Page 32 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)
Laughing, she slid into his arms, glad the heavy coat was gone, content to feel the lean, solid form of the kind and capable man she loved. And most content to see him in his preferred clothing, a neatly cut coat of black superfine over a kilt in the Drummond tartan of dark red and forest green.
“I am proud to be the lady wife of the Right Honorable Lord Lyon, King of Arms, Viscount Strathburn, Sir Alasdair Drummond, Esquire—no matter what he wears,” she murmured, tipping her face up for a kiss.
“Even all got up like a court jester?” he teased.
“No jester! A handsome officer of Scotland.” She smacked his arm lightly. “Can I show you my drawings now, dear Lyon?”
“Please do.” He ushered her to the table, then went to the door. “Mr. Grant!” he called. “Is that tea ready?”
The sketches were all he expected and more.
Precisely detailed and skillfully done in black ink, the drawings depicted a royal coat of arms and variations for a shield, seal, banner, and badge.
Hannah had jotted notes on another page about the component carefully chosen to include the traditional elements of the royal coat of arms, with a few subtle changes to individually represent King George.
“Excellent,” Dare murmured, paging through the drawings. “You have made these nicely unique to this king. Explain a bit of what you’ve chosen.” He recognized the elements in the blazonry—the language of armorial designs—but he wanted to hear her thinking.
“Scotland needs to be foremost in the design, so a small Scottish red lion rampant is above the royal crown and helm. I placed the supporters, the unicorn of Scotland and the golden lion of England, left and right of the large shield. Quartered there are the gold lions of England, the red lion of Scotland, and the golden harp of Ireland. Just like your tabard coat, sir.”
“Very similar. Go on. You made some changes to the unicorn and lion.”
“As Prince Regent, George’s shield carried bars to represent the eldest son and heir to the kingdom. Those are now replaced with tiny crowns. The Scottish unicorn wears a chain—not for subservience to England, but to mark the taming of the unicorn that was added under James the Fifth of Scotland.”
“Very good. And you replaced the motto in this.”
“Instead of ‘Honi soi qui mal y pense,’ the motto of England’s Order of the Garter, I added the chain and pendant of the Order of the Thistle for Scotland, and that motto. You wear a similar chain with your ceremonial coat.”
“Aye, Lord Lyon acts as head of the Order of the Thistle.”
“Our Lord Lyon is a model of chivalry.” She smiled.
“He tries.” He chuckled. “These are beautifully done, with subtle but important changes. But there is the question of ownership.”
“I meant to give these to Sir George. But there was no chance before we left.”
He frowned, considering the sketches again. “He has not seen them?”
“Not yet. I did the research and worked on them at home and thought to present them when I had finished. I was not sure he wanted me to do them. Charles Dove knew about them, but he was the only one—until you.”
“Did you work on these in the office?”
She shook her head. “I was taking them to show Sir George the day that Sir Frederic picked me up and gave me that dose.” She shrugged. “The day I caused so much trouble for you.”
“The day that brought us together, you mean.” He touched her shoulder, traced his fingers down her arm, and took her hand to kiss it.
“My lass, here is what I think. Officially, mind you, not as your husband.”
“Aye, Lord Lyon.” She folded her hands.
“If you did these on your own, at home, not paid for the work, then these drawings belong to you, not the College of Arms. What becomes of them is up to you.”
“Do you truly think so?”
“As Lord Lyon, absolutely. Sir George has not seen them. He wants his artists to prepare the Scottish and the English armorials for the coronation, and he would be very interested in these. But if Charles has not mentioned them, no one knows.”
“Am I Sir George’s artist, or yours?” She gave him an impish glance.
He tipped his head. “Which do you want to be?”
“Yours.”
“My dear.” He brushed his fingers over her hair. “But I do not want you to be confined in an art room drawing little emblems every day. You have a great deal of talent and your own artwork to do.”
“I want to do portraits and such. And I want to be your helpmate.”
“Then we will make sure you have the time for both. Be mine, then.” He opened his arms. “My artist, my wife, my helpmate, my lover, anything you like.”
“All that,” she said, and flowed into his arms. Holding her close, he then reminded himself they were in his office. He released her with a kiss on her head.
“Excellent. The drawings should be finalized, redrawn, copied, and colored. You know the process. And I would like our archivist to review all the elements that are required for this king.”
Hannah nodded. “And then?”
“Then I will approve the final here and notify Sir George. I am sure he will accept these handsome designs. It saves work for his office, after all, and he is a sensible man. We will deliver these to London personally, with a letter from the Lyon Court and the Lord Provost expressing Scottish approval. And we will prepare draft copies for King George as well. Are you sure, Hannah?” He was concerned, wanting her to be happy above all else.
“You want to work as a herald artist for a while?”
“I am sure, my dear Lyon.” Her sparkling eyes, beautifully blue, made her smile almost beatific. Entranced for a moment, Dare gathered his thoughts.
“You are a gifted artist. We are fortunate to have you here, but I want you to have time for other things.”
“I know this is important, with the coronation coming early next year, and much for your office, and the College of Arms, have to prepare for it. I am glad to help.”
“You have already helped a great deal. And I love you,” he added simply.
“I love you too, Lyon,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss him. “Oh, I nearly forgot!” she said, smoothing the leather wrapping around the sketches. She plucked an envelope from her tapestry bag. “I hesitate to bring it up, but you wanted to see it.” She handed it to him.
“What’s this?” He opened the creased page, read it, and looked at her. “This is your agreement with Dove!”
“He has a copy. He wanted me to have one so that I had no excuse to forget. This is the original.”
Dare scowled as he scrutinized it. One detail stood out sharply. “The signature is not remotely like yours. It is angular and masculine. Whitworth?”
“I believe so. Dove insists that I signed it. But I never saw it until Sir Frederic waved it in my face one day.”
He folded it and tucked it in the sporran over his kilt. “We will need this when I take Dove to court.”
“Thank you for everything,” she said softly. “Everything.”
He took her hand, but let go as a knock sounded at the door. Expecting Grant to arrive with the tea tray at last, he called admittance. His secretary entered with a loaded tray and two men behind him.
Surprised to see Linhope and Hugh Cameron, Dare beckoned them all inside.
“Pardon, sir,” Grant said. “Visitors. No appointment.” He sounded miffed, but Dare was used to that foible in his otherwise capable assistant.
“Come in! Thank you, Grant,” he added as his secretary set the tray on a table and departed. Murmuring greetings, Linhope and Cameron sat with them while Hannah set out cups and began to pour tea.
“We were just about to have some tea this morning,” she said. “If you haven’t had breakfast, perhaps we could ask for something more.”
“This is fine,” Linhope said, and exchanged a look with Hugh Cameron.
“What is it?” Dare asked brusquely. “You did not come here just for hot tea.”
“We went down to Leith harbor this morning to see if your whisky cargo had arrived on the Newhaven. It came in last night,” Linhope said. “The Glenbrae whisky should arrive in a few days.”
“Excellent. I will talk to Captain Johnston, and meet with the Lord Provost about the details. And I need to contact Sir Walter about a date for the royal introduction so we can present the whisky gift. I just had a letter from him,” he explained. “He is coming north and may dock today.”
Again his friends exchanged frowns. “That is our other bit of news,” Hugh Cameron said. “Sir Walter came in last night. I saw Scott in a tavern last evening. He sailed up from Newcastle with Lockhart, Huntly, and another fellow. He said he would find you today.”
“He’s not in London? Odd. That was sudden. Leith is a busy place lately.”
“Busier than you think,” Linhope said. “Dare—I saw Sir Frederic on the dock this morning. From a distance, but I am sure it was him.”
“Dove is here?” Hannah asked with a little gasp.
“I suspected we might see him sooner than we want,” Dare muttered. “Who was the third man with Sir Walter?”
“What was the name—a blond lad. Worth. Whitworth, that was it,” Hugh said.
Hannah dropped her cup, which cracked on the edge of the saucer, spilling steaming tea over the table and her sleeve.