Page 28 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“T his had better be important, Sir Hector. Mr. Cameron, I know you.” Seated behind a tall mahogany desk, Jameson peered at the men standing before him. Scowling over his spectacles, he offered no one a chair. He peered at Ronan.

“You look familiar, sir.”

“My lord, this is John Ronan MacGregor, an advocate,” Hugh explained. “Recently named Lord Darrach.”

“Ah! Heard about that. What do you want? It is late. I am only allowing this because you are with the deputy lord provost. Even so, I want my tea, so be quick.”

“Lord Jameson, thank you for seeing us,” Sir Hector said. “Darrach has a matter to submit to the court. If you please, perhaps you could hear a preliminary discussion.”

“Is this in your bailiwick, Sir Hector?” he demanded.

“It appears to be a matter of the constabulary, sir.”

“Lord Justice,” Ronan began, “Mr. Cameron and I intend to submit an application for warrant of liberation.”

“For whom? Now that I think of it, I have heard of you, sir. Something about Edinburgh dungeons. But you look liberated to me.” Jameson scowled at him.

“My lord, Darrach was incarcerated briefly,” Sir Hector said. “And pardoned several weeks ago. I oversaw the matter. It is documented and approved.”

“A misunderstanding, was it? Tell me why I should listen to any of you. We are all busy at the moment.”

“Aye, my lord. I do not know what Darrach and Cameron have in mind. I will vouch for them, if not for the matter of concern, which I have not heard in full.”

Ronan regarded him in surprise and murmured his thanks.

“An interesting recommendation. Someone explain it,” Jameson said.

Hugh produced a packet of papers from his pocket and set it on the desk. “My lord, here is a warrant of liberation under the Habeas Corpus Act of Scotland of 1701.”

“Who do you want to liberate and why?” Jameson asked as he opened the packet.

“Arthur Stewart, Lord Linhope, and Sir Iain MacInnes,” Ronan answered. “They were arrested under irregular circumstances and are being held in Calton Jail.”

“Then you are petitioning for two writs of habeas corpus.”

“Aye, my lord,” Ronan said.

“Why should we release them? This could be a ploy of one cohort to free the others.” Jameson turned the pages, then glanced up as a knock sounded on the door. “What is it now!” he bellowed.

Ronan looked around as the door opened and a young man peered inside. “Pardon, my lord. These people insist on seeing you.”

“I have already been disturbed once! Not again!”

“Uh, my lord, this gentleman says he is Sir Hector’s secretary. This young lady says she is Sir Hector’s daughter, and the other says she is Justice Beaton’s sister. Sir, they are quite insistent.”

“Damned circus,” Jameson muttered. “Damned gypsy fair, the whole blasted city. Let them in. Let them all in! Open the windows and let the whole noisy horse fair in here! Bring the damned pipers in too!”

“Sir, sorry, sir.” The clerk stood back to let others file into the room.

What the devil? Ronan stared as Ellison entered, followed by Sorcha, Corbie, and then Pitlinnie. He glanced at Hugh, who shook his head, frowning. Sir Hector turned an interesting shade of purple.

“Do you know these people, Sir Hector?” Jameson demanded.

“Yes, my lord. This is my daughter, Miss Ellison Graham, and her friend, who is indeed Justice Beaton’s sister. That gentleman is my secretary, Adam Corbie, with Sir Neill Pitlinnie, who has been a generous donor to our civil expenses.”

“Sit over there and be quiet,” Jameson ordered, sending the newcomers to chairs in the back of the room.

Ronan caught Ellison’s eye and frowned. She glanced away, shaking her head slightly. Beautiful in blue and plaid, she looked delicate yet determined, lifting his pride—but he narrowed his eyes as Corbie sat beside her.

Outside, the noise of the crowded streets mingled with the peal of the bronze bells of Saint Giles, the melody followed by three booming strikes for the hour.

“Three already! I see I will have no blasted tea today,” Jameson said. “Go on, Darrach. We do this fast or not at all.”

Ellison leaned away from Adam Corbie, who sat all too near, as she strived to hear Ronan at the justice’s desk.

“Your Honor, we are petitioning due to the length of time these two men have been incarcerated without trial,” he said.

“Sixty days?” The justice turned the pages. “Ah. I see. Since the first of May?” He looked up. “When was the sixtieth day?”

“The twenty-ninth of June. Weeks ago, my lord. A letter of intimation was issued as required the day after the initial arrest,” Hugh explained. “I notified the Court of Justiciary and the prisoners were brought to Edinburgh. The indictment was preliminary, but as there was no murder involved, it did not go to the high court from the sheriff court. But the final papers were not signed, as the petition notes.”

Jameson glanced up sharply. “You are certain of this?”

“Yes, my lord, as detailed in our petition.”

“The law requires indictment or trial within sixty days. That was the twenty-ninth of June,” Jameson said.

“A trial should have been set within forty days,” Ronan said. “The time expired without a trial date on eight August, as you see there. Today is eleven August. One hundred and three days, my lord.”

“Huh,” Jameson grunted as he read. “No signature on the original indictment?”

“None, my lord,” Hugh said. “It appears to be missing. Done in a rush.”

“Huh,” Jameson said again.

“The Scottish Habeas Corpus Act of 1701 expanded a law established in 1695 and has not been altered under English rule,” Ronan said. “It allows any prisoner incarcerated in Scotland for one hundred days without trial to apply for a warrant of liberation.”

“You act on behalf of your fellow prisoners?” Jameson rustled through the pages.

“Mr. Cameron and myself, my lord.”

Listening rapt, Ellison was thrilled as she comprehended what Ronan intended here—and had been intending all along. She recalled how he had pored over law volumes at Strathnive, keeping late hours, taking notes. All that time, he had been researching old laws, counting the days, and shoring up his argument. He had taken that those facts to Hugh Cameron in Kinross.

All this time, he had never forgotten the plight of his friends. Bringing the matter before a justice was a risk that could expose him to scrutiny. He stood here now arguing for their freedom at the risk of his.

Corbie leaned toward her. “There’s falsity in this somewhere.”

She rolled her eyes. “Be quiet.”

“Issued in Culross,” Jameson was saying, studying another page. “Sir Hector, as chief of the constabulary, what do you know of this?”

“My lord.” Graham cleared his throat. “This case came through my office as a routine case of accused smuggling.”

“Hardly routine. These were the Whisky Rogues—the notorious fellows whose capture caused a spectacle. Annoying! Crowds clamoring to see them. And now we have another spectacle on our streets,” he added. “Go on, Graham. What else?”

“My lord, if there was a lapse in dates or if a process was missed, it was never brought to my attention.”

“Why not?” Jameson barked.

“Such things are handled by my secretary and are stamped and approved routinely. They are passed along as necessary. The men were sent to the dungeon and the Lord Provost decided to—ah—”

“Make a little coin by renting them out for view,” Jameson grumbled. He examined another page. “So in July, MacGregor—Darrach—was conditionally pardoned, and the other two were moved to Calton weeks ago.”

“Aye, my lord,” Hugh said. “One hundred and three days have passed since the initial arrest.”

“Sir Hector, how was this missed?” Jameson boomed.

Sir Hector blustered. “I, ah, I cannot explain it, my lord. So many matters of immediate importance have come through my office this summer that—ah, something may have slipped.”

Listening, Ellison held her breath. Beside her, Corbie went still and silent. What had he done, she wondered. Had it been a mistake—or deliberate for some reason?

Jameson set down the papers, folded his hands, tapped his fingers. The men standing before him waited in silence. Tap, tap, tap, then thud as the judge slapped a hand flat on the papers.

“We have all been sorely burdened with nonsense from the Crown,” he said. “Our offices have been inundated with requests and tasks far beyond the norm. The royal visit was confirmed only months ago, giving our civil and legal offices little time to prepare.”

“Very true, my lord,” Sir Hector said.

Tap, tap. Justice Jameson studied their faces, one by one.

Ellison watched intently, feeling proud of Ronan for following his staunch principles despite the risk. Yet she feared he would face unfair examination, especially with Corbie determined to take him down however he could.

She slid a glance at Corbie. The gleam in his narrowed eyes made her feel ill. He was set on destroying Ronan; he would turn this bid for justice sour if he could. Even knowing him much of her life, she had not seen the hidden darkness in his character. Perhaps she had not wanted to see it.

“Well,” Jameson said, “I do not have my red silks and my wig here today. I am making no decisions. This will need to go through the proper steps. I will take time to read the petition and study the question.”

“If I may, Your Honor,” Hugh said, “the law of 1701 states that a warrant of liberation must be granted within twenty-four hours of a petition for freedom.”

“I know damn well what the law states, Mr. Cameron!” he thundered. “But this court is closed tomorrow. The courts are also closed on Saturdays and Sundays. Any day the court is closed means an extension of a day. This royal visit has thrown the courts and all else into confusion. You will have an answer. Word will be sent to your office. Return when it is appropriate!”

“My lord,” Hugh said.

“Thank you, Lord Justice,” Sir Hector said.

“My lord,” Ronan said, nodding slightly.

“Darrach, remind me of your status. Explain your arrest and pardon.”

As the judge spoke, Ellison felt her heart sink. But Corbie gave a dry chuckle.

“Now it will be known,” he purred. She wanted to kick him.

“My lord,” Ronan said, “my friends and I were arrested at a tavern in Culross where we met one evening. Excise officers took us by force and accused us of something we did not do. I sent word to Hugh Cameron before we were taken to Edinburgh.”

“I have copies of all the papers in case of any questions.” Hugh handed a second packet to Jameson, who ripped it open to sift through the contents.

“The prisoners were displayed like animals. It was a decision of the Provost carried out by the Captain of the Castle. Not the courts. All for revenue.”

“It provided a goodly sum for the city to host the royal visit,” Sir Hector said.

The room went silent as the justice studied more pages. After a moment, Sir Hector looked over his shoulder at Ellison. He smiled.

Surprised, even startled by that tentative, almost apologetic, show of affection, she nodded to her father. She had not had a chance to see him since arriving last night. That little smile felt almost like a hug. Almost. Sir Hector was not given to such.

“Darrach, it is not noted in these papers that you are an advocate,” Jameson said.

“My friends and I kept our identities private in matters pertaining to whisky.”

“You gave false information?” Jameson snapped.

“No, my lord. We use our birth names. Certain other details are just not relevant.”

“Arrested for a crime and being an advocate is irrelevant? Hah!” Jameson shook his head. “And the others? Lawyers too as well as—distillers?”

“Sir, Lord Linhope is a physican. MacInnes is a civil engineer.”

“Then why in hell,” Jameson growled, “were you smuggling whisky?”

“If they were, sir,” Hugh said. “That has not been established nor proven.”

“Then why in hell were you possibly doing it? This nonsense about Whisky Rogues belongs to you, after all.”

Seeing the judge’s frustration, Ellison clenched her gloved hands. She saw that Sorcha looked equally distressed. To her other side, Corbie huffed in amusement.

Ronan was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “If my explanation will save two men who do not deserve to be jailed, I will tell you.”

“No promises!” Jameson barked.

“My compatriots and I were never the ones that were called Whisky Rogues.”

Ellison gasped. Not a Whisky Rogue? He had never mentioned that detail. She saw Hugh Cameron’s furtive, knowing glance at Ronan.

“Sir, you are not under oath here in this room, but you are well advised to tell the truth.”

“My lord, my brother, William MacGregor, and our cousin, John MacGregor, Viscount Darrach, were labeled Whisky Rogues in the news journals. I believe Sir Walter Scott said it first. They moved whisky out of the Highlands simply because selling for profit has become one of the few ways to help Highland folk. The clearing of the glens over the last two generations has devastated many Scottish regions, ours included. My kinsmen did what they had to do.”

“Smuggling is a crime, even if there is a noble reason,” Jameson said.

“True. And that is a dilemma for many Highland families, my lord, as you are no doubt aware. Land is sold, tenants are evicted or their livelihoods are reduced. Severe limits and high taxes are imposed on whisky. That leaves few means of income for glen folk. Highland whisky is a valuable product, much in demand, but taxation erases profit for those who make it.”

“Did you help your kinsmen build this enterprise while they earned notoriety?”

“I was in India much of that time, sir, part of Sir Evan MacGregor’s regiment. When I returned, I set up a distillery legally and my brother operated it while I practiced law in Perth and Edinburgh. But I have a hand in running the distillery.”

“Were you also part of the smuggling transport?”

“He was not, my lord,” Hugh Cameron said. “That was arranged and run by others. This was established by witnesses but overlooked by the excise.”

“I have seen you in these halls and before my bench. Remind me what you do.”

“Most often I defend Highlanders accused of smuggling, or those charged with violence due to circumstances such as eviction or attack.”

“Would you say you are a Whisky Rogue?”

Ronan hesitated. “For the most part, no my lord. After my brother’s death, I did finish some business in his name.”

“What the devil! I am losing patience. I am missing high tea.”

“Sir, my brother and my cousin were killed by excise officers. My brother left a widow, a son, and tenants in need. Agreements were left unmet. To protect families against ruin and threat, we felt those obligations had to be fulfilled.”

“Obligations to whom?”

“I prefer not to say, my lord,” Ronan said.

“So you saved Highland hides instead of your own, is that it?”

“He did, my lord,” Cameron said.

“I knew my kinfolk might be threatened or killed. I knew innocent people would suffer and our legitimate distillery would be destroyed by rivals.”

“I see. Well. In my experience, Highland whisky tends to be far superior to other kinds, especially English grain whiskies. Many would go to great lengths to protect it.”

“Lord Justice,” Sir Hector said, “Darrach will not bring attention to it, but you should know that King George favors Glenbrae whisky so much that he personally requested to meet its distiller. Lord Darrach will be introduced this week.”

“Interesting.” Jameson tapped the pages again, loudly and slowly.

Ellison flattened a hand over her chest, waiting in the silence. She did not know some of what Ronan had explained, but she knew his actions had stemmed from integrity, courage, and love. He was not driven by greed and had no disdain for the law. He was not the rogue others made him out to be.

She glanced around the room at those she loved dearly, and two she mistrusted. They were all motionless, somber, hanging on the moment. But Jameson continued to seem annoyed.

Tap, tap, tap. “When were you named Viscount Darrach?”

“My lord, Sir Evan Murray-MacGregor, chief of Clan Gregor, awarded the title with the approval of the Lyon Court,” Hugh explained.

Thud. Jameson slapped the desk, folded the papers, crammed them into a drawer and slammed it shut. “Mr. Cameron, Darrach, return here when I am ready to discuss these matters further. You, in the back! What did you want to bring to my attention? May as well hear it.”

Corbie stood and spoke before Ellison had the chance to move. “My lord! I believe the charge of smuggling must be revisited. MacGregor, who calls himself Darrach, recently transported illicit whisky by sea. Yesterday he arrived in Leith with goods smuggled out of Perthshire.” He walked forward. “I ask the court to renew the charges against MacGregor.”

“Darrach comes by his title decently, and you will respect that. Who are you again?”

“Adam Corbie, secretary to the Deputy Lord Provost.”

“You bring a serious allegation, Mr. Corbie. Darrach! Is this true?”

“I brought Glenbrae whisky into Leith Harbor, aye. Five casks, seven kegs, and three crates of crockery jugs.”

“A good deal more than is allowed for personal use, sir.”

“Some was delivered to Holyroodhouse yesterday. The rest went elsewhere.”

“Sold? If you sold it, you endanger yourself.”

“The rest was taken up to the Castle as a donation to the Highland contingency. Thousands of Highlanders are in Edinburgh now to march in parades and act as honor guards for the royal party. The cost of provisions for them is considerable. The whisky went to the attention of Sir Evan MacGregor and Sir Walter Scott to be dispersed among the clans.”

Jameson looked at Sir Hector. “Did you know about this?”

“I did not. Darrach is to be thanked for a generous gift.”

“Indeed. But why send so much to the king?” Jameson swiveled toward Ronan. “He will be in Scotland a fortnight at most.”

“My lord, he can take it back to England for his personal use.”

Jameson nodded, chuckled—then guffawed. He laughed so heartily, smacking the desk, that others smiled uncertainly. “Ha ha! If the king ships that lot home to England—that could make him a smuggler in the letter of the law.”

“It could, Your Honor.” Ronan smiled.

“A good lawyer would not miss that detail.” Ronan shrugged a shoulder in answer and Jameson guffawed again. Then he beckoned to Corbie. “You! The secretary!”

“Adam Corbie, my lord,” he reminded Jameson.

“Your request is denied. Foolish and spiteful. Darrach will not be charged. But the king as a smuggler—aye, that fits the regrettable spectacle out there.”

A knock at the door interrupted him. As it opened, the clerk looked in. “My lord, you asked to be notified when Lord Beaton was available. He is here now.” He stepped aside.

Archibald Beaton entered the room, lifted a hand toward Jameson, and turned to his young sister, taking her hands. “I heard you were here. What a surprise.”

Then he went toward Jameson, leaning to confer. “I see. I see,” he repeated. “Astonishing. Interesting,” Jameson said. He rose to his feet and Beaton took his place.

“I leave you in good hands,” Jameson said. “My tea grows cold. The Honorable Lord Justice Beaton will hear this final request. Miss Graham, come up.”

She walked forward, feeling a sudden fluttering doubt. “Thank you, sir.” Facing Beaton, although she knew Sorcha’s oldest brother, she had never seen him in this role. She quailed.

But then caught Ronan’s steady glance. He did not know what she intended here, but she nodded, then turned back. “Sir, I wish to submit a petition and a letter.”

“Bring your papers here, Miss Graham.”

Watched by all, sensing Ronan’s concern and feeling Corbie’s piercing glare like a knife blade, she handed the pages to Lord Beaton. She did not want to explain the matter before the company here. But this step was imperative. She knew that. But she began to twist her fingers.

Reading the pages, Beaton cocked a brow, then looked up. “Most of you wait outside. Only Miss Graham and her father will remain. Robertson! Show them to the foyer.”

“Ellison,” Ronan murmured, as he left. He looked puzzled. Her heart galloped, her hands shook with uncertainty.

But she was determined to present her claim to the court—and speak to her father about her marriage. These last weeks with Ronan had taught her greater confidence, but her nature would always be to doubt herself. That demon resurfaced with claws as her father approached.

“Ellison, what is this about?”

“You will see, Papa.”

“Darrach, wait,” Sir Hector called. Ronan turned at the door. “We must talk. Where can you be found?”

“I am a renting a house on North Castle Street. But I can come to you.” He glanced at Ellison.

She set at hand to her upper chest. Her tenant was Ronan? Neither he nor Cameron had mentioned it. Perhaps it was meant to be a surprise. She smiled a little, and he nodded slightly.

“Come to my home tomorrow,” Sir Hector said. With a nod, Ronan left, but the flash of concern in his blue eyes went straight through Ellison’s heart. Soon she would tell him what she had done here. There had simply been no chance to explain.

“Lord Beaton, I wish a word with my daughter.”

“Take a moment, then. I need to consider this petition.”

Sir Hector took her elbow and led her to a corner by windows overlooking the square.

“Papa, what did Mr. Corbie tell you?” She looked into his gray eyes, so like her own.