Page 10 of Return of the Scot
His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second before he was through the door. MacInnes, like all butlers, seemed to have a sixth sense to those within residence and was by the door with Lorne’s hat and greatcoat.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Lorne nodded curtly before walking out into the crisp Edinburgh air.
His coachman waited beside the carriage, rushing to open the door for Lorne. “Where to, Your Grace?”
“St. Andrew’s Square.” Perhaps at the New Club, he’d find comfort in a glass of whisky.
The sensation of dozens of eyes on him left him feeling out of sorts as he climbed into his carriage. No doubt everyone in Scotland would know he’d visited Jaime upon his return from the dead.
And they would all be drawing the wrong conclusions.
His coachman meandered around the Charlotte’s Square circle until he was back on George’s Street. The road was filled with other carriages, people walking and merchants touting their wares. What should have been a short preamble down the road turned into nearly half an hour. At last, they rounded onto St. David’s Street at St. Andrew’s Square and pulled up in front of New Club.
The building looked as inconspicuous as the others. People wandered the square, casting him glances, eyes riveted to the crest on his carriage. The buzz of their hurried whispers increased with each of his steps toward the front of the club.
Ignoring them all, he entered the establishment. The dimly lit building smelled of cigar smoke and men’s aftershave, a little overwhelming after coming from the outside. Lorne had never had much interest in cigars, and if he was going to smell a man’s aftershave, it was going to be his own.
“Your Grace.” The footman kept his gaze level, not blinking at the fact that Lorne had not been there in nearly ten years and had also been pronounced dead.
Lorne handed the footman his hat and coat and then sauntered toward the rear of the room where his old friends used to take up residence. There were many new faces and several not-so-new. A few clad in casual buckskin breeches, others in more fancy wear he’d seen the dandies of London sporting. Only a few of the gentleman wore kilts, which made him the odd man out. Much had changed since he’d been there last.
Some of those who recognized him stopped speaking to their companions right away to stare, mouths agape. Those with a connection to the War Office gave him respectful nods.
Lorne wasn’t in the mood to chat. He simply nodded and passed by everyone to seek out a quiet corner in which to think, plan and imbibe a drink.
“Sutherland?”
Lorne halted, surprised to hear a very familiar voice. Lord Alec Hay, the Earl of Errol, who also happened to serve with him overseas, emerged from the shadows where it looked as though he’d been sitting alone—in Lorne’s favorite spot.
“Errol.” Lorne drew in a deep breath through his nose. He wanted to grasp the man up in his arms, glad to see that he was alive, after thinking that he’d died on Lorne’s watch. The man had a scar slicing from his temple down over his cheek and toward his chin. Not long after he’d sustained the injury, Lorne had been…taken. “God, ’tis good to see ye’re alive.”
Alec clapped him on the shoulder. “Likewise. Where the hell have ye been?”
“Purgatory, and I’m no’ going back.”
Alec seemed to understand that he had no wish to speak on the topic. And as he’d suffered in the war alongside him, perhaps he was the closest thing Lorne could find to a person who could recognize the desire to leave the past where it lay.
“Sit with me.” Alec didn’t wait for Lorne’s answer but headed toward the corner he’d staked out, snapping his fingers at a passing footman. “Bring me the bottle.” Slumping into his chair, Alec shook his head in disbelief. “I heard ye escaped, and I could no’ believe it. What are ye doing in Edinburgh?”
Lorne groaned at the question, flashes of a hellion running rampant. He was relieved when the footman returned with a fresh bottle of whisky and an extra glass for him, allowing him a moment to think before answering.
“Can I interest ye in anything to eat, Your Grace?”
“Aye, the house special.” He prayed the food was as good as it had been the last time he’d been there. The last decent meal he had before he’d left for the nearly five-day ride to Edinburgh was in the Highlands.
“Aye, Your Grace. And for ye, my lord?” The footman turned to Alec.
“I’ll have the same.” Alec uncorked the whisky and poured two healthy portions, sliding one of the glasses toward Lorne. “To your return.”
Lorne lifted his glass and consumed the whisky in one burning swallow.
Alec seemed on edge, setting down his glass and continuously darting his gaze about the room.
“Are ye all right?” The way the man was acting had Lorne wanting to leap out of his skin.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat, laughed off his awkwardness and poured a second helping of whisky. “Have ye got a place to stay in town?”
