Betrayed Page 2

  Sarah intended to get to the truth of the matter. “Did you hear them say the king is dead?” she asked. “You heard one of the soldiers speak the words?”

  He slid her a measuring glance, one eye squinting with the effort.

  She held her ground. “Who told you?”

  He withdrew a little and grumbled, “Didn’t have to have it said to me like I was a short-witted babe.”

  She saw through his bravado, his way of managing alone on the streets of Edinburgh since the age of six. At 11, he was as worldly-wise as a man double his years. But in his eagerness to please, he was still a boy. No matter the reason, he deserved her respect and her guidance.

  “No one expects you to predict the fate of kings, Notch. Even bishops cannot do that.”

  He stared stubbornly at the scuffed toes of his too-large shoes. His black woolen coat had long ago faded to dull gray, and his breeches were patched at the knees. Only his scarf, a contribution from Sarah, was new. That and his recent penchant for washing his face and hands every day.

  The other children, four to date, doted on Notch’s every word. She hoped to make him understand the responsibility he undertook as their leader. He was only a child, but he’d been robbed of his boyhood. She intended to give it back to him.

  She leaned against one of the school desks. “But if you are only speculating about the reasons behind the arrival of the Complement and your theory proves wrong, you shouldn’t be made to feel a lesser man because you were merely voicing your opinion. You could even learn and discuss the views of others in the matter. Such as Master Picardy here.”

  Eight-year-old William Picardy clutched his frayed lapels and rocked back on his heels. His blunt-cut brown hair framed a face of near-angelic beauty.

  Wondering how anyone could have abandoned this precious child to the streets, Sarah resisted the urge to embrace him. “Why do you think the Complement has come?”

  William fairly wiggled with excitement at being addressed. Eyes darting from the school desks to the standing globe to the hearth fire, he considered the question.

  “What’s it to be, Pic?” Notch tapped his foot. “Are you with me or against me?”

  He’d given her a perfect opportunity to broaden the lesson. “It’s not a contest, Notch. Neither of you must be right or wrong. Your friendship does not hinge on one of you lording his knowledge over the other. You can learn together.”

  The expression in his eyes turned aged, wise. “We know our place, my lady. Me and Pic, Sally, and the Odds.”

  The strength of Sarah’s argument waned. The other orphans he spoke of were beholden to him, needed him as much as he needed them.

  “I believe . . .” William paused, obviously battling he force of Notch’s will.

  “Out with it, Pic.”

  William sighed and said, “The king’s upped his pointy slippers.”

  “There it is.” Notch slapped William on the back and sent Sarah a victorious glance.

  She gave up the effort to teach them democracy and shared responsibility. Theirs was a precarious existence; safety lay in numbers for orphaned children. Preyed upon and exploited by the very adults whose duty it was to nurture and protect them, the children were wary of “sermon-saying sinners,” as Notch called them.

  He and the others still didn’t know her well enough to trust her. But they wanted to, and that made Sarah profoundly happy, a rare feeling these days.

  “Have you ever seen the Complement?” William asked.

  “Nay,” she said. “They’ve been in service abroad for most of my life.”

  “She’s from the Highlands,” Notch reminded him, but in a mannerly tone. Then he cocked out his elbow and held his arm in gentlemanly fashion. “William and me thought to have a look at the king’s best. You could come along.”

  Bowing from the waist, William swept a hand toward the door. “Smellie Quinn plugged up the kegs at the Pipe ’n’ Thistle so as he didn’t miss a sight of the Complement.”

  “Gents and ladies is turning out proper,” said Notch.

  The less-coy William wheedled, “Do come with us, Lady Sarah. I promise we’ll have a place in the clean edge of the lane.”

  The weekly lesson had ended hours ago, and if she stayed here alone, she’d spend the afternoon pondering events beyond her control and lamenting her poor judgment.

  She reached for her cloak. “Very well, but only if you stop saying the king is dead—until we hear it from the mayor or the lord provost.”

  “I give my word.” Notch tapped his left fist into his right palm.

  “That’s the sign of his honor,” William offered in awed explanation. “He don’t give it lightly.”

  Sarah thought the gesture meant he’d fight with his fists to prove he was right.

  Notch led the way out of the converted storage room and down the winding steps of Saint Margaret’s Church. Skirting the confessionals, they exited the side door and stepped into Rectory Close.

  Sunshine warmed the spring afternoon, and the ever-present wind whistled around corners. Wooden signs squeaked on rusty chains above the nearby establishments. A cobbler hurried past Sarah and her pupils, his leather apron flapping in the breeze. A portly clerk followed, one hand holding his dusted periwig in place. The sharp aroma of coal smoke, the city’s signature smell, filled the air.

  “The Pipe ’n’ Thistle’s got the best view of the road,” said Notch, pulling his cap down over his ears. “Sally and the Odds’ll have a place for us.”

  Positioning herself in front of a local tavern in the company of five of Edinburgh’s most notorious street urchins with the townspeople looking on wouldn’t do Sarah’s reputation any good, but considering the string of recent events, another taint would provide small fodder to the gossips.

  Let them talk. She’d encountered worse slights in her life. What bastard child did not? Only in her case, the truth of her parentage had hurt a thousand times more than the taunts from society matrons.

  “Won’t no one pester you, my lady,” said William. “Not with Notch along.”

  Thoughts of her MacKenzie family brought guilt and regret, sorrow and yearning. She needed Lachlan’s counsel, but pride held her back. For two months, he’d written to her every Saturday. When she did not reply, he finally stopped. Now she was truly on her own, and the going wasn’t as easy as she had thought.

  “Gardy-loo!” someone yelled from above.

  Driven by instinct, Sarah and her young friends hurried out of the way before a bucket of slops splashed onto the street.

  They rounded the corner and turned onto High Street. Standing three deep, the people of Edinburgh lined the well-kept thoroughfare in anticipation of the arrival of the Complement. The magistrate and the collier flanked the stern-faced bishop. Even Cholly, the streetsweeper, paused in his labor. His back bowed, a blanket cape covering baggy pants and a sacklike shirt, the scruffy old laborer leaned on his broom handle. An unkempt beard obscured his face and his eyes were shielded by the brim of a battered hat.

  She’d never been close enough to Cholly to engage in a conversation with him, but he was a constant figure in Lawnmarket. Usually within waving distance of her residence, he, too, befriended Notch and his band and kept company with the sedanchairmen.

  As they neared the tavern, Sarah spotted the Odds. So named by Notch because their burly size swayed the odds in a fight, the nine-year-old twins were also exact opposites in complexion. Right Odd, the fairer of the two lads, had perched the four-year-old orphan Sally on his shoulders.

  “My lady,” said Notch, clearing the way through a group of disapproving citizens. “Do you think Lord Tip-o’-the-Hat will turn out?”

  Clever, clever Notch, she thought. He had easily grasped the meaning of her lecture on collective reasoning, and he wanted her to know it. He could have asked her opinion on a mundane topic, but that was not his way. The insult to one of the young nobles showing an interest in the now-unattached Sarah was Notch’s means of holding part of
himself back.

  Sarah would have none of it. She liked this lad, for he reminded her of her half sister, Agnes, who was always the first into the pond and the last to admit she enjoyed it. Sarah glared down at him. “You are referring to Count DuMonde.”

  Before Notch could reply, William wagged the end of his new scarf and smacked his lips in exaggerated kisses. “Shoo-de-bwak! Wee-wee, mah cherries!”

  “William!” She admonished his mimicry, but couldn’t help laughing herself.

  Howling, Notch scuffed his friend’s head. “Well said, Pic-o’-the-Litter.”

  William beamed. The stiff-back merchants nearby huffed in disgust. The collier rapped his walking stick on the lamppost. The roomsetter, Mrs. Edminstone, covered her ears.

  “Sermon-saying sinners,” Notch said under his breath.

  Sarah cleared her throat in a subtle effort to regain decorum. Notch called out to the Odds, who moved aside to make room at the edge of the cobblestone thoroughfare.

  Notch peered down the street, and when he turned back, he said, “The Frenchie count makes his footman sleep in the stable, even when the night’s afoul. That’s why Pic mocks him.”

  William leaned close and whispered, “All because the poor lad once used the carriage blanket to keep himself warm.”

  Behind his hand, Notch said, “While Lord Tip-o’-the-Hat spent all night paying his ‘respects,’ as he calls it, to Lady Winfield.”

  Sarah didn’t know the count well enough to care if he took a mistress. His calls to Sarah broke the boredom of afternoons spent writing letters to her family that she never posted and knitting scarves for ill-mannered street urchins. After living her life with so many siblings and friends about, she hadn’t adjusted to the silence of living alone.

  In any event, she could not let Notch’s poor manners continue. “That’s also your opinion. And my business.”

  “He ain’t got the makings of a decent husband, Lady Sarah. I’ll put up my snuffbox on it, ’cause it ain’t just my opinion.”

  “It’s the truth,” declared William on an exhaled breath.

  Notch had wagered his prized possession. The enamel on the box was chipped, and the clasp long gone, but it was his special piece. He was also showing her that his friends would agree. As before, he banded them together.

  Duly impressed, William nodded. “There it is, my lady. Notch wouldn’t lie on his gentleman’s box. We all seen it for a fact. That fancy wee-wee spark ain’t got a care for any ’cept his snail-eatin’ self.”

  “Ain’t worth turned-bad haggis,” Notch grumbled.

  Temporarily outvoted in the matter of the character of Count DuMonde and resigned to the reigning camaraderie, Sarah glanced at the crowd. Like a breeze over a field of heather, anticipation moved through the onlookers. Gleeful smiles and excited murmurs heralded the imminent arrival of the king’s Complement.

  Sarah felt the anxiety, even as she scanned the faces of the well-dressed women to see if Lady Emily Elliot was among them. Past blaming Henry’s mother for the scandalous events of late, Sarah still thought it wise to know the whereabouts of the selfish shrew who had sworn to ruin her.

  Upon her arrival four months ago at Glenstone Manor, the Elliot family residence in Edinburgh, Sarah had learned that Henry and his mother were on an extended holiday in London. Rather than stay in the mansion with a staff of servants bewildered by her unexpected presence or return to the Highlands, she’d leased a house in nearby Lawnmarket and awaited the return of the Elliots.

  In the past, Henry had encouraged her plans to help the less fortunate, and she had planned to use the leased property for her charity work after the wedding. To ease the loneliness and fill her idle time, she’d begun teaching school in a converted storeroom at Saint Margaret’s Church. Those who could not afford private tutors sent their children to Sarah. The orphans came on their own.

  But then Lady Emily had come home with shocking news that Henry had been thrown into prison. A demand for both Sarah’s dowry and the intervention of the duke of Ross to obtain Henry’s release had followed.

  Sarah abandoned her plan to confess that she was not a MacKenzie by birth and logically asked the reason for Henry’s incarceration. Lady Emily had refused, telling Sarah it was improper for a wife-to-be to ask after the business of her betrothed.

  Brows raised in disdain, Lady Emily had tried to end the discussion with, “Rather she should turn over her dowry as agreed and trust her lord and master in the exhausting matter of finances.”

  Lachlan MacKenzie had worked hard to earn dowries for all of his daughters. Knowing Sarah could manage it herself, he’d given her the money. Upon arrival in Edinburgh, she had entrusted it to the banker, James Coutts.

  An affronted Sarah had refused Lady Emily.

  The countess’s response didn’t bear recalling. But she’d carried out her threat to destroy Sarah’s reputation, and now only the orphans attended her Sunday-morning school. Revenge came with the knowledge that Henry was still behind bars, and Sarah now knew the reasons why he’d been imprisoned.

  From atop the shoulders of Right Odd, Sally shouted, “Look! They’re coming!”

  Over the building exclamations of enthusiasm, Sarah heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and gladly gave up her search for Lady Emily Elliot.

  An instant later, the first of the riders came into view, and Sarah understood why the king’s Complement commanded so much respect.

  The first officer sat atop a magnificent crimson bay horse. Wearing the traditional uniform of blue tabard, white trunk hose, and a chain of office bearing the Tudor rose, he drew every eye. The gusting wind, as much a part of Edinburgh as the biting winter cold, ruffled the white plumes in his helmet. The horse quivered and tossed its head with the urge to run, but the rider held the reins taut and clamped his knees tighter to control the animal.

  George II had added knee boots to the nostalgic uniform; George III had commissioned the fur-lined velvet cape emblazoned with a Tudor rose badge.

  The entire troop of hand-picked gentlemen, riding three abreast behind the leader, now filled the street. Cheers rose from the crowd, but the officer did not take notice. Chin up, his attention fixed on matters of his own concern, he reminded Sarah of Lachlan MacKenzie when faced with an unappealing yet necessary task. But more than his handsome features and regal bearing, something warm and oddly familiar to Sarah lingered about this dignified military man.

  Impossible, she silently scoffed. She was merely attracted to his rugged good looks and commanding air.

  “Has the king tucked it in, then?” Notch yelled out. “Is that why you’ve come to Auld Reekie?”

  “Shush!” Sarah grasped the boy’s arm. Auld Reekie was the casual name given Edinburgh, a reference to the pungent smoke from so many coal fires.

  The first officer turned just enough to spy the bold lad. Then his attention fell on Sarah. To her horror, she felt herself blush beneath his probing gaze. But his slow, sly smile put an end to her embarrassment.

  A conceited rogue, she decided. Let the children and the other women admire him. As leader of the most respected collection of horsemen in the Christian world, he was probably accustomed to having women fawn over him. Sarah MacKenzie had better things to do, such as contriving an audience with the mayor of Edinburgh so she could try again to convince him to convert the abandoned customs house into an orphanage.

  She turned to leave and almost bumped into her maid, Rose. Garbed in her best dress and matching pink bonnet, Rose looked more like the wife of a prosperous squire than a lady’s maid.

  “Ain’t the sight of him a cause for celebration?” Rose grinned like a lovestruck girl. “They say jewels fall from the sky when a gentleman of the Complement kisses a woman.”

  Sarah should have expected her saucy maid to turn out. “Then remember to cup your hands if one of them takes liberties with you, so you can catch a few rubies. Simper to your heart’s content, Rose. You can even have my place.”

  Rose
executed a perfect curtsy, but her irreverent expression spoiled the polite gesture. “There’s cider in the buttery and fresh scones in the pantry. You’re as thin as Lottie’s manners.”

  Sarah had heard the comparison often of late, but the dining table was too big and empty, and she couldn’t bear to take a tray in her room like some jilted spinster. Knowing that both her good humor and her appetite would return when she sorted out her prospects, she took the remark in the spirit it was intended. Rose was concerned. Unquestionably loyal, she had often braved the wrath of the MacKenzie steward in defense of Sarah and her siblings.

  Moving past her maid, Sarah gave a false smile. “Thank you for your observation, Rose. I cannot imagine where I would be without you.”

  “You’d be home where you belong.”

  Spoken softly, the admonition bore no sting. “That’s your opinion.”

  “We all got opinions,” Notch said. “ ’Cept the dead and buried at Gallow’s Foot.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, a knock sounded at Sarah’s front door. When Rose did not answer the knock, Sarah put down her knitting and hurried to see who was there.

  The moment she opened the door, she regretted it.

  2

  Poised on her threshold, the first officer of the king’s Complement now wore a brown velvet coat over an Elliot tartan plaid, pleated and belted in kilt fashion. His sporran even bore a silver crescent, the heraldic symbol of a second son.

  She instantly revised her opinion of him. She also knew why he’d looked familiar. Unlike his older brother, this man bore the true face of the Elliots, the same virile image she’d seen in paintings in the halls of Glenstone Manor.

  He was Michael Elliot, Henry’s younger brother.

  Henry. Her pride rebelled at the thought of the scoundrel she’d intended to marry. If this second son had come to Edinburgh to attend her wedding to his brother, he’d wasted a very long journey.

  “You’re Michael Elliot.”

  He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back, drawing attention to the breadth of his shoulders and his thickly muscled neck. “So my nanny told me.”