Page 4 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“So you, a Highlander, think you should oversee the privilege of designing the king’s Scottish coat of arms?”

“I do.” Dare did not waver his stare.

Naylor sighed. “I will consider it. Will you be in London for a while? We can discuss it later.”

“For a short while. I have another errand related to King George. I am to convey a gift of Highland whisky to him from the Scottish government. The casks will arrive soon by steamship.”

Now he had another errand, one he would keep close. Learning that Miss Gordon was no longer engaged changed everything; he might decide to stay in London longer. Hope was dawning in him. He was not accustomed to the feeling, but he rather liked it.

“I see,” Naylor said. “You will need an introduction to present it to the king, but I can arrange that. He stays at Carlton House while Buckingham is being renovated.”

“Thank you, but Sir Walter Scott has offered to introduce me. He is a frequent visitor to Carlton House at the king’s invitation.”

“Ah. I understand the king enjoys Mr. Scott’s company. Whisky, is it? Curious.”

“The king is very fond of Highland whisky, they say, so the Scots wish to gift the king a supply in honor of his coronation. I was asked to present it as Lord Lyon.”

“You will find him keener for the whisky than the royal armorials,” Naylor drawled. “Is it legal, this whisky?”

Dare gave him a flat smile; Scottish whisky and smuggling did not always go hand in hand, though the English might think so. “Transported as a gift, aye. If sold, then no. That would make the brew illicit and me a smuggler.”

Naylor chuckled. “Indeed. I trust it is excellent stuff.”

“It is. While I am here, Sir George, I wonder if I might consult your archives to research some armorials that are awaiting approval in the Lyon Court.” That excuse would keep him here longer, Dare thought, and near Hannah Gordon.

“Of course. Do you have plans for Thursday evening? My wife and I will attend a performance at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. We have seats in Lord Scarborough’s box.

He is my wife’s uncle, you see. There is room for several guests.

Will you join us? I have already invited your acquaintance, Miss Gordon, and her cousins.

Edmund Kean has the main role onstage that night. ”

And here was another chance to see her again. Fate was smiling on him. Dare smiled too. “Thank you. But by coincidence, Sir Walter invited me to attend the same performance. He sometimes uses the Duke of Gordon’s box.”

“I will look for you then. Let me show you the archives and our offices.”

“I would be very interested in seeing the art rooms as well.” He could hardly believe his luck. Fate, indeed, had brought him to London at the right time.

Perhaps Sir Walter Scott was correct; perhaps it was time to consider marriage.

“This way, sir.” Naylor opened the door.

“Miss Gordon!”

Seated at the drawing table, Hannah froze, inked pen in hand.

The man’s snide, arrogant voice sent shivers down her spine.

She did not look up as Sir Frederic Dove entered the room.

As a lawyer for the College of Arms, he had the right to enter the offices, and no right to treat her like a servant—which he frequently did.

“Miss Gordon, we must talk.”

Shoulders tensed, she continued her painstaking work, giving her attention to the page tacked to the slanted desktop.

If she stopped now, she’d lose the precision of the ink line; if she stopped quickly, she risked spoiling the meticulous design she was creating.

Just now, the drawing was more important than what Sir Frederic Dove wanted.

She knew all too well what that was: He insisted she owed him money.

That was the reason she was working as a herald painter, and why she had remained in London to earn a paltry income rather than return to Scotland as she longed to do. How had life gone so wrong for her in just a few months?

Whitworth had left her suddenly, saddled with a debt she was being pressured to repay. With her dreams crushed, she was too fraught and embarrassed to travel home and beg help from Papa. He would be disappointed, even angry when he learned what Whitworth had done…and what Frederic Dove was doing.

But Papa was away and unaware of all that, and she intended to keep it that way.

“Miss Gordon!”

She carefully lifted the nib from the paper so it would not blot. Looking up, she caught the gaze of the young man seated at the table across from her. Charles Dove stilled his own pen and glanced past her toward his father.

“Sir Frederic,” Hannah said, turning. “What is it?”

“We must talk.” Frederic Dove paused, standing in the space between the two desks. He was a big man, gray haired, burly, with red cheeks and a round torso that strained his brown coat and the buttons of his waistcoat. “Charles, leave the room.”

Charles set down his pen and pushed at the gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. “Father, can it wait? Miss Gordon and I must finish these pieces today.”

“I need a word with Miss Gordon. Get out.”

Sighing, Hannah glanced at Charles in silent apology. Blowing gently on the inked page, she turned in her seat and folded her hands. Earnest, quiet Charley, who had been a good friend to her, slid off his stool. “Only for a moment, Father. Miss Gordon, if you need—”

“Leave, I say!” Sir Frederic lifted a hand as if to cuff him.

“Foolish boy,” he muttered as his son left the room.

“He is besotted with you. I warned him against a Scottish girl,” he sneered.

“Pretty enough, some value in that. But a painter’s daughter!

Charles wants to be a painter too. Useless occupation.

As for you, we have a matter to settle. What shall we do about that, hmm? ” His words were not said kindly.

She stood, tilting her chin. “Sir, I agreed to pay some of the debt, even though it is not mine. We have talked about that.”

“The debt belongs to you, Miss Gordon. I have the promissory note you signed.”

“And I have told you I never signed it, nor even saw it. The debt belongs to Mr. Whitworth for—for gambling. I knew nothing of it until he left.” She straightened her shoulders against the hurt and regret that returned with the words.

He cocked a furry brow. “I have no sympathy for your poor decisions. Whitworth has vanished, leaving your name on the document. That makes you responsible.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Where is the money?”

“I can repay some from my wages. I ask your patience.”

“I have no patience left. The debt is over a year old, and it would take you years to pay three hundred pounds through your meager income. Surely someone can give it to you. Then you can owe them, not me. The agreed due date comes next week.”

Shaking her head, she looked away. She had only discovered the debt when Jonathan Whitworth fled London, leaving her confused, brokenhearted, angry, and caught in a situation not of her doing.

She had been wrong about him, and her family had been right.

Now she had to solve this on her own or go home humiliated.

In London, she had hoped to prove her independence and maturity.

Ironically, she only proved that she was neither independent nor mature.

She felt like a failure. Besides, there was no running home now, for Papa and her sisters were traveling in the north of Scotland on a painting jaunt, out of reach in remote locations for weeks to come.

Though she had cried herself to sleep over the matter, she was grateful to have the support of her cousins in London.

Georgina and Oliver Huntly and their parents knew some but not all of her dilemma.

Oliver and his father, both lawyers, felt she was obliged to pay unless she could prove forgery and fraud, which seemed difficult.

Through Oliver’s friend Charles Dove, she had met Sir George Naylor, who had realized she was an artist in mysterious straits, and offered her a temporary position as a heraldry painter.

Working outside the home was a new and rather humbling experience, but she learned quickly and had a knack for the work.

Swallowing her pride to earn something toward the debt, she could avoid asking her father for financial help. Instead, she would do her best and hope for Sir Frederic’s charitable heart. But she soon discovered he did not have one.

“Sir, I ask for leniency, as it is not my debt, though I am trying to honor it.”

“Go to your father, an artist too, by God, but a wealthy one, they say. His banker can arrange the funds,” Dove said, arrogance intact.

“My signature was forged on the document,” she reminded him. “I will not ask my father to pay a debt that is not mine.”

“You had better ask him if you want to avoid what comes next if you cannot pay.”

She clenched a fist behind her back. “What is that?”

He leaned forward. “Debtors’ prison.”

She caught her breath. “I said I would try to pay. Give me some time, since you leave me no choice.”

“Your choice is to pay now or suffer. I was patient with your lover, now with you.”

Jonathan Whitworth was not her lover. She had come to her senses on that, once in London, seeing a side to him she had not recognized earlier—drinking, criticism, pressing her to live with him, share his bed, elope, none of which she had accepted.

Once more she realized it was futile to argue with the odious Frederic Dove, a privileged, wealthy, intimidating man with a dried-up heart. But his threats were real.

She had been foolish to trust Whitworth. Her only choice was to repay Dove enough to appease him—then find the courage to go home and face her family.

“Just a little more time. Please,” she said.

“I could put you in debtors’ prison tomorrow. But that would not repay the debt. There might be another option if you cooperate.” He leaned closer. “I have a cousin in the city. Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She may be able to help.”