Page 85 of A Secret Scottish Christmas

She darted a glance at Will, who returned her a slight nod, telling her he had matters in hand. Very well, she would trust him to deal with the Powell twins’ betrayal.

From across the table, Nash gave her a look of regret. It was the first time they sat apart. She averted her gaze. He could hardly expect her to overlook his perfidy, engaging in a dangerous pursuit that might have brought those ruffians to their home or got both of them killed. As it was, Robbie lay wounded. And Kinloch, a hero to many Scots, might have been tossed into prison or worse.

How could she love a government spy who had lied to her?

As bowls of haddie stew were served, everyone set into their food, except for Nash, whose bowl was still full when the others were almost finished.

Will set aside his spoon and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It appears we have been harboring spies in our midst.”

The announcement brought dead silence to the table and guilty expressions on most of the faces. The only one whose expression indicated surprise was Emily. Beneath her ebony brows her heather eyes were frowning.

So the rest of them all knew.

“I only learned today,” Will continued, “that my good friend, the Marquess of Ormond, has acted the spy for the Crown. In fact, Ormond is the stuff of legends, the one known as L’Engoulevent, the Nighthawk.”

Emily gasped. “Oh, I just loved him! You, Hugh?”

At Hugh’s nod, Emily beamed.

Ailie did not know the name but her sister-in-law obviously did. Her worshipful gaze aimed at Hugh was a bit too much. Mary reached over and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek, obviously proud of whatever he had been doing as the Nighthawk.

When the excitement over Hugh’s achievement died down, Will said, “And it seems the Powell brothers have all been, as Hugh puts it, ‘agents for the Crown’. Sir Martin earned his knighthood spying for the government in France, making use of his fluent French. Captain Nicholas Powell is famous for going against the notorious pirate Roberto Cofresi and besting him. And now, to bring you all to the current day, Nash and Robbie Powell have been spying for Lord Sidmouth in Arbroath before our very noses.”

This drew frowns from all save Nash who lowered his gaze to his soup.

“Do tell,” said Nick to his youngest brother. “Now that the family secret’s out, what have you two been up to?”

Ailie watched as Nash raised his head and set his shoulders back as if bracing for a storm. “Sidmouth sent us north to Manchester in August to search out what he believed was a rebellion brewing among the factory workers. He was wrong, and I nearly lost my life in the bloodbath that followed.”

“Dear Nash, do not speak of blood whilst we are eating,” put in Muriel. “’Tis bad form.”

“Forgive me, Muriel.”

“Good God,” said Martin. “Mother never told us.”

“We asked her not to,” replied Nash.

Emily turned to the countess. “Did you know they were all spies, Muriel?”

“Having my own connections at Whitehall, I knew much of it. But even I was not aware the twins had accepted an assignment from Sidmouth. I consider that man beyond the pale. Never did trust him.”

Hugh directed a disapproving look at Nash. “You should have confided in me, Nash, and in our host. William had a right to know. Look where your secret has led. Your own brother lies wounded.”

As disgusted as she was, Ailie could not allow them to unjustly point all the blame at Nash. “It was Robbie who fired on Kinloch and the men with him, wasn’t it, Nash?”

“Robbie only meant to warn them.”

“Well, there is one good thing come of it,” said Muriel. With all eyes on her, the countess smiled, a very knowing smile, thought Ailie. “We’ll be able to tell you and your twin apart from now on. And a scar looks good on a rogue.”

Muriel sat by the Yule log fire in one of the comfy velvet wing chairs she favored, a glass of Madeira on the small table next to her, as she finished another chapter in the Waverley novel she was reading.

The Antiquary, set in the century past, took place in the fictional seaside town of Fairport, which she believed was actually Arbroath. She had come to this conclusion because it was an open secret in London that the author was Walter Scott even though the book had been published anonymously. Muriel knew that Scott had traveled to Arbroath more than once. As described in the book, the two places, including the ruined abbey, were too similar not to be the same.

She was just thinking how appropriate her reading choice was in light of the discussion during luncheon when Aileen Stephen traipsed into the parlor and claimed the other wing chair.

“Aileen, whatever has caused that despairing look on your lovely face?”

“How can I not despair, Muriel, when the man I cared for betrayed my trust? Lurking about Arbroath, spying on a Scottish gentleman I respect, all the time hiding the truth from me.”