Page 43 of Beguiled
In the open gallery above the ballroom, a small orchestra played refined versions of traditional Scottish airs, suitable only for the slowest and stateliest of dancing. The tone was distinctly sentimental. It was more of the same carefully manufactured patriotism that had overtaken the city over the last few weeks.
“You should pay your respects to the King before we do anything else,” Murdo said. “Come along.”
Reluctantly, David followed him, coming to a halt at the foot of the King’s dais. He did his best to copy Murdo’s elegant bow.
“Lord Murdo!” the King exclaimed with evident pleasure. “There you are.”
“Good evening, Your Majesty. May I present Mr. Lauriston to you again?”
The King turned his attention to David, his expression going from confusion to understanding in a moment. “Ah, Mr. Lauriston,” he said in a jovial way. “My protector from the other day. I was grateful to you, sir.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“And are you enjoying the ball? It is magnificent, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Quite magnificent.”
“Make sure he dances, Lord Murdo,” the King said, addressing Murdo now.
“I will,” Murdo assured him, and then the King nodded, turning his attention back to the man who sat on his right. That signalled their dismissal, apparently, and a moment later, they were walking away.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Murdo said. “And now that your duty’s done, you can do as you please.”
David smiled. “I suppose so.”
“What now, then?” Murdo asked. “Dancing? Something to eat or drink?”
David had already scanned the crowd, seeking Elizabeth, but there was no sign of her in here. “I don’t much like dancing,” he admitted. “And we’ve only just had supper. I wouldn’t mind a stroll around, but you don’t need to nursemaid me. I’m perfectly capable of amusing myself.”
“And I’m perfectly happy to accompany you,” Murdo replied. “A stroll sounds ideal. Lead on.”
So David did, setting off at a slow pace and carefully searching out every alcove and corner with his gaze as they walked, watchful for any sign of Elizabeth. While they walked, Murdo amused him with insightful and sometimes wickedly funny comments about the entertainments and general absurdity of their fellow guests.
“Ah, now, do you see that man standing up there?” Murdo murmured in his ear as they approached the top of another staircase. David glanced in the direction of Murdo’s subtle nod, noting a heavy-set older man in a blue coat and red waistcoat standing with his back to the wall, watching people come and go past him. He was the only man present, other than David, sporting neither court nor highland dress, and he wasn’t behaving like a guest.
“Who is he?”
“John Townsend,” Murdo replied, “a Bow Street runner and a great favourite of the King. He came up here with a few other runners. They’re keeping an eye out for known troublemakers, I’m told.”
Just then the man’s colourless gaze landed on them, lingering a moment as though weighing them up before he glanced away. David shivered, perturbed for some reason by the man’s flat, emotionless expression.
“Troublemakers? Here?” he scoffed once they’d moved past, injecting humour into his voice to mask his sudden disquiet.
“You’d be surprised,” Murdo replied. “Why do you think it takes so long for the King to arrive anywhere? Every nook and cranny is checked and double-checked before he so much as sets foot anywhere. He brought his own personal guards as well as the runners, and besides that, there are half a dozen undercover agents circulating wherever he goes—and those are only the ones I know about. I’m quite sure there are others, not to mention the official troops stationed around.”
“There are undercover agents circulating here? Tonight?”
“Of course. There are plenty of men who would like to see the King dead. He’s hardly the beloved monarch of the people.”
“You think not?” David asked dryly, gesturing around him.
Murdo gave a soft laugh. “Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it? He’s proving to be bizarrely popular up here. Who’d’ve thought it?”
Who indeed, but it was true. The sudden and unexpected public affection for the King in Scotland was nothing short of extraordinary. The general populace appeared to have swallowed whole Sir Walter’s frankly bizarre invention of the King as some kind of highland Chief of Chiefs, despite his Teutonic ancestry.
David glanced at Murdo, ready to share that observation, but lost his train of thought when their gazes met. Murdo wore that smile that sometimes graced his face, a curving, irrepressible thing with a deep dimple denting the cheek above and a merry sparkle in his dark gaze. What a thing that smile was. Rare and coaxing. David couldn’t help but return it, his own mouth curving up in answer, his thoughts quite deserting him for a moment.
“Mr. Lauriston?”