a grin bordering on a smirk. “Do not forget, dear Muriel, we have an appointment beneath the kissing bough.”

  “Humph,” came her reply. “By the bye, Ailie, lovely velvet bows on the chandelier.”

  “Do you like them? Nash and Robbie had the devil of a time getting them up there.”

  Robbie remembered the bow-tying effort. Before it was done, he and Nash had uttered their complete repertoire of oaths. But, for the Mistress of the Setters, no task was too difficult.

  When the roasted goose—of the pink-footed variety—was served, there were many “Oohs” and “Aahs”. Four birds, roasted to perfection, arrived on silver platters, and were carried to the sideboard where two footmen began carving.

  Robbie’s mouth watered. Reconnaissance always gave him an appetite.

  Across the table, Nick’s gaze fixed on the roast goose set before him, a goose surrounded by slices neatly carved. “William, your cook has made our geese a glory to behold.”

  “Even better to eat,” said William. “But I believe it is Muriel’s cook, Mrs. Platt, who is responsible for much of this dinner. Am I correct, Leannan?”

  “Mrs. Platt and Martha worked together on our feast. I have asked them to come to us when dessert is served so that we may properly thank them.”

  “An excellent idea,” said William. “And now that you each have a glass of champagne in front of you, let’s all toast to a Happy Christmas.”

  Robbie raised his glass along with the others. “Happy Christmas!”

  When they had lifted their glasses to the babe, the marquess interjected yet another toast. “Let us drink to the new bairn Emily and William are expecting next spring!” When they had drunk to that, Hugh added, “And to our host and hostesses for a most memorable holiday in Scotland!”

  Robbie raised his glass with the others and Muriel proclaimed, “Hear, hear!”

  For the moment, Robbie wouldn’t think of Lord Sidmouth.

  Oyster stuffing, carrots glazed in orange sauce, asparagus and a winter salad of lamb’s lettuce, watercress and mustard greens accompanied the roast goose. Robbie was in heaven.

  “A splendid Christmas feast, Emily,” pronounced The Grand Countess. “As fine as any I ever had in London.”

  Murmurs of agreement echoed around the table.

  “I could become accustomed to this,” said Ailie.

  It occurred to Robbie that if she went to London with Muriel, she might be there for next Christmas. Robbie had been reluctant to give up the game, but it was now apparent Nash had serious intentions toward the girl.

  Lacking Nash’s proclivity for plants, Robbie had not yet been to see the orangery, so he had to ask, “Did you grow all these vegetables and salad greens in the orangery?”

  “All save the apples surrounding the roast geese,” replied Emily. “Those, Captain Anderson brought me from London.”

  “Emily’s a wonder with growing things,” put in Ailie. “You should pay the orangery a visit, Robbie. You will be astounded.”

  “’Twas the first place I went the morning after we arrived,” said Nash, now working on a second helping of roast goose.

  Robbie thought his twin too self-satisfied in his pursuit of plants and Ailie Stephen for that matter. After all, Robbie had interests, though his tended more toward the dangerous variety, like racing down Rotten Row or bare-knuckle boxing at Jackson’s.

  While not needed on this trip, Robbie also possessed decent navigational skills. If Ailie designed ships, he could sail them, assuring they would arrive at their destination. “I would be happy to have a tour of the orangery if you were to escort me, Ailie.” So there, dear Brother.

  Nash frowned into his carrots. Muriel looked at Robbie askance, raising one of her silver brows. He ignored them both.

  “I’d be pleased to show it to you,” offered Ailie.

  “I have a sketch of it if you’d like to see it,” put in Kit. “By the bye, Emily, the stuffing is quite tasty.” Then to Muriel, “Do you think Mrs. Platt might share her recipe?”

  “She’d be flattered you asked,” returned the countess. “It is a family recipe of which she is quite proud.”

  At that moment, in walked Mrs. Platt and the Stephens’ dark-haired cook with Christmas pudding, mince pies and English gingerbread cake. Robbie’s eyes followed the parade of desserts; he was quite fond of gingerbread.

  “Oh, what lovely desserts!” exclaimed Mary. “Where shall I find the room?”

  “I fear we shall manage all too well,” said Muriel, eyeing the confections.

  “Our thanks to the two cooks who have brought us this grand feast!” proclaimed William.

  They rose as one from their seats to praise the two women. “To the cooks!”

  Nash wondered what Robbie was about. First, he had left the parlor and—Nash was quite certain—the house, and then, all during dinner, he had flirted outrageously with Ailie. After dinner, there had been games in the parlor. Not satisfied to have kissed Muriel under the bough, when Robbie guessed Ailie’s riddle in a game of rhyming charades, he had dared to claim a kiss from her as forfeit. Rogue indeed!

  Back in their chamber, Nash confronted his twin. “Good Lord. Did you have to kiss her?”

  “It was a circumspect kiss,” Robbie insisted. “Mark that I also kissed Muriel, who seemed to enjoy the attention. I do like the dowager countess. She has a quick mind.”

  “I daresay it was not Ailie’s mind that made you want to kiss her, intelligent though she is. And how could it be circumspect when you made Ailie blush?”

  “That blush did not result from my kiss, Brother, but what I said after.”

  Nash fumed. “Just what was that?”

  “I told her there were more kisses where that one came from. She had only to ask.”

  Nash snorted. “Hardly circumspect. More like provocative.”

  “I was merely teasing the lass. Now, do you want to know why I was late to dinner?”

  Nash took off his coat and sat on his bed, pulling off his boots, still miffed. “Do tell.”

  Robbie loosened his cravat and let out a sigh. “Seeing as you were occupied with the Mistress of the Setters, I thought to determine if anyone was watching the house or the shipyard. After this morning’s encounter at St Mary’s, it occurred to me they might ha
ve followed us home and posted a watch. Our direction could be easily ascertained.”

  Somewhat mollified, Nash said, “I’m grateful you thought of that. I would not want our business in Arbroath to bring harm to our family or friends. Learn anything?”

  “No. All was quiet. But, of course, they might have been here and gone. The Panmure sails tomorrow afternoon so perhaps they are unconcerned about any interference at this point.”

  Nash experienced a foreboding, much like the one he’d had that terrible day on St Peter’s Field. “I don’t suppose I can dissuade you from your intended course?”

  In a parody of Nash’s own words, Robbie tossed back, “Not a chance. And you’d best develop a plan. Recall that Emily said after presenting boxes to the servants, she intends to take baskets to Arbroath’s poor. The ladies, including Ailie, are going with her, which puts them in town when we’ll be on Marketgate waiting for Kinloch to depart for the ship.”

  Nash stared into the fire. He had a plan, but it might not be one Robbie would approve.

  Ailie sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, the blue tartan shawl warming her shoulders. Underneath it, she wore only her shift. The girl looking back at her from the mirror glowed with happiness, her eyes filled with tears of joy.

  The cause wasn’t the evening, which had been most pleasant, or the English food, which she had quite liked, or even the games played with her new friends. No, the reason for the tears of joy filling her eyes could be explained only by Nash Powell.

  She could tell him apart from his twin now, even when they wore the same clothes. It was not just his unique mannerisms, his dry humor—so different than Robbie’s overt charm—or the lock of dark hair that often fell onto his forehead, teasing her to touch it. Rather, it was the way Nash looked at her, his thoughtfulness toward her and his kisses.

  They shared glances only they understood, and they shared their love of ships and simple pleasures. Her heart had become inexorably intertwined with his. Was it so important that he was English and she a Scot? That he was an Anglican and she Presbyterian? Or that they had different views on the current politics?