Page 14 of A Rogue in Firelight

“The king expects to meet the distiller. He heard the fellow is a peer and so he insists on meeting him. Even the Glenlivet fellow is not a landed peer.”

“Oh, dear. But how could I be of help?” Ellison asked.

“What we must determine,” her father went on, “is if this incarcerated MacGregor is in fact the distiller. He needs to supply the whisky. Excise officers have not found it.”

An odd chill trickled along her spine. “Ah, the prisoners speak Gaelic. You will need a translator.”

“Exactly. A sergeant in the Regiment of Foot translates for them, but we must be discreet here. No one must know about this. A brief interview is all we need.”

Her breath quickened. Here was a chance to see the smugglers again, talk with them, learn more for her novel. “Of course, Papa. I can help.”

“Good. You have a grasp of the Gaelic language, since you spoke it as a child with the servants, and have put it to good use in your work with the ladies’ society.”

“But I do not claim fluency. That would take a lifetime.”

“Lady Strathniven tells me you are very proficient.”

“I adore her, Papa, but she exaggerates all our accomplishments. She thinks I am an expert in languages and an extraordinary poet.” She laughed. “Juliet is the equal of Beethoven, and Deirdre draws like Raphael. And you, sir, will be Lord Provost one day.”

He pursed his lips. “The lady has a good heart. We just need some translating.”

“Sir, this is no task for a young lady,” Corbie said. “Let me talk to the fellow.”

“Do you speak the Highland tongue? I did not think so,” Sir Hector barked.

“Papa, you said Viscount Darrach died. Can I ask when, and what happened?” She was always curious about such things, and her father had included her in this.

“Shot in a hunting accident. Very unfortunate.”

Corbie shut the ledger. “The excise said it was murder. The young man came upon smugglers in the hills. The housekeeper at Strathniven told us that he had just inherited the property and did not know the area, nor was he well known in the glen.”

“Murder!” Ellison shuddered. “And so near Strathniven!”

“Thieving and smuggling are everywhere in the Highlands, Miss Ellison. But my lady aunt only keeps legal whisky at Strathniven. The housekeeper makes sure of it.”

“Does she,” Sir Hector drawled. “So they all say up there. As I recall, the excise officers reported that these so-called Whisky Rogues killed the viscount.”

Astonished, Ellison sat straight. “I cannot imagine that, having seen them.”

“An innocent’s observation,” Corbie muttered.

“If a tale of smuggling and the murder of a peer were to reach the journals, it could go poorly for us as we arrange the royal visit,” her father said.

“Papa, can you simply tell the Crown there is no distiller to introduce?”

“Lord Arbuthnot, as Provost, insists that the Crown’s every request be met. It is imperative that the king feel good will toward Scotland. If he is displeased, he may decide to visit France instead. Economically, politically, and personally—disastrous.”

Her father’s reputation might suffer; she could see the concern in his eyes. “Then I will bring your message discreetly to this Mr. MacGregor and you will have answers.”

“Just a few questions about the whisky.”

“Will he be paid for the whisky given to the king?”

“He is a prisoner, stripped of rights,” Corbie said.

“It is a reasonable question, sir. Unless he makes it himself, other Highlanders deserve payment for it. Aye, Papa?”

“This entire affair is an infernal nuisance,” Sir Hector muttered, and sat.