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Ainsley took Sabrina’s arm and steered her toward the stairs. “Come along, dearest. It’s time you got your first lesson in how to manage a Kendrick male.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ainsley gracefully dropped into a chair and began stripping off her gloves. “Gracious, but it’s hot in here. I thought I was going to keel over while talking to the king.”
Graeme gingerly settled into the spindly chair on the other side of the supper table. He’d spent the last hour prowling every inch of the Assembly Rooms. Since he’d found no trouble, he decided he’d earned some time with his family. The Kendricks had staked a claim to a large table at the edge of the ballroom and settled in for the evening.
He moved aside a vase stuffed with heather and greenery meant to evoke the Highlands and winked at Ainsley. “You and Georgie looked quite cozy. The old boy was flirting with you, obviously.”
Royal glowered at him. “My wife doesn’t get cozy with any man but me, and that includes the king.”
“Sadly, I must admit that Graeme is correct,” Ainsley said. “The king is a terrible flirt, even at his age. He simply can’t help himself.”
“Any man—even one so decrepit as our esteemed monarch—is inclined to flirt with you, sweetheart,” Royal gallantly said. “I only hope you didn’t flirt back.”
“I am a loyal subject of the Crown,” Ainsley responded. “I must do my duty, as should we all.”
“I’m not bloody flirting with him,” Royal said. “I almost lost a leg at Waterloo. I’ve done my bit.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation,” Nick said. “And please do not tell me the king was engaged in flirtations while Victoria was sitting right next to him.”
Ainsley laughed. “I’m teasing. George has been on his best behavior.”
“Instead of acting like aSassenachtwiddlepoop, as Angus would say,” Graeme said. “Speaking of which, where is the old boy? We need to keep an eye on him, so he doesn’t do anything especially stupid.”
“Like challenge the king to a duel to redress our defeat at Culloden?” Royal wryly asked.
Graeme snorted. “I just don’t want Angus embarrassing Vicky.”
“Angus went with Grant for some fresh air,” Nick said. “Can’t say that I blame him, given the heat and the crowds.”
Ainsley flapped her fan so vigorously that her dainty curls blew straight back off her forehead. “I wish they’d waited for me.”
“Do you want to leave?” Royal asked with concern. “We can try to find a hackney.”
“Good luck,” Graeme said. “It’s a mob scene out there. Half of Edinburgh is milling about on the street, waiting to see the king.”
“And it’s not good form to leave before His Majesty, don’t forget,” Nick added.
Graeme would be happy to insult old Georgie, if it meant he could go home and get much needed sleep. This assignment was turning out to be worse than his last one, since he’d yet to get his hands on even one piece of decent information regarding potential plots. Even worse, Sir Walter Scott and the king’s advisors were determined that George spend as much time as possible out in public. Every time he stepped foot outside, the king was at risk. But from whom or what, Graeme hadn’t a clue.
It was as frustrating as hell.
“Honestly, I can’t wait for it all to be over,” Ainsley said. “Friday was the absolute worst.”
In addition to the other events, there’d been a massive military review at Portobello Sands. The locals had poured in from miles around, with crowds estimated at thirty thousand. The king had arrived by carriage, but had then mounted a gray charger and ridden slowly down the regimental line, creating an excellent target for a potential assassin.
Graeme had shadowed the king as best he could. Grant and Royal had also patrolled the crowd, alert for trouble. Under the circumstances, protecting the monarch was an all but impossible job. If someone had wanted to kill George he’d have had a cracking good chance to do so.
Fortunately, the review had gone splendidly, and the crowds had been delighted. Later that evening, the Peers’ Ball had taken place at the Assembly Rooms. The crowds had turned out for that event, too, with thousands blocking the streets to watch carriages disgorging ladies in their finest gowns, and men dressed in tartans, bonnets, and shields, and all sorts of Highland nonsense meant to honor the king.
Despite the sheer pandemonium, that event had been wildly successful as well.
Aye, Graeme had been run off his feet, but at least he’d had a solid excuse to avoid Sabrina. After that disastrous episode in the carriage—and the most enchanting kiss of his life—he’d stayed far away from her. Tonight had proven trickier, since the Caledonian Hunt Ball was a long-standing family tradition. Nick had ordered Graeme to attend, and as a family member, not as a bloody spy lurking behind potted plants, as his brother had trenchantly put it.
Fortunately, Sabrina had been much engaged by the royal entourage. She’d spent most of the evening in George’s company, as had Vicky.
“Mob scene or not, if my wife wishes to leave, we’re going,” Royal said to Nick. “And old Georgie can bloody well go shoot himself if he doesn’t like it.”
