I’d not have trusted any of them, and since I was wary of the reason why I’d been invited, I stayed silent, drank my wine, and used the time to make a study of the Earl of Seafield.
He wore a fair, long wig that would have met with Helen’s sure approval, being of the very latest fashion. If I’d had to judge his age, I would have put him ten years older than myself, approaching his midforties, with an elegance of dress and movement that belied his friendliness of manner. As a host, he had that quality of setting all his guests at ease and making them feel they were on his level, which undoubtedly some were, but I suspected it was also something he had learned to do throughout his long years in the government. He had survived the revolution and switched sides to serve King William and now served Queen Anne as chancellor for Scotland, which position—from my understanding—put him at the head of all our nation’s law, above all other officers of state. A man did not accomplish that without becoming skilled at learning how to handle other men.
I watched him do it now with Dr. Young, who was complaining of the great disorder in the streets of Edinburgh. “It’s dangerous, with these unruly rascals who seem everywhere these days so that an honest man no more can walk the streets of this town but he feels unsafe. It seems the Union plunged our country into chaos.”
The Earl of Seafield lightly disagreed. “The current unrest proves in fact how necessary it was we unite with England so her strength would add to our security. There are a multitude of Jacobites here, ready to lay hold of any opportunity to make a disturbance.”
“You have one held within the castle, so I hear,” the doctor said.
“Yes. Robert Moray.” Seafield smiled. “A prize indeed, although of course we all do wish that it had been his brother John.”
“Why is that?”
“While Robert Moray is without doubt a supporter of his exiled king, his brother John does hold the trust and confidence of all the court of Saint-Germain, and when he’s sent to Scotland out of France it is no idle thing. John Moray is an outlaw, and does carry a reward already of five hundred pounds upon his head. A man with such a mark does not step lightly back on Scottish soil. And yet, our spies have told us that for several months he has been here. We know that he is likely in the north, but we do not know where. We know that he is sent here by his king, but we do not know why. These questions, you’ll appreciate, are ones we seek to answer.”
A younger, sleekit gentleman remarked, “It is no mystery why he’s in the north. I’ve heard the Duke of Gordon’s men have been buying up horses for going a-hunting in Atholl, or so they would claim. I should think it more likely the highland nobility calls out its men for to count them and so tell their scheming Pretender the size of the army that he might expect when he lands.”
At my right, the bold man who was fond of his drink stirred to ask, “So you believe the rumors that there will be an invasion? For my part, I believe that it will prove to be another sham plot.”
Calmly, the young gentleman replied, “I do believe the Jacobites are planning an invasion, yes. I’ll warrant that Lord Seafield does believe it, too, else why would he be holding Robert Moray in the castle?”
Seafield smoothly interjected, “There are always rumors. I prefer to act upon the facts. Robert Moray, I am certain, could tell more than what he’s told us. We examined him some hours, but he kept firmly to his claim that he did go to France upon a private errand. The few papers found upon him tell us very little. He is clever, and one cannot come at clever men directly.”
The sleekit man asked, “Does he have a wife? She might be used to help him see some sense.”
The man beside me drained another glass of wine. “Or throw her in the Tolbooth till he tells you what you wish to know,” was his suggestion. “Failing that, there’s always torture. Properly applied, it will shake loose the tongue of any man.”
Seafield said, “It need not come to that. There are more subtle ways to make men talk.” He turned his head and looked along the table, straight at me. “You’ve met him. Tell me, Sergeant Williamson, what would you judge to be Robert Moray’s weak side?”
I thought I just might know the answer to that question, even though I’d only passed a brief handful of hours with him, because the stories Mrs. Graeme had shared of her childhood had set Robert Moray’s character in such a light that I believed I understood him perfectly: his weak side—and the whole strength of his character—was his need to protect.