Page 39 of A Rogue in Firelight

How ironic, he thought, to trade one ruse for another. “I can behave cordially enough—if I decide to do this.”

“Mr. MacGregor.” She sat forward. “You have little choice.”

“‘What a tangled web we weave,’” he quoted, “‘when first we practice to deceive.’”

She blinked. “Scott.”

“Appropriate, I thought.”

“The other reason for this plan involves the licensing of your whisky.”

“Ah. The landowner is legally the distiller no matter who makes it. So, Viscount Darrach. But he is dead.”

“Did you know him?”

He shrugged. “Somewhat. Surely you do not expect me to pose as Darrach.”

She sighed. “You see our dilemma. It is—complicated.”

“Simplify it,” he clipped.

“The king expects to meet a viscount, not a prisoner. The Darrach inheritance is undecided.” She glanced down, as if her conscience troubled her. “Papa thinks the inheritance will not be decided for some time yet.”

“Possibly.” He knew the issue would go to court soon and he had a solid claim. “If an heir is found, Sir Hector’s scheme will collapse.”

She blushed, nodded. Her thoughts and feelings were transparent, a charming but vulnerable quality. He folded his arms against a protective urge.

“The royal assemblies will be huge, hundreds or thousands in attendance,” she said. “An unfamiliar viscount of a small estate would hardly be noticed. It would all go very quickly.”

“Whether a minute or a lifetime, impersonating a peer is punishable by prison or exile. Or worse. If this insult to the Crown is discovered, we could all be charged and sentenced with conspiracy. Even you.”

“You know something of the law.”

“A bit.”

“I know there are risks.” Her brow furrowed, her hands fluttered. She was frightened, he realized.

“So, you must train a peasant to act a peer, run him past the king, hope no one notices, and then escape the whole mess as fast as you can.”

“Do you need a tutor at all?” she snapped.

“Aye,” he bit out. “If I set a foot wrong and ruin your lunatic scheme, my friends could suffer. I can manage to be polite—briefly.” He spoke bitterly, but knew she did not deserve his anger; her father and his secretary did.

She wove her fingers in and out fretfully. He wanted to reach out and calm her hands. Calm her. She looked as delicate as porcelain, yet beneath her nervousness, he sensed strength, regret, and sadness. He had secrets and sadness too. His sympathy toward her grew, and something inside him succumbed.

“I apologize, Miss Graham. This appears to be none of your doing.”

“Will you agree to see this through?”

He ought to refuse, but his friends in Calton depended on him. The Highland rogue was more a gentleman than the schemers knew. But he must hide it.

He nodded. “I will.”

“Thank you.” She breathed out as if in relief.

“So, what will you teach me?”

“We will cover polite conversation, how to properly address nobility and royalty, some aspects of gentlemanly behavior, costume and comportment, and so on. And perhaps a dancing lesson.” Her fingers were like gentle, fluttering butterflies. He felt keenly that she had been forced into this, just as he was.