Intrigue and Infatuation

Chapter 2

September 1, 1807

Captain Lachlan Shawe stumbled from the carriage and pressed his hands to his knees. His stomach threatened to revolt as the smell of rotting food scraps and urine filled the alley behind the Royal Society.
"Steady on, Lach." A cheery voice called out.
A heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder.
"Ach," Lachlan groaned. "Step back before I ruin your boots, Keir," he growled.
Bright laughter echoed through the alley. Lachlan's head swam, but his stomach seemed to have settled slightly now that he had two feet planted on solid ground.
"I know you haven't been drinking so I'd hazard to guess you haven't got your land legs yet, have you?" Keir replied, his accent growing distinctly more Scottish in the presence of his friend.
"No, it's my new coachman."
Lachlan straightened and Keir barked out a laugh. "You look terrifying! I can see why you earned the nickname 'The Viking'."
Lachlan ran a hand over his blonde beard. "The braiding adds a nice touch, don't you think?"
Keir's mouth quirked up into his lopsided smirk. "The iron rings might be a bit much. Is it true you wielded an axe? I've heard it mentioned in several military posts and I believe the rumor has even made it to London's drawing rooms.
"Aye." Lachlan reached into the carriage and pulled out his axe. Forged on his own estate and etched with Celtic braiding, the hooked blade had saved his hide on several occasions during his commission. He handed it to Keir.
Keir examined the weapon with awe and ran a finger gingerly over the keen edge. "You don't see a weapon like this every day." His eyes fell on the five notches carved into the lower part of the handle. An all-knowing somberness fell over his face. "I'm sorry, old friend."
No more needed to be said, but the weight of those notches hung heavy in the air.
"Sorry about the ride, Cap— My Lord." Petty Officer Duncan Reid jogged around the horses who were now safely tied and given a hefty drink of water after the hasty ride from Portsmouth to London. "I've never driven anything but my Da's donkey cart."
"It's fine, Reid. Perhaps I'll find a different job for you. I'm also in need of a valet."
The young man's brows rose towards his hairline. "Really? I've no training in it?"
"Then I'll make sure you're trained. See the horses to the stables and get them some extra oats. They'll need their strength for the next leg of the trip to Scotland.
"Yes, Cap—My Laird." Duncan darted away after a quick salute that turned into a bow halfway through.
Keir led the way through the back door to the club. "My, that one's still wet around the ears. What's the story there?"
"His father died while we were at sea — got himself in a mound of debt before he passed. The family farm was auctioned to pay off his creditors so they wouldn't come after Duncan."
"I see." A grin flickered on Keir's face as they helped themselves to a table in the back corner with a view of the front door. "You always did have a soft spot for strays."
"And a fellow Scotsman down on his luck. He lost an eye in a battle due to an errant splinter."
"That would explain the poor driving, but do you really want an untested Valet?"
Keir was always dressed well. Simply. Like he wanted to hold your attention one moment then disappear into a crowd in the next. Lachlan couldn't attest to the height of fashionability of his friend's wardrobe, but Keir didn't look anything like the fastidious dandies turned out in their obscenely colored frocks.
"I have a talented tailor and I don't need someone to fuss over my cravat. He was a great sailmaker so I know he can pull a needle and thread.  Furthermore, he fights with the ferocity of a berserker and I don't mind having someone like that around."
A pair of gentleman passed their table dressed exactly in the sort of peacocking style of Beau Brummell that set Lachlan's teeth on edge and neither had the decency not to stare at him. Before either one could put a quizzing glass to their eye to better examine him, Lachlan plopped his axe onto the table and the resounding thunk sent the two dandies scurrying for the door.
The Royal Society was generally a meeting place of musicians, scientists, explorers, soldiers, poets, and the like but the occasional empty-headed fop lucked into a membership. It was generally a safe place to avoid gossips and the raucous crowds that gambling attracted to the more popular gentleman's clubs. Today it was the quiet meeting place of a Viking and a spy.
A waiter appeared to take their order and eyed the axe on the table nervously.
"Scotch from my personal supply," Keir said with the straight, toothy smile that had charmed every young lady in the Ton.
The waiter dashed away to retrieve the bottle of Scotch whisky that was kept under lock and key for the Earl's exclusive use.
"So what was so urgent that I had to meet you before I even went home?"
"I think we should wait until we have our drinks," Keir said.
Lachlan shook his head. "Out with it. I have a growing list of things I must get done before I continue on to Scotland."
"Fine." Keir lowered his voice to a whisper. "Our spies on the Channel Islands intercepted and decoded a French correspondence — a list of British names and the reward for their capture or kill."
"Let me guess: I'm on the list."
Keir nodded. "It seems you have upset someone high up in Napoleon's forces if not the little toadie himself. Do you want to know how much they're offering for you? The only reward larger than yours is for a vice-admiral and Lord Wellington."
"I don't want to know. Who was the supposed recipient of this list?"
"That's the only reason we're concerned. The letter was intended for The Foxglove."
Lachlan rolled his eyes. "The Foxglove" was the self-imposed name of a prolific assassin, a poisoner who somehow moved through the upper classes and had killed a number of high-profile targets since the start of the war. "A ridiculous name."
"Perhaps, but they are dangerous. Anyone who leaves a calling card on their victims is bold. That kind of killer enjoys the fear, the notoriety, which means they'll keep on killing until they are stopped."
"So why the concern if you already intercepted the letter?"
Keir shifted nervously. "Well, here's the situation: the war office wants me and my team to capture The Foxglove before they can strike down someone like Wellington."
Lachlan grinned. "You look like you're gearing up to ask me something."
"We'd like to let the letter reach its intended recipient. It could allow us to capture him when they come to retrieve the letter. But we'd like to change its contents. Assuming we don't capture The Foxglove and they receive this missive, we only want one target on the list so we know exactly who he or she intends to kill.
Realization dawned. "All these years of friendship and now you want to use me as bait for a dangerous assassin."
"Come on Lach, how many chances are you going to get to take down a traitor like this?"
"Fine," Lachlan growled as the waiter set down a bottle of scotch and a pair of cut glass tumblers. "But you'd better catch them when they come to pick up the letter. I don't have the time to be looking over my shoulder. My ship is only in dry dock for repairs for a few months and I have to catch up on everything that's been happening at Dunloch Castle and see my solicitor in Glasgow on my way there—"
"Have a little faith in me." Keir poured them each a dram.
"I do. I trust you with my life. You just have impeccably poor timing." The smell of smoked peat moss filled the air around the little table. It smelled like home. Lachlan lifted the glass to his nose. When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the bite of the north wind at his cheeks and the chill of mist rolling off the loch on the back of his neck.
"So you'll do it?" Keir almost sounded surprised.
Lachlan opened his eyes. "Aye. I'll do it. But you'd better catch him. If he kills me —"
"Come off it, Lachy. You know it'll take more than one assassin to do you in."
A smile twitched on Lachlan's mouth. "You'd better hope so."
"I know so." Keir raised his glass "Here's tae us."
Lachlan raised his. "Wha's like us?"
"Rather few, and they're a'deid."