Page 7

Robbie fought a grin.

Nash cleared his throat. “Ah… Captain, I am interested in orangeries and what can be grown in them. Has Mr. Stephen been long at it?”

Robbie was unsurprised at Nash’s question. He would be the one to try and smooth an awkward moment, especially if he could do so while inquiring about a subject of genuine interest.

“Nay,” returned the captain. “He built the orangery for the mistress when he added to the house. He shipped in mature orange trees from his father’s orangery in Aberdeen so she would have fruit this winter. She also has a vegetable garden and flowers in pots and is experimenting with growing pineapples.”

“I’ve read about growing pineapples in orangeries,” offered Mary. Then to her husband, “I’d like to grow them at our country house. It would give me something to do, darling, while you are training that new crop of thoroughbreds. What say you to an orangery?”

“Our two boys do not keep you sufficiently occupied?” Ormond teased with a decidedly wicked grin. “Perhaps we should have another.”

Mary swatted him on the shoulder. “Silly man. When I’m not teaching the boys to ride their ponies, think how much fun they will have in the winter months puttering in the orangery.”

Ormond kissed his wife’s cheek. “Very well, my love, you shall have one.”

Robbie had seen the two tease each other before and admired the affection between them. But marriages like those of his two older brothers and the Ormonds were not the usual.

“There’s more pudding, Captain, should anyone want some,” offered the steward.

Nick held up his fork. “Over here, if you will.”

The steward hastened to comply.

“Here, too,” said Martin, catching the steward’s eye.

Robbie met Nash’s gaze. Both asked at the same time, “Brandy?”

The stern captain bestowed upon them a rare smile. “Aye, good French brandy. Mr. Stephen insists upon it.”

Once the steward had poured the brandy, the conversation settled into the current topic on everyone’s mind… politics.

Ormond leaned forward. “What’s the mood in Scotland, Captain?”

“In Arbroath, ’tis quiet enough, but just south in Dundee and to the west in Glasgow there has been great discontent on the part of the weavers.”

“The massacre in Manchester has not helped the situation,” muttered Nash.

The captain nodded gravely. “’Tis stirred everyone up.”

“And the Six Acts Lord Sidmouth has just introduced will make matters worse,” Robbie tossed in.

Captain Anderson drew his dark brows together. “Six Acts?”

Robbie realized the news of the new legislation must not have reached Scotland and, from the looks on the faces of his brothers and their wives, some in London were not yet aware.

His fellow dinner companions turned to Robbie with expectant gazes, so he explained what he had read that morning in the Times.

“I don’t see how that will help,” said Martin.

The captain shook his head. “The government taxes a poor man’s bread yet denies him a vote in Parliament. Even the Duke of Hamilton, Lord Lieutenant of Lanarkshire, which includes Glasgow, has spoken against the unfairness to the weavers.”

Mary glanced at her husband. “It helps when a person of station advocates for justice.”

“Well,” said Ormond, running a hand through his dark hair, “I grant you there would certainly be less discontent if all who are excluded from voting were to be exempted from the payment of taxes.”

“An unusual suggestion for a member of the nobility,” Nick interjected. “But fair.”

“As a Whig, I support reform,” said Ormond, “but the great beast of government can be difficult to turn. My father, the Duke of Albany, is trying in the Lords.”

Mary gave her husband an encouraging smile.

“Obviously, the English government has not changed since the days America and England parted ways,” put in Tara, the look in her eyes intense. “We had the same problem.”

Nick patted his wife’s hand. “America is her own country now, sweetheart.”

“Thank God,” murmured Tara.

Martin leaned toward the captain. “Kit and I lived through the rebellion in the Midlands two years ago. I hope that does not happen to you in Scotland.”

“Em…” The captain stared into his brandy as if unsure of what to say. “It might. There’s been a wee bit of rioting in Paisley, put down by the cavalry. And last month in Dundee, south of Arbroath, George Kinloch, a respected man of the gentry, gave a stirring speech to ten thousand Scots, condemning the blood spilled in Manchester and urging reform.”

Martin’s brows rose. “Ten thousand, you say?”

“Aye. And the crowd listened, too. Still, for that wee speech, Kinloch is to be tried for sedition. I hear the poor man is now on the run.”

Robbie met his brother’s gaze across the table.

Kinloch, the very man we’ve been sent to Scotland to find.