Page 90 of A Scot Is Not Enough
He hesitated. “It came into our hands last month.”
“And why does the Government care about this secret society?”
“Because they smuggled Charles Stuart into London three years ago.”
Cecelia fumbled her dish, her tea splattering the table.
“He was here?” Her voice pitched high.
“Yes.”
She set her dish down hard and dried her fingers. “I don’t believe you. There was no hint from Clanranald about it.”
Her shock and disbelief were understandable. Even better, her reaction confirmed that Cecelia MacDonald was not part of the secret society. But telling her about Charles Stuart had pushed them into new ground. He took a drink of brandy, needing its sharp bite. Treasonous words were out; there’d be no washing them back down.
“Those loyal to Stuart in Scotland did not know,” he said. “Only a trusted number in London did.”
Emotions assembled on the Scotswoman’s face. He could only guess at them: dismay, disappointment, and stubborn disbelief. The fact of hernotknowing Charles Stuart had been in London was final proof that she worked solely to restore her clan, and rebellion was not her aim. It was as much a comfort as a prod. Cecelia had done her part to build their bridge of trust. The time had come for him to do his.
He swigged brandy, adding to the fire in his belly.
“What I am about to tell you must stay within these four walls.”
She reached for him with a sympathetic hand. “You don’t have to tell me.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Today was monumental for him—his trust and his morals and his measurement of justice.
Cecelia poured amber spirits in her cup and added more to his. “It looks like you and I need this.”
Her hair was down and the ugly brown robe he’d given her was wrapped around her body. He could almost see their future together—if they survived what he was about to tell her.
He nudged his plate aside. “Tucked inside the Jacobite ledger was a thin file. It contained a rubbing of a token on foolscap and two letters, tracing Charles Stuart’s journey from Antwerp on September twelfth to London September sixteenth in 1750. He departed London on the twenty-second of that month.”
She gusted her disbelief. “He was here. For six days? I can’t fathom it.”
“Indeed, he was, dressed as a French clergyman. He wore an eye patch and he put boot black on his eyebrows to disguise himself. Before he arrived in London, someone commissioned a jeweler near Pall Mall to strike medal seals featuring his head. The tokens were given to those aiding Stuart. If a clandestine meeting was set, all parties had to show their token.”
Arms folding under her bosom, she wasn’t convinced.
“Jacobite trinkets... that doesn’t mean anything. You’ve got to have better proof than that.” She leaned in, her hazel eyes sharp. “Ifhe was here, why didn’t the English arrest him?”
“He had help from the inside. Soldiers were sent to County Stafford and to Suffolk. Both places, a wild-goose chase because Charles Stuart stayed in London. He admitted it in a letter that our spies intercepted while he was in Rome.”
“The first letter in the file.”
“Yes.”
Cecelia absorbed this. From her quiet kitchen, the joyful noise of laughing children playing in the alley came from behind her mews.
“And you say this secret society brought him here?”
“That was the information passed on from Pickle, the code name of a former Jacobite,” he said. “It was Pickle who first alerted His Majesty to Charles Stuart coming to London.”
Her nose wrinkled. “There can be no more inglorious a name as Pickle.”
“Inglorious or not, Pickle’s information has proved inviolable. While the king no longer cares about Charles Stuart’s coming and going, the Government does. Especially finding those in powerful places who aided him.”
“You think he came to London to reignite rebellion? That would be foolishness. He would only risk his life for”—eyes wide, she gasped—“for money!”
