Page 4 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“E llison,” Sir Hector said, “we must discuss a delicate matter. Mr. Corbie is aware.”

“Papa, I have explained and apologized for the visit to the dungeons.”

He came around the desk to lean against it, crossing his arms as he scowled down at her. Adam Corbie stood nearby, frowning too, as if in imitation. Seated, Ellison straightened her posture against their intimidation. Yet her father looked troubled rather than angry.

“This is more serious,” he said.

Had he found her novel? She smoothed the skirts of her gray muslin trimmed in indigo ribbon, colors reflecting the morning rain. No matter what she did, she struggled to retain her father’s love and approval, once so secure.

She took a breath, prepared to defend herself. Her marriage three years ago to a viscount’s son, romantic but hasty, had been followed too soon by his fatal fall from a horse. Her widowing had stirred sympathy among family and friends, but Sir Hector could not forget her lapse in judgment. Mr. Corbie echoed that opinion.

“I will need your assistance in a difficult situation,” her father said.

Ellison blinked. “My—assistance?”

He picked up a letter from the desk, its royal seal broken. “The king’s secretary sends constant requests regarding the king’s visit. We do our utmost to satisfy them.”

“You and the Lord Provost are working diligently with Sir Walter Scott and the Celtic Society to prepare for the visit. I would be happy to help with the details.”

“Only in this matter, Miss Ellison...” Corbie said.

“Adam, please.” Sir Hector held up a hand. “The king’s arrival has not been publicly confirmed, but we expect him in August. That gives us six weeks before the city turns topsy-turvy. Our office is responsible for many of the arrangements. Mr. Corbie, might I add, is proving invaluable.”

“Thank you, sir. But Sir Walter is an efficient chief organizer with some excellent ideas.”

Ellison pinched back a smile, remembering that Corbie previously called Scott’s ideas outlandish. “Some are calling it the ‘Celtification of Scotland,’” she said.

“Hmph. We hope to avoid a spectacle. But a new problem has arisen.” Sir Hector tapped the letter. “King George, it seems, is very fond of Highland whisky.”

“I am sure your office can provide him a good supply.”

“He takes a dram or two every night, they say, and more, and is devoted to the habit. He is especially fond of two particular whiskies.”

“Does he know most Highland whisky is illicit, thanks to English laws?” Ellison asked pertly. “What he enjoys may come from casks smuggled into London.”

“He, ah, may not realize that,” her father said. “The king prefers Glenlivet and has requested to meet George Smith, the distiller, to extend his compliments. Lord Arbuthnot’s office is arranging a royal introduction.”

“A nice honor. Is Glenlivet whisky considered legal or illicit?”

“Mr. Smith obtained a license recently, just in time. Now we are told the king is equally fond of Glenbrae whisky. It is equal to The Glenlivet in the king’s opinion, the royal secretary says.” Sir Hector cleared his throat. “Glenbrae is produced in Perthshire.”

“Surely you can provide that whisky to the king too. But how could I help?”

“King George has asked to meet the Glenbrae distiller also.”

“Of course. Is Glenbrae illicit or licensed?”

“Licensed, we hope. Mr. Corbie, check this year’s listings.” Corbie went to a bookshelf to pull a large ledger free, then set it down to flip through it. “This request will not be handled by the Lord Provost’s office,” Sir Hector continued. “As deputy lord provost, I oversee the constabulary and prisons.”

“Prisons?” Ellison paused, then realized. “Oh! Glenbrae! I read the name in the journal—is he one of the Whisky Rogues?”

“Exactly. The Glenbrae distiller is presently incarcerated.”

Ellison nearly laughed. “The king’s favorite dram is produced by a smuggler?”

“It is hardly amusing, Ellison. MacGregor of Glenbrae is a crofting laird, a tenant of the landowner. He might make the brew, but whoever owns the land is legally the distiller. That presents another complication. Mr. Corbie, did you find a listing?”

“Here it is.” Corbie glanced up from the ledger pages. “Glenbrae distillery in Perthshire was licensed two years ago to John R. MacGregor of Glenbrae.”

“That must be Viscount Darrach. Glenbrae and Darrach make up that estate.”

“Glenbrae is not far from Strathniven, sir,” Corbie said. “Darrach belongs to the MacGregors, so several MacGregor families live in those glens. The land was parceled out to others. My aunt owns part of it. Many there are crofters. Tenants.”

“The countryside near Strathniven is beautiful,” Ellison said.

“And overrun with smugglers,” Corbie said.

“The real complication is that Viscount Darrach died last year,” Sir Hector said.

“Oh! Can the new viscount be introduced to the king?” she asked.

“Unfortunately,” her father said, “I have heard that there is confusion over the Darrach inheritance, so there is no heir as yet. It must go to the courts to decide.”

“But Papa, if you simply supply the whisky, would that not satisfy the king’s request?”

“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.

“Sir, we could present the whisky and say that an introduction could not be arranged,” Corbie said. “Two years ago, the Lord Provost sent the king a gift of Highland whisky in honor of his succession. Sir Alasdair Drummond—the Lord Lyon, King of Arms, if you recall, brought it down to London against all odds—a supreme effort to ensure that it was presented to the king.”

“Which is why the king favors Glenbrae whisky,” Sir Hector said. “Besides, the king hates being refused. To be blunt, Corbie, you and I could both lose face if this does not go smoothly.”

“True. Every detail of the royal visit must be successful. I will accompany Miss Ellison to interview this fellow.”

Seeing her father nod, she smiled faintly. “Very well. Shall I explain the king’s request? Mr. MacGregor will want to know his whisky is favored.”

“No. The less he knows the better.”

“Yes, Papa.” She hid a rising excitement. Which prisoner was MacGregor? The man with the searing blue eyes and resonant voice came to mind. She sighed.

“Sir, if we present a prisoner amid Sir Walter’s spectacle,” Corbie said, “that could make us a laughingstock.”

“True. Those rough Highlanders should not be seen,” Sir Hector agreed.

Ellison recalled Lady Strathniven’s words. With a barber, decent clothing, and better circumstances, they could be taken for fine Highland gentlemen.

“Papa,” she said, “could you introduce MacGregor to the king as Glenbrae, the laird and the distiller? It could be done very quickly.”

“Impossible!” Corbie said.

“An interesting thought.” Sir Hector frowned.

“They say royal introductions last only a minute or less. But there are strict protocols for an introduction—proper etiquette, required dress, and so on,” she said.

“Absurd,” Corbie replied. “The assemblies in Edinburgh will be attended by hundreds, even thousands, of peers and dignitaries, even Highland chiefs with their entourages. Bringing in a prisoner into that situation is unthinkable.”

“He could dress as a gentleman for the occasion,” Ellison said. “Papa, as chief of the constabulary, you could arrange his release for the day.”

“Unthinkable!” Corbie looked appalled.

Sir Hector frowned. “I wonder.”

“If the man is kin to the deceased viscount, perhaps he is even the heir,” she said.

Corbie snorted. “Even more ridiculous.”

“Is this fellow presentable?” her father asked.

“No,” Corbie said.

“Yes,” Ellison said. “They would all look like gentlemen, given the right clothing and proper grooming.”

“Next it will be lessons in manners!” Corbie waved a hand.

“Perhaps!” Ellison felt sudden excitement. She could be even more help to her father. “What if I tutored him in manners and protocol?”

“Better if we tell the Crown the fellow is dead,” Corbie snapped.

“A risky proposition.” Sir Hector scowled, tapped his fingers. “I suppose it is possible that he could be the heir if he is a kinsman of Darrach.”

“Perhaps he could be introduced as such,” Ellison said.

“Adam, find out the status of the Darrach inheritance,” Sir Hector said.

“This is madness,” Corbie muttered. “We would be complicit in fraud. Treason.”

“Then we would claim the fellow misled us,” her father said bluntly.

Astonished, Ellison looked at her father. His gray eyes were hooded like a hawk’s; he might suggest it, but wanted nothing to do with it.

“Never mind,” she said. “I will speak to the man and ask your questions.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The little flood of enthusiasm faded. “Papa, is possible to pardon this man? Then you would not be presenting a prisoner.”

“Good heavens, we can hardly do that!” he replied.

“The king’s desire to meet him might warrant it,” she pointed out.

Corbie huffed. “You know little of the law, Miss Ellison. Sir, your daughter is a perpetual romantic. This is not helpful.”

“Mr. Corbie, since you need my help, be gracious about it,” she snapped.

“Ellison,” her father warned.

Twisting her fingers in her lap, she smothered her impatience. If she could prove helpful, she could win back some of her father’s regard. And she could see the Highland prisoners again and satisfy her curiosity about such things. Her dull existence made her long for some small adventure, and here it was.

“That will be all, Ellison,” her father said. “Arrangements will be made for you to speak with this fellow.”

She stood. “Papa, if you do decide to introduce Mr. MacGregor, he will need a translator then too.”

Sir Hector sighed. “Another consideration. Adam, assist my daughter with whatever is needed. Now, to other business.” He picked up a document in dismissal, as if she was instantly forgotten.

Ellison went to the door and opened it as the men quietly conferred.

“Preposterous, sir, to involve the prisoner. Even dangerous,” Corbie said.

“We are in a precarious position and must consider all angles. The king could cancel altogether. What is this request from Scott about scaffolding?”

“Scaffold seating will be erected on Castle Hill for the crowds, and he wants blue bunting installed with it.”

“Expensive and excessive!”

Ellison shut the door silently behind her.