Page 27 of Beguiled
“David Lauriston, Your Majesty.”
“And you are an advocate, like your friends?” He nodded at the Dean, who looked faintly offended to be bracketed with David as a “friend”.
“I am, indeed.”
The King smiled, benign and in control again, comfortable now in his new, seated position.
“Do you enjoy your profession, Mr. Lauriston?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” David answered honestly.
The King smiled and nodded at him genially. “Very good,” he said. It was a dismissal. David bowed and returned to his place.
The King cast a look over his shoulder, summoning someone. The man, a military officer in a red-and-gold uniform topped with a black-plumed shako, hurried to the King’s side and bent his ear to the King’s mouth to hear his whispered instructions. When he straightened, he bowed, then returned to stand stiffly behind the King again.
The King motioned to the Dean to continue his speech, and the Dean smoothly resumed. But David wasn’t listening. He was watching the officer who had just retreated behind the King. The officer who was standing beside none other than Murdo Balfour. After a few moments, Murdo turned his head and whispered something in the man’s ear. The military man reciprocated. Whatever Murdo heard made his eyebrows raise and his gaze seek out David, a funny little smile twisting up that mobile mouth. Then he nodded and looked away.
A few minutes later, the Dean concluded his speech and the faculty delegation was led aside by a frosty Sir Anthony, their places taken by the good Magistrates of Leith.
Chapter Eight
The ceremony finally ended at five o’clock. The King left the Entrée Room first, his entourage sweeping behind him. Only then did everyone else stir. Hats were removed and cravats pulled aside. Coat buttons undone. Men stretched and paced, shaking out muscles grown cramped and achy from the long afternoon.
The Dean didn’t give in to the general relaxation of manners. He remained as tightly buttoned up as ever, his expression chilly as he offered the rest of the faculty delegation seats in his carriage. David declined the offer. He could walk home in scarcely half an hour, he replied, and besides, he’d welcome the exercise after the long stand. He watched the Dean carefully, wondering what the man had made of David’s odd exchange with the King. It was impossible to say. The Dean didn’t mention it, even when Braeburn came wheezing up to join them, congratulating David on his quick reactions as though the only reason no one else had stepped forward had been David’s uncanny speed.
Well, when Chalmers had asked David to take his place, he’d wanted David to make an impression on his senior colleagues, and it seemed David had done so, though whether it was the right impression, he wasn’t entirely sure.
David hung back as the men crowding the Entrée Room began to slowly shuffle out. He wasn’t in a particular hurry to leave. There was the small matter of Murdo Balfour to consider after all. Murdo, whom David had agreed to meet again, despite his misgivings.
At the moment, however, there was no sign of the man. Murdo had followed the King out of the Entrée Room with the rest of the royal party, and for all David knew, he’d already left—a few minutes ago, the sound of coaches rumbling away over cobbles had filtered through the windows that looked out onto the courtyard, the sound of the King and his entourage returning to his temporary residence in Dalkeith.
David suppressed a sigh and joined the end of the line of men slowly filing out.
It was ten minutes later, just as David was leaving the Entrée Room, that he finally saw the man who dominated his thoughts. Murdo stood waiting just outside the big double doors, one broad shoulder leaning nonchalantly against the wall.
David pulled up short so suddenly the man behind him walked into the back of him.
“Ooof!”
David looked over his shoulder, apologising profusely and earning himself a filthy look from an elderly man wearing the black robes of the Kirk.
When he turned back to Murdo, the man had straightened up and, standing beside him, was the military officer the King had summoned to his side after his exchange with David. He was carrying his shako under his arm now, revealing a head of dark hair and a handsome countenance.
“Mr. Lauriston?” the officer said, surprising David by being the first to speak. “Do you have a moment?” He had merry blue eyes and a dashing moustache waxed into little points at the corners. Straight, very white teeth.
David looked between the two men, feeling a little dazed. Then, “Of course,” he said, stepping towards them and away from the steady stream of men emerging from the Entrée Room.
Murdo’s companion offered his hand. “Captain Iain Sinclair, at your service.” David shook his hand and nodded. “And this is Lord Murdoch Balfour.”
David glanced at Murdo, unsure how to play this. When Murdo murmured something about it being a pleasure, it was more effort than it ought to have been to keep his own expression neutral and make similar noises.
“The King asked me to speak to you,” Captain Sinclair said, dragging David’s attention away from Murdo. “He was grateful to you for your—how did he put it?—yourgood Scotch common sense.” Sinclair grinned at that, inviting David to enjoy the King’s whimsy.
David smiled dutifully. “It was nothing,” he replied, uncomfortable being thanked for such a trifle. “I would have done the same for anyone.”
“Nevertheless, I am under strict instruction to invite you to the Peers’ Ball this Friday evening, at His Majesty’s particular request, in gratitude to you for services rendered to your sovereign.” He grinned again, enjoying himself. Evidently this captain liked handing out the King’s favours.
“How kind,” David murmured. “But I’m sure I have another commitment that evening.” It sounded like the lie it was, but David didn’t much care. The thought of going to a ball was bad enough. Apeers’ball sounded like torture.