Page 8 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)
“Good lord.” He reached out and wiped her cheek with his thumb. “What is it, Hannah Gordon? You can tell me. Trust me.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Wait,” she said, and leaned back. “Wait. My father—my father asked you to find me. Is he expecting you to report what you learn?”
“What? Of course not.”
She stepped back. “I cannot trust that. I do not want to ask Papa for help!”
“Not his,” Dare said. “Mine. Tell me what I can do.”
“You can—tell Papa I am well. Thank you, my lord.” She spun and ran to the door.
He moved to follow her. “Lass—Hannah, wait!”
But she was already through the doorway. Dare stepped into the corridor, and saw Hannah fleeing, skirts flying. Then he saw George Naylor and Frederic Dove standing at the far end of the hallway. They looked toward Hannah, then toward him.
Dare shrugged, heart slamming. “I believe she’s gone to fetch more books.”
“Mama says Sir Walter Scott is in London again,” Georgina Gordon-Huntly, Hannah’s cousin, said as she arranged Hannah’s hair, tucking silk flowers into her curls and fixing them with silver pins. “I wonder if we will see him at the theatre tonight.”
“I wonder! Do you think we need so many flowers?” Hannah tilted her head.
“Keep still. The flowers complement your hair, and that pale-pink gown gives your cheeks roses and makes your eyes look aquamarine. I would love to paint your portrait in such a pretty gown.”
“And I could do a miniature painting of you if we had time. That creamy silk with black trim is perfect with your dark hair and pale complexion. I am so proud of you for winning the silver medal at the Royal Society exhibit last spring! Your portrait of your grandfather was perfectly done.”
“Thank you.” Georgina giggled. “I sent Grandfather a sketch copy of it, and he wrote back to say it was a damned good drawing for a child. But I am seventeen!”
Hannah laughed. “At least he offered to continue paying for your art tutor.”
“Mama and I are glad of that, my stepfather too. My grandfather may be the Duke of Gordon, but he has been kind and generous, though I am just his son’s natural daughter. Many families would ignore me.”
“We Scots are good about such things,” Hannah said.
Georgina was an accidental daughter of the old duke’s son and heir, born of a governess in the household, and even when her mother married Thomas Huntly, a solicitor and distant relative of the Gordons, the duke and Georgie’s father continued to support the child in London.
Their generosity and kindness were admirable, and Hannah was very glad for her cousin.
“There,” Georgina said, patting Hannah’s hair. “About your art—do you still want to go home to Scotland soon? Though your father is away on his painting tour, the house will be full of his art students still working in his studio.”
“Our housekeeper and butler are watching over things at home. But Papa and my sisters will be gone for weeks, so I have decided to stay a bit longer,” she added.
“That dreadful Whitworth caused such trouble for you,” Georgina muttered. “I would hate to see you leave, but I want you to be free of that burden and happy again.”
Hannah shrugged. “I cannot ask Papa for help, so I must do what I can for now. But I am excited to go to the theatre tonight,” she continued, eager to change the subject.
“Yes! We usually use the Duke of Gordon’s box, as it belongs to my grandfather.
But tonight my mother said Sir Walter Scott has permission to use it.
Luckily, Sir George invited you to share Lord Scarborough’s box with him this evening.
Thank you for inviting me and my brother as your companions tonight. We wanted to see this play.”
“Most of Sir George’s guests are from the College of Arms, and I was flattered to be included. I am happy to bring you and Oliver.”
“I am sure Sir George included you because he wants to keep you as an artist. Your father is an important name in the art world. Oh! Mama said that Sir Walter is bringing some Scottish guests, including a Highlander who just arrived in the city, a high-ranking official in Edinburgh. A very eligible bachelor, they say! Mama had it from Lady Lambert, who had it from another lady that the man was seen wearing a kilt in daylight. Most Scots in London wear Highland dress only for an evening soiree or a ball. Mama said the man cuts a very handsome figure.”
“I saw him.” Hannah stood and pulled on her gloves.
Her heart quickened. “He has been in and out of the College of Arms all week. He is Lord Lyon, in charge of all Scottish heraldry. Lord Strathburn is his family title. I have seen him several times at my father’s home and on other occasions.
” She took in a little breath as if to protect a dear secret.
“He is a friend of Papa’s and Sir Walter’s too. ”
“Did he truly wear Highland dress to the College of Arms? Did he carry a knife in his stocking?”
Hannah laughed. “A tartan kilt and black jacket, very nice. I did not notice a knife.” She had been too swept up in those deep brown eyes to look at his stockings. “If I see him again, I will look. He is quite handsome, aye, tall and dark and rather heroic.”
Georgina sighed. “We must look for him tonight. Is he arrogant or charming?”
“Reserved but kind, I would say. Very knowledgeable about heraldry.”
“I might melt if I meet him. Do I look well enough?” Georgina ran to the mirror.
“You do!” Hannah felt her heart thump at the thought of Lord Strathburn at an evening event. “Is that your brother calling us from downstairs?”
“Oh! He has the manners of a chimney sweep!” Georgina went to the door. “We are almost ready! Do stop yelling, Ollie. It is such bad form!” she called just as loudly.
Hannah reached for her shawl and picked up her small reticule netted in gold thread over cream silk. She needed a bit of happiness tonight, she told herself, something to help her forget the difficulties that plagued her.
But those troubles slid back into her thoughts like inky poison as she realized that Sir Frederic Dove would also attend the theatre as Naylor’s guest. That dropped her bright mood like a stone.
She swept her shawl over her shoulders, preferring to wear the woolen arisaid, a Highland shawl woven in soft colors in a tartan style reserved for women. It was a comforting reminder of home, where she longed to be, where life was familiar and safe.
But she might never escape the humiliation that hung over her head like Damocles’ sword.