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“Ah, secrets,” said Muriel, shifting her gaze to the flames. Lifting her glass of Madeira, she sipped the rich wine, then quoted aloud a line from Walter Scott’s poem, Marmion. “Oh! What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!”

“Exactly.”

Muriel returned her gaze to the distraught young woman. “Come now, is there no room in your heart to forgive the young man and his brother? When I last saw Nash, he appeared most miserable.”

Aileen pursed her lips and fiddled with her hands, clearly uncomfortable with the stand she had taken.

Muriel fixed her gaze on Aileen. “I doubt Ormond and the elder Powell brothers confided all they were doing to the women who became their wives. As I recall, only Kit was married when her husband was acting the spy in Pentridge and he never told her. ’Tis worse in your case, of course, because Nash and his brother spied on one of your countrymen, a man you admire, with the intent to put him in prison. But didn’t Nash come to dislike the task he was given?”

“Aye. I suppose he did, though he still went to town with Robbie to search out Kinloch.” Aileen suddenly jumped up from her chair. “Is there more of the Madeira?”

Muriel smiled to herself. “Why, yes. Just there on the sideboard.”

Aileen returned with a glass of the wine. “I will consider forgiving him, but whether I do or not, I have decided to accept your invitation to come to London. That is, if you will still have me.”

“Oh yes, my dear. I would welcome your company in London. I dare say you would be quite the hit.”

From where he reclined on his bed, Robbie looked out the window, watching tree branches whip about in the wind. The deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning shook the house, unmistakable signs a storm was battering the Forfarshire coast.

Nash left his book and went to the window. “No one’s going anywhere in this.”

“A good afternoon to stay inside,” Robbie agreed. “Now that our secret’s out, perhaps we should go down to dinner together. They aren’t likely to scourge us.” Unlike Nash, Ailie’s earlier visit had not discouraged Robbie. He was not even feeling badly for having lost his prey. Nash might well have been correct in his thinking; Kinloch was not a bad sort and putting him in prison would serve no purpose except to rile the Scots.

Nash turned from the window. “We might be in for a verbal scourging. You would think so if you’d seen the scowl Ailie gave me when she arrived at luncheon.”

“Worry not. I will speak our apology and the lass will forgive you. In my experience, they always do. Look at our brothers’ wives and all they have forgiven them. Love makes even the veriest harridan most amenable.”

“You say that like one who has taken advantage.”

Robbie slung his legs over the edge of his bed, preparing to rise. He paused as the room spun. “Many times, Brother. Many times.”

“Shameless, that’s what you are.”

“I’ll not deny it.” Robbie chuckled, or tried to, but his head pounded and the wound in his temple ached. He had refused more laudanum, hating the effect of the opiate, and sent Mr. Wilson away with his thanks when the physician had graciously braved the storm to check on his patient. “By the bye, did you know of Ormond’s exploits in France?”

“Not until William revealed them. Just think, our new friend Hugh, the Marquess of Ormond, is an infamous hero of our time. I suppose he would have been knighted for his service in France, like our brother, Martin, if he weren’t already heir to a dukedom.”

Thankful the room had stopped spinning, Robbie checked his bandage to make sure it would not fall into his eyes as he descended the stairs. “A baronet is far beneath a duke. Moreover, Ormond has the courtesy title of marquess to toss about. I like him all the more that he does not.”

“I agree. William has no title at all, yet Hugh calls him his chum.”

“Come on, Nash. Help me up. I want to go down to dinner, but I’ll need you to steady me else I’ll arrive at the bottom of the stairs face first.”

With Nash beside him, Robbie entered the dining room to looks of concern from the ladies and shakes of the head from the men. He subsided into a chair across from Nick and Tara and took up his napkin.

“You look like a soldier off the battlefield,” said Tara.

Robbie intended to make light of his injury, not wishing to curry either condemnation or sympathy. After all, he had only himself to blame. “I rather think the bandage adds to my appeal, don’t you?”

From Muriel, two seats away, came a muffled, “Humph.”

“Oh, very well, yes,” Robbie admitted, “I grant you it’s a pathetic attempt to justify my altered appearance.” He picked up his spoon as the soup was served, a rich broth replete with carrots, turnips, peas and other vegetables, one of which was decidedly dark green, to which had been added barley and lamb. “A hearty soup for a stormy day and most welcome.”

“’Tis a Scottish dish called hotch potch,” offered Ailie, who appeared too reserved to be her usual self. He assumed her dour countenance and her failure to greet Nash or him with her usual smile meant she had not yet forgiven them the morning’s revelations.

“I like the soup,” he replied, “as I have all the Scottish dishes to which you have introduced us.” Then, addressing himself to William and Hugh, sitting at one end of the table, he changed the subject. “I know Nash and I have presumed upon your good graces in failing to tell you of our assignment from Lord Sidmouth, which,” he said, glancing at the others, “I assume you are all now aware of. We ask your humble pardon.”

Nash nodded. “We do.”