was across the room in a trice, pulling her up from her seat. A quick ruthless twist and her arm was pressed high between her shoulder blades. Her eyes blurred from the pain.
‘Are you questioning me?’ His voice low and menacing in her ear.
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I am just trying to understand what you want me to get from him.’
He released her with a push that made her stumble. She rubbed at her reddened wrist. Likely she’d have a bruise there tomorrow. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Jack. No questions asked.’
‘I thought you might, colleen.’ He sipped at his drink.
* * *
‘So what will you tell them?’ Sanford asked.
Logan eyed the languid figure on the other side of the carriage. The young lord had kindly offered him the loan of his carriage, once he’d been dropped off at Holyroodhouse where he had been called on some official business. ‘I’ll tell them the truth. That King is no’ landing today because of the rain and offer to take them tomorrow.’ He looked out of the window at the torrential rain, at the bunting and soggy flags draped across the buildings to welcome King George. ‘Unless they have some other idea. Perhaps they’ll want to go stare through the mist at his ship out in the harbour.’
‘You could take them shopping.’
He turned back to look at Sanford’s mocking face. ‘Why would I do that?’
The smile broadened. ‘Since you asked me for the loan of my carriage today, I’ve been thinking. If you really want to impress this O’Banyon fellow and his lady friend, there are several events you could take them to besides the public processions. There’s a levee. A drawing room, and a couple of balls. None of which will depend on the weather.’
Logan glowered at the smirking fop. ‘None of which I’ve been invited to.’
‘Ah, but you see, I happen to be friends with Sir Walter Scott, the man in charge.’
‘Oh, aye. And you think we wouldna’ stick out like sore thumbs at the King’s Drawing Room? You are daft in the head.’
‘As long as you wear your kilt, my dear boy, you will fit right in. But as for the lady, well, she would need something a little more...well, something different from what she was wearing at the Reiver the other night.’
He frowned. ‘I liked what she wore.’
‘So did every other man in the place. She needs a proper court dress. With ostrich plumes. And a ball gown for the Peers’ Ball. That is, if you really do want to take her and her friend.’
‘I would like to see O’Banyon wearing a kilt.’
‘The Irish wear kilts, I’m told.’
They did, but somehow he couldn’t quite picture one on this particular Irishman.
‘Have you ever had the pleasure of clothing a woman?’ Sanford asked idly, but there was a sharpness in the look he shot Logan’s way.
The man was making it sound as if it was the sort of thing a man of his age should have done hundreds of times. ‘Any woman worth her salt knows what to wear.’
Sanford grinned.
The young lord was having altogether too much fun with this new idea of his. And yet if O’Banyon liked the idea of mingling with the cream of Edinburgh’s society, it might help him decide in Dunross’s favour. ‘I’ll ask if they have any interest.’
‘Let me know by tonight.’
Would they want to be introduced to the King at a drawing room and go to a ball? It was hard to imagine, but Mrs West had been pretty keen to see him from a distance, so it stood to reason this would be even better. ‘All right.’
The carriage pulled to a halt. Sanford reached for the door handle. ‘You can drop the carriage back at my lodgings. I’ll get a ride back.’ He waited for one of the grooms to arrive with an umbrella before descending into the street. Afraid he might melt in a wee bit o’ rain. Or perhaps ruin his carefully ordered fair locks.
As the coach moved off, Logan peered out of the window to watch Sanford head into the Palace. He couldn’t imagine why he liked the languid dandy. But he did.
It was only a few moments before the carriage was stopping in Abbey Hill. He hopped out and gestured for the coachman to wait. The man nodded and a torrent of water rushed off his hat and landed in his lap.
Hell, it was raining harder than ever.
He found O’Banyon and Mrs West waiting in the lobby.
She offered him that practised sultry smile, when all of yesterday he had remembered the one that had lit her face when he had talked about taking her to see the King. He’d labelled it her real smile, though he had no way of knowing for sure.
O’Banyon shook his hand. ‘Gilvry. Not exactly the best of days to view a parade, is it? I am glad you arrived on time. I have an appointment with a banker in a few minutes and cannot join you as planned.’
Logan masked his surprise. ‘It doesna’ matter. The King’s disembarkation has been postposed until the weather improves.’
Mrs West rose to her feet and once more he was surprised at her height and elegance. Today she was wearing a dark greenish-blue spencer over a yellow gown. A flower-decorated straw bonnet covered all but a few curls artfully arranged about her angular face. A perfect frame for a work of art. Her smile was calmly accepting. ‘Thank you for coming to tell us.’
Her manners were faultless. Dressed as she was, it would be easy to mistake her for a gently-bred lady. It would have fooled him. And anyone else.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But perhaps I can offer something better. The King is to hold a Drawing Room at Holyroodhouse Tuesday next and a ball at the Assembly Rooms on Friday. You are invited to both.’
Her rosy lips parted in a gasp of surprise. Then her expression turned icy. ‘You are joking, naturally.’
He looked at O’Banyon.
‘Is this a jest, Gilvry?’ the Irishman asked.
He didn’t look at Mrs West. ‘No, indeed it is not, sir. I am invited to represent my family and you would go as my guests.’ It was stretching the truth a bit, but Ian was a Laird and no doubt he would have been invited, had he been in Edinburgh. Though it was more likely that Niall, as the next eldest brother, would have been sent as his representative.
O’Banyon raised his brows at Mrs West.
She shook her head. ‘No. It wouldn’t be right.’
The Irishman frowned. ‘What is not right about it? Gilvry here has invited you.’
‘Us, Jack,’ she said with almost a note of desperation. ‘You invited both of us, did you not, Mr Gilvry?’
‘You are correct, Mrs West. Both of you.’
‘Pshaw,’
