Page 36 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Unwrapping the paper and string covering the paintings of the new royal coats of arms, Hannah slid them one by one across the table toward Sir George Naylor. Silent, waiting, she glanced up at Dare. He gave her a subtle nod.

“What do you think?” Dare asked after a while.

Sir George did not answer, looking at each painting in turn, bright colors and clean ink lines on thick paper, each one sandwiched between a paper frame and a backing board for protection.

He picked up a painting, examined it, set it down, picked up another, and continued his silent scrutiny.

Red lions, white unicorns, bright quartered shields in scarlet, gold, cobalt blue and more, scattered over the table in white paperboard frames.

Those carefully crafted paintings were like children to her, Hannah thought. She set a hand to her abdomen, briefly wondering at something she had begun to suspect. Pressing away a smile, she felt her heartbeat quicken with anxiety as the quiet stretched out in Sir George’s handsome London office.

Dare set his hand to the back of her waist for a moment, and her breathing calmed. Beyond the tall windows, snowflakes gently dusted London’s gray skies in the days before Yuletide.

“You did all of these?” Sir George glanced at her from under his brows.

“Initially, aye, on my own. The herald painters and the archivist in Lord Lyon’s office worked with me to finalize them.”

“These are good,” he said curtly. “Very fine.”

She let out a breath. “Thank you, sir.”

Sir George continued to examine, now commenting, asking questions directed to Hannah or Dare.

He frowned now and then, so that her nervousness did not fully abate.

She felt as if she was being examined by a headmaster—two of them, to be sure—the Garter, head of the College of Arms of Britain, and Lord Lyon, King of Arms in Scotland.

“What’s this?” Sir George pointed to a tiny detail in one of the designs.

She leaned forward to look closely. “A tiny variation in the scarlet paint, made when a brush was lifted away. Only an expert would notice it.”

“Huh.” He set the piece down. “When do you plan to see the king?”

“This afternoon, sir,” Dare said. “The whisky is being loaded as we speak, under the supervision of Sir Walter Scott. He will accompany the wagon and meet us at Carlton House for our appointment for the introduction. We will then present the king with Scotland’s gift of Highland whisky.”

“And you wish to present these designs to him today as well?”

“With the approval of the College of Arms,” Dare said.

“The College approves,” Sir George said.

Hannah let out a breath. “Thank you, Sir George.”

“It is appreciated,” Dare said.

“I am the one who appreciates it,” Sir George said.

“I was wrong, Lady Strathburn. Your designs are superb.” He shook his head.

“When I am wrong, Lord Lyon, I do not hesitate to say so. I am pleased to recommend these new Scottish designs to the king and the Crown. I will have a letter drawn up for you to take with you to your audience.”

“You are welcome to join us in the meeting,” Dare said.

“I suppose I could,” Naylor said gruffly. “I have met the king before.”

“Excellent. Our appointment is at Carlton House at two o’clock.”

“Go ahead. I will meet you there after I take care of some things here. I wonder if we should wear our ceremonial garb, sir. Did you bring your tabard?”

“I did not. I expect this to be a less formal occasion, suitable for kilt and coat.” Dare gestured toward his black frock coat, black waistcoat, and tartan kilt.

“Perfectly suited to Lord Lyon—and Lord Strathburn. I would like to bring Charles Dove along too, if it is all the same to you. He created the final paintings of the new British designs, which I presented, but Charles was not there to see it. I hope his presence is acceptable to you both. I can understand if some tension remains.”

“Charley is more than welcome,” Hannah said, and Dare nodded.

“He is doing well, by the way,” Naylor said.

“Confident in his work and keen to take on more responsibility. I hardly recognize him some days, ever since his father left for the coast of Devon, where he has a modest home. He has retired there, and wrote that he may open a law office sometime in the near future.” He looked quickly at Hannah.

She tilted her head in silent, gracious sympathy.

Weeks ago, when the charges were cleared after Dove had spent some time in an Edinburgh jail, Dare sent a letter to him, signed by Hugh Cameron and Sir Walter Scott.

They cautioned the man to abandon any attempt to contact them, and wished him continued health.

They had no reply, but heard that Dove had left the employ of the College of Arms swiftly and mysteriously, with no comment from that establishment.

Needing someone to fill the position, Sir George offered it to Oliver Huntly, who would learn and grow into a perfect lawyer for the office of heraldry.

Bidding Sir George farewell until later, Hannah and Dare were soon tucked into a hired carriage on their way to Carlton House, with a leather portfolio containing the wrapped paintings, a set created for the king’s approval; other copies were stored in London and Edinburgh. She sighed, folding her hands.

“Happy?” Dare asked.

“Very. But eager to get through the rest of today and go home.”

“Tomorrow, I promise. I know you are anxious to spend more time with your father and sisters now that they are home.” He set an arm about her shoulders as the vehicle bounced over London streets.

She drew up the fur-lined blanket draped over their laps, for the air was chilly.

Outside, delicate snowflakes kissed every surface.

“It was so good to see them before we left for London, but it will be wonderful to be home again and spend more time with them. They were so surprised to learn about our marriage, but very pleased, and happy to welcome you into our family.”

“And you are eager to see Nell’s baby boy again.” He smiled. “So am I.”

“Two weeks old, and adorable.” She longed to hold him again. The desire and the need flowed through her, warming her inside somehow.

“Quite the week,” he said, taking her hand, kissing her gloved knuckles. “My dear Hannah, Lady Strathburn,” he murmured, “I still bless the day I saw you.”

She smiled, teasing. “What day was that, sir? We were both rather foggy.”

“Not that day. Three years, was it, in the fall, I believe, when I walked into your father’s house for the first time. And there you were, in a white gown with a blue sash that I remember matched your eyes. I never forgot the sight of you, or your kindness that day, and thought you never noticed.”

“I did. You wore a kilt of dark green and dark red that day, the only man in a room full of Scotsmen who dared expose his limbs and declare his Highland roots.”

“But then I am a daring sort,” he teased.

“You hardly spoke a word until I took pity on you and asked what sort of jam you preferred on your scones.”

“Any sort,” he said, pulling her close, “so long as you share it with me, my dearest.” He kissed her then, and she melted, warmed beyond the lap robe and the thoughts of family, and the thoughts of what the future might bring, and the more immediate thoughts of what she dared do with Lord Strathburn once they were at home and alone again.

THE END