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Graeme glared at his superior. “The bloody hell I will.”
“Language, dear,” Chloe said.
Graeme barely registered the reprimand. “Aden, I’ve been on this since the beginning, and I want to be there at the end. I know I’ve not done the best job of it—”
Aden held up a hand. “You’ve done excellent work on a difficult case, but we’ve now got it. I’ll organize with Bow Street to wrap it up.”
“But—”
“As Aden said, we’ve got another mission for you,” Dominic cut in. “One that is significantly more important than recovering some jewels.”
“Tell that to Lady Sabrina,” Graeme retorted.
Dominic’s gaze turned as cold as the North Sea in January. Graeme mentally cursed. He knew that look. The argument was over.
“All right,” he conceded. “What’s so bloody important about this new mission?”
Aden shot a quick glance around at the neighboring boxes. The performance had resumed a few minutes ago, with a dramatic presentation of the battle of Troy. It was ridiculous and noisy, and would certainly make it impossible for anyone to overhear the discussion.
“I think it’s safe to talk,” Graeme dryly commented.
Dominic huffed out a laugh, finally unbending. “Indeed. But this situation requires a great deal of care. It involves the king.”
Ah.Now, that was interesting. Graeme liked interesting.
“You may or may not be aware,” Aden said, “that my esteemed parent has become quite obsessed with your beloved Highlands.”
Graeme snorted. “He’s not the only one, thanks to Walter Scott and his blasted poetry.”
And to Scott’s novels, with their entertaining but—from Graeme’s point of view—sometimes silly depictions of Highland history. While Sir Walter published the novels anonymously, anyone with a brain knew who the author ofWaverleywas.
“Yes,” Aden replied. “As you also know, Sir Walter and my father are quite close. In fact, Scott has been instrumental in convincing the king that he is . . .” Aden paused, as if trying not to laugh. “The new Bonnie Prince Charlie, so to speak. True heir to the Stuart Dynasty.”
Graeme snorted. “You do realize how ridiculous that sounds.”
“Trust me, I do. My father has always had a colorful imagination, but that is hardly the point.”
“Then whatisthe point?” Graeme asked.
“The king is going to Scotland, and so are you.”
Chapter Seven
Edinburgh
August 1822
With its four bays, the elegant mansion on Heriot Row was the largest townhouse on the terrace. This was Graeme’s first visit to his family’s Edinburgh establishment, acquired after two Kendrick brothers had set up offices here—Braden for his new medical practice, and Logan for the expansion of his trading company. The house, in a prime location in New Town, a well-heeled, modern neighborhood above the old city, provided a home base for any family member with business in Edinburgh.
The true heart of the family and clan would always be Castle Kinglas. Then there was Kendrick House in Glasgow, always lively, especially now that Royal and Ainsley had recently returned from Canada. No matter how far each of them roamed, a Kendrick always returned home—and sooner rather than later, if the rest of the family had their way.
That tradition meant Graeme was in for a verbal drubbing now, since he’d only made one short visit to Scotland in the last two years. He had yet to even see Royal and Ainsley. While his work for Aden and the Home Office kept him busy, he doubted his family would see that as an acceptable excuse for his prolonged absence.
“Mister, ye takin’ yer bag or not?” The grizzled, stoop-shouldered driver stood patiently by his hackney coach, waiting to be paid.
“Oh, sorry,” Graeme said, shaking free from his reverie.
He retrieved his carpetbag and then fished coins from an inside pocket, handing them to the driver.
