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“Indeed you must,” agreed Robbie. “Ailie is expecting me—or rather, you—to join her in the parlor for a glass of claret.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me she was waiting?” More frustrated with his twin than he’d been in a long time, Nash hurriedly pulled on his boots.

“Oh, you have plenty of time. She intended to change first, as I knew she would. Ladies take an awfully long time to put on what we so quickly remove.”

Nash sighed in exasperation. “Don’t remind me of your skills in that area.”

“So tell me,” Robbie urged, “how did the visit to Arbroath go?”

Still angry with his brother, Nash forced himself to concentrate on their work. Robbie had to know what he’d learned. “Better than expected. I need that map of the town to show you.”

“Of course. I have it right here.” Robbie went to his chest, pulled out the map they had both memorized the day before and smoothed it out on his bed. Rubbing his jaw, which was now red, he said, “Your right hook has improved.”

Ignoring his brother’s comment, Nash lit another candle and brought it to the small table between their beds, determined to brief his brother and then leave. “I went to the Panmure first.” He pointed to the harbor. “The captain told me he plans to sail for France on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. I imagine at high tide. Then I went to a local tavern called The Foundry.” He pointed to its location on Mary Street and took a seat on the end of Robbie’s bed, the map between them. “The customers were a mixed lot whose conversations led me to believe they are mere weathercocks, changing their political views with the direction of the wind.”

“Not worth a return visit to that one,” said Robbie.

“But here,” Nash said, pointing to the St Thomas Tavern, “I encountered a bit of luck.”

Robbie looked up from the map. “Luck?”

In his mind, Nash saw again the crowded smoke-filled tavern. “A group of men came in shortly after I arrived. They took the only available table, which the proprietor must have been holding for them. Fortunately, I was sitting close enough to overhear their conversation.”

Nash paused for a moment, recalling the men’s words. “One of them, a large man with huge hands, spoke to a smaller one dressed in odd clothing. The large man called the other one ‘Georgie’ and told him he would be on the ship. The oddly dressed man seemed alarmed that his given name had been used and commanded the other to address him as ‘Mr. Oliphant’. It struck me that this ‘Georgie’ who masquerades as Mr. Oliphant could be Kinloch. When a fight broke out, he was hurriedly ushered out of the tavern by one of his companions.”

“Did you follow them?”

“I would have done, but a fist in my shoulder delayed me at the door.” Nash rubbed his shoulder, still sore from the man’s punch.

“No wonder you’re in a foul mood.” A look of concern crossed Robbie’s face “Are you hurt?”

“No, and you can stop your worrying. I do not need you to rescue me from every fight that comes my way. I can well defend myself.”

Robbie glanced at him with raised brows. They were both thinking of that day at St Peter’s Field, but there had been other times as well. At Eton, Robbie had once stepped in to take the punch of a swaggering bully that had been meant for Nash. And last year when their work for Sidmouth took them to the cotton spinners’ strike in Lancashire, Robbie had pulled him from an angry mob.

Ignoring his brother’s look of disbelief, Nash continued. “When I was finally able to extricate myself, which, I might add, I did with little trouble, George and his companion were nowhere to be seen. With the sun nearly down, I had to return.”

“You’ll need to describe them for me so I’ll know what to look for when I venture into town again.”

“Not only can I describe them, but I can tell you some of their names.”

Ailie watched in the mirror as Rhona attempted to arrange her hair in a new style.

Twisting a long strand into a curl, she said, “’Tis how the ladies wear their hair in London, or so Lady Emily tells me.”

“It takes more time and requires more pins,” Ailie complained, wanting to hurry to meet Nash.

“Aye, but ye’ll like how ye look when I’m done. Yer hair will be curled on top of yer head and the rest long over yer shoulder.”

Ailie wondered if Nash would like it. She thought of his kisses in the library, a bit different than the first in the woods. She hoped it signified she was more to him than a passing fancy. But what if she were? Would she take an Englishman for a husband? Muriel might urge it upon her and William would accept such a match given his own choice. But what did she want?

There were times when Nash had been endearing, like when he encouraged her to believe the Ossian would be built one day, and when he accepted her wearing breeches. He was even tolerant of her teasing him about kale and haddies. She smiled, remembering him in spectacles, like a professor buried in his horticulture book. Though she knew shipmasters who read when at sea, their books were not about growing things on land. But then, Nash didn’t speak much of sailing. Perhaps, like her, he spent his days ashore.

“I like this blue gown on ye, Mistress,” said her maid.

Ailie thought the blue velvet edging around the bodice, cut lower than her other gowns, and short puffy sleeves would go well with her small tartan shawl. “I like it, too. It’s the same indigo color as Grandfather Ramsay’s knitted Ganseys.”

When Rhona set down the brush, Ailie eagerly asked, “Are you finished?”