I had been so busy sleuthing and tossing rooms and evading masked Scots in the woods that I had forgotten that tonight was the big night. Everyone chimed in at the woman's comment, to make sure the Queen knew how much each one was looking forward to the dance and, that's right, more food.

"Wouldn't Prince Albert have loved to have been here for the ball," one of the old cats said wistfully.

The Queen's face contorted, and she dabbed at the corner of her eye with her serviette. "Poor, dear Albert. How he loved these dances for the servants. He adored watching the ghillies dance with the domestics. And dear Albert looked so handsome in his kilt the last time we led the grand march into the ballroom."

Lady Dalfad sipped her coffee. "Indeed. The dances are most enjoyable. Your Highness should be commended for carrying on the tradition after the prince's pa.s.sing. It must be difficult for you, ma'am, but I know the servants are most grateful. My Effie looks forward to it every year."

Effie squirmed but nodded.

"And what a rare delight," Lady Dalfad carried on. "We'll have two dances this year. The customary occasion last September and now a ball in December."

"It is how Albert would have wished it," said the Queen lugubriously. "We always have a dance when we are at Balmoral, and as he expressly wished me to spend the Christmas holiday here, I see no reason why we should depart from tradition."

"Very wise," said Lady Dalfad. "Especially under the present circ.u.mstances."

The Queen cast a sharp eye down the table. "What do you mean by that statement?"

There was an infinitesimal movement of the countess's shoulders. "I was referring to the incidents that have occurred. Continuing to observe the customary habits will rea.s.sure the servants and guests that nothing is amiss."

"Nothing is amiss." The Queen's tone was freezing.

A lesser woman than the countess might have quailed, but Lady Dalfad smiled sweetly. "But Your Highness, you must know of the talk that surrounds your illness and the occurrence in the stable."

"Bah!" spat the Queen. "Those were accidents, nothing more. I don't understand why everyone is so excitable. Mr. Disraeli has even suggested that I return to Windsor."

"Everyone is concerned with your safety, ma'am," Lady Dalfad said gently. "We are all aware that the Sons of Arbroath have vowed to kill you. Why, even the servants have heard of the threat to your life. Isn't that right, Effie?"

The Queen turned a basilisk glare upon Effie, who flinched but nodded affirmatively.

"I do not allow my servants to sit idle and spend their time gossiping," sniffed the Queen.

The marchioness was hanging on every word, her fingers inching unconsciously toward the sugar bowl. Well, whatever happened, it was bound to make Her Highness angry, so I resolved to bear the burden and sprang to my feet, seizing the marchioness's hand just as her twitching fingers had found the handle of the sugar bowl, and reaching for her water gla.s.s at the same time.

"Your medication, my lady," I said smoothly, and prayed the old trout would cotton on. The marchioness snarled at first, but I waggled an eyebrow at the sugar bowl and she took the hint, muttering, "Thank you, Ima," and pretending to swallow the imaginary capsule with a copious draught of water to wash it down. I returned to my seat and tried to ignore the daggers being flung at me by the Queen and Lady Dalfad.

"Those dreadful nationalists," one of the other ladies of the bedchamber said. "Whatever is wrong with them? Why, it's not as though the Queen had anything to do with the Act of Union."

"Besides," another of the grannies added, "the Queen adores Scotland."

"And my Scottish subjects," the Queen added unctuously.

"Some of your Scottish subjects apparently do not return the sentiment," said Lady Dalfad. "Are you quite sure, Your Highness, that you should appear at the ball tonight?"

The Queen swelled with indignation, looking like a displeased dumpling. "Lady Dalfad, you forget yourself."

The countess inclined her head under the weight of her monarch's wrath. "Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Your Highness. But believe me when I say that I do so only because I have your best interests at heart. The country and the Empire would flounder without your steady guidance."

The Queen settled back, mollified by the abject flattery. Lord, I thought, what a job, smoothing the old kite's rustled feathers every time she gets her back up, which, with Vicky, was a frequent occurrence.

"I thank you for your concern, Lady Dalfad. But I a.s.sure you that the incidents you mentioned were mere accidents, and even if they were not, I am well protected here, among my faithful servants and my invited guests."

I shuddered a bit at that, as I never like to tempt fate, but the Queen just looked defiantly around the table.

"I shall go to the ball," she said firmly. "I shall lead the grand march, and I shall dance a reel or two with Mr. Brown, and I shall watch my servants enjoy an evening of amus.e.m.e.nt."

That seemed to settle matters, and it was a good thing, as the marchioness was getting restless, her gnarled hand jumping like a tarantula on the table. I didn't know how long she could hold out; if I didn't get some snuff in her soon, there was bound to be some sort of dustup at the dining table. Luckily, the party broke up on the Queen's p.r.o.nouncement of her intentions. I hustled the marchioness into the nearest cubbyhole and satisfied her nicotine addiction, wondering as I did so if the Queen's last words would be "Et tu, Brute?"

The marchioness retired for a nap, which sounded like a grand idea to me, but I figured that I'd been sent to protect the Queen, and as the stubborn fool was planning to put herself on display to all and sundry at the ghillies' ball, it would be best to conduct a recce of the ballroom and check on the preparations for the event. So I wandered down to the main floor, sidestepping carpenters and tradesmen, and ambled to the ballroom for a looksee. The place was bustling with footmen and maids, setting up tables and chairs and fussing with hothouse flowers and tartan bunting (would there be any other kind?). The room was a long one, with a raised dais in the middle of the floor against one wall, where an elaborate carved chair served as the Queen's throne during the festivities. At the end of the room a minstrel's gallery jutted out from the wall, just below the great oak beams of the roof.

I noticed Robbie Munro a.s.siduously laying silver, and I ambled over for a chat.

"It looks like it will be a grand night," I said. "I hear the Queen goes all out for these shindigs."

Robbie aligned a fork and knife. "No expense spared. We'll eat like kings tonight and dance until we fall down."

"I've heard a rumour that there will be whisky and ale."

Robbie leaned toward me conspiratorially. "And brandy. A whole cask, just for the servants."

I glanced idly at the balcony. "Where do you find a band around here?"

"Local lads, all of them. But I'm told they're quite good. We'll have nothing to complain about." He surveyed his work with satisfaction and dusted his hands. "There's that job finished. Now I'd better find Mr. Vicker and see what else I'm to do."

Vicker looked ill. I wondered if he was feeling the aftereffects of the cocoa or just the pressure of putting on a ball on a couple of weeks' notice. His mustache bristled with effort, and his collar was stained with sweat. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand and was flipping through them furiously. A queue of builders, joiners, maids and footmen had lined up before him, stamping their feet impatiently. One fellow pulled out his watch and consulted it, sighing theatrically. Vicker was doing his best, but every question left him goggle-eyed and openmouthed.

"Poor fellow," said Robbie. "He insists on checking everything personally. There are too many decisions for one man to make. He should have handed some of it over to Miss Boss."

I heard bleating and scuffling from the hallway. The band had arrived, a pack of ruffians by the look of them, with long beards and country attire. I doubted that we would be waltzing to the latest tune from Vienna tonight.

Robbie saw my face and grinned. "They don't look impressive, but I'm told the fiddler is first-rate, and the rest of the boys aren't far behind. There'll be country dancing tonight."

"The Queen said she intended to dance a reel with John Brown."

"I've heard they'll share a dance," said Robbie neutrally. "If you'll excuse me, I'll offer to show the musicians the stairs to the balcony. Vicker's got more than enough on his hands at the moment."

Robbie marched off, his kilt swaying mesmerizingly. What a d.a.m.ned looker he was. I hoped he wouldn't turn out to be the Marischal; it would be a dreadful waste of a handsome man. Robbie put a hand on Vicker's arm to draw his attention, and Vicker shied violently. Good Lord, the man was on edge.

Vicker c.o.c.ked an ear to listen to Robbie, then shook his head vehemently. He'd obviously nixed Robbie's proposal to guide the musicians to the gallery where they'd be playing. Instead, Vicker hailed the fiddler, a twinkly man who must have been a hundred if he was a day, and instructed him to fall in behind and be dashed quick about it. The old codger looked affronted at the brusque command but waved down his fellow musicians and trailed after Vicker, who led them out of the ballroom. A few seconds later, they appeared in the gallery.

There was obviously an entrance to the gallery in the hall, and I considered that it might be useful to know its location. I exited the ballroom and strolled slowly along the hall, until I saw Vicker emerge from a paneled wall. He brushed past me, reeking of perspiration, his face as wan as a typhoid survivor's. I glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then searched the oak panels swiftly until I found a metal latch, half-hidden behind a hideous portrait of Prince Albert lording it over a dead stag in a mountain meadow.

After locating the entrance to the gallery, I retraced my steps to the ballroom, noting all the entrances and exits from the room, the possible hiding places for the nationalists (could Archie Skene fit behind that potted palm?), and otherwise thinking about where I was likely to conceal myself if I were going to take a shot at the Queen or leap on her with dagger drawn. There were two points of access into the room: a set of double doors off the main hall, through which the grand march would enter the ballroom, and a smaller door at the opposite end of the room, for the use of the servants. One end of the room was jammed with tables and chairs, and the dance floor occupied the other. Counting guests and servants, there might be a hundred people in the room tonight, with the Queen seated smack in the middle where the revelers could see their monarch and bow obsequiously when the occasion demanded. It would be b.l.o.o.d.y difficult to keep an eye on everyone but not impossible if Vincent, French and I went about our business in a professional manner. And even if the a.s.sa.s.sin was one of the crowd, it would be confoundedly difficult to get close to the Queen, whack her like old Caesar and then scamper off without being brought down by a dozen hirsute Scots in kilts. My conclusion, at the end of twenty minutes of poking around, was that any a.s.sa.s.sin worth his salt wouldn't dare try to pot the Queen tonight, at least if he wanted to escape alive.

French had entered the room and was making a great show of admiring the decorations and arrangements. He ambled past Flora, twirling his stick and brushing against her. She emitted a little shriek and simpered at him, and the a.s.s simpered back. Must have pinched her b.u.m as he wandered by, I shouldn't wonder. He caught my eye and jerked his head and in a moment we were secluded in a corner, while I fiddled with the flowers on the nearest table (spilling most of them onto the tablecloth-floral arrangements are not my forte).

"How do you a.s.sess the situation?" he asked.

"I wouldn't give Flora any encouragement, or you'll spend the evening trying to fend her off."

"That's not what I meant."

Of course it wasn't. I filled him in on my survey of the hallway and the ballroom, and my conclusion: an attack might come, but if it did, the perpetrator would be bent on suicide.

French gnawed his lip. "We can't discount that idea. It would make the perfect political statement, demonstrating the sacrifice of true Scottish patriots. The press would have a field day."

"What of Robshaw? Will he have anyone on duty in the ballroom?"

"He's got trouble enough securing all the entrances to and exits from the castle, as well as patrolling the grounds. We'll be on our own tonight. I'll stay close to Red Hector, and you can monopolize the dashing Robbie Munro."

"Which leaves Vicker and Skene on the prowl, not to mention dozens of other servants and a score of guests unaccounted for."

"You and I will share the burden of tracking Vicker tonight, and I'll put Vincent onto Skene. As for the others, we'll have to watch the crowd constantly and be alert for anything out of the ordinary. It's not ideal, but we must play the odds and focus on our suspects."

I had forgotten that Vincent would be attending his first royal soiree. "Do you think he can stay away from the buffet tables long enough to watch Skene?"

French smiled humourlessly. "I shall issue strict instructions."

I could have informed French that to Vincent strict instructions were as water over the proverbial duck's back, but there are some things a man must learn for himself. And to be fair to the young scallywag, when he took on a task, he generally saw it through, unless, of course, tempted by cake or gewgaws he might flog or any sort of liquor at all. Well, I'd have enough to worry about tonight, between making sure that the marchioness didn't inhale the dry mustard set out for the sirloin of beef, keeping tabs on the delectable Munro and scanning the crowd for signs of incipient violence, so I went off for a bit of a kip, leaving French to skulk around the ballroom and poke his walking stick into the aspidistras in search of hidden weapons.

The marchioness elected to have her dinner in her room, so that she would be fresh and lively for the dance, a decision that I applauded as it meant I didn't have to spend a couple of hours standing behind her at the dining table. I went to spruce her up as the hour for the dance approached and found her puttering about her room and practicing a few steps. As wobbly as she was when she perambulated, you would expect this exercise to be disastrous, but the marchioness proved surprisingly light on her feet and managed a brief caper before she crashed into the bedpost and keeled over onto the mattress, where she lay laughing and spitting (she must have just inhaled a prodigious amount of snuff, to judge by the quant.i.ty of the stuff that was streaming out her nose). I got her upright and mopped her clean with a wet flannel.

"Are you looking forward to the ball tonight, my lady?"

"Indeed, I am. It's been as gloomy as a mortuary around here. A dance is just what we need."

"Do you think the Queen is in any danger? Lady Dalfad seemed to think so."

The marchioness honked loudly, which necessitated another swipe with the flannel. "Time was when the aristocracy had more backbone."

I didn't know if this was a jab at the countess or the Queen, but I doubted the marchioness was inviting my a.s.sessment, my being a member of the lower cla.s.ses, you see. So I held my tongue, and my employer maundered on about cowardly types who went about tampering with cocoa and shoving machinery onto unsuspecting persons, and the equally timorous souls who now saw traitors lurking among the bushes and behind the curtains.

After she'd finished this tirade, it was time for another; this one directed at me. The marchioness lifted her cloudy eyes to my face. "It's time we had a talk about tonight, Irene."

"Ma'am?" I dragged the comb through a tangle of hair and she winced.

"Ow. Take some care, ye b.l.o.o.d.y fool."

"Yes, ma'am." It would be easier to snip off the snarl with a pair of scissors, but that would leave the marchioness with a noticeable bald spot. I withdrew the comb and tried a flank attack.

"There will be heavy drinkin' tonight, which sometimes leads to perverse behavior."

Finally, I thought, a bit of fun.

"Not," the marchioness hastened to add, "that I have ever personally witnessed such activities. No, I have only heard of 'em, from unimpeachable sources."

"Perverse behavior, my lady?" I was innocence itself.

The marchioness sniffed, detecting sarcasm. "Don't mock me, India."

India?

"I know ye la.s.ses think ye know all there is to know of the ways of men, but believe me, I could tell ye stories that would raise your hair."

Doubtful, that. More likely I could provide an education to the marchioness she wouldn't forget, but it would be a waste, wouldn't it, as the days in which she might have made use of my lessons were long past.

"Choose yer dance partners well. The youngsters from the castle are good boys. They know they'd be flogged within an inch of their lives if they step out of line. As much as it pains me to admit it, the real cads are to be found among the guests. Reports have reached me that ye've been seen on several occasions with that Mr. French. And I myself have stumbled upon ye with the Prince of Wales."

"I am completely blameless," I said, and I didn't have to feign my indignation. If the marchioness wanted to school someone, why didn't she march off to Bertie's room and shame him? But it was ever thus: men are free to impose their will on women, while women are denounced as s.l.u.ts and bobtails for submitting to it. Give me the old-fashioned exchange of goods and services any day; there's no disgrace in conducting a business transaction among consenting men and women.

The marchioness waved away my protests. "Regardless, I am instructin' ye to refrain from flirtin' with that French fellow, or ye'll end up just like . . ." She shut her trap abruptly and glared at me in the mirror. "Anyway, just do as I say, and remember that I'll be watchin' ye."

"Yes, ma'am," I said obediently, but it would be b.l.o.o.d.y hard to slip around the ballroom and follow suspects if the marchioness kept her eye on me.

When the marchioness had finished chastising me before I had sinned, I spiffed her up until she bore a pa.s.sing resemblance to the t.i.tle she carried and then escorted her down the hall, where we joined a stream of excited guests and eager attendants. She doddered along on my arm, her eyes alight and her few visible teeth displayed in a deranged grin of pure delight. We descended the stairs into the main hall, where all was chaos. Everyone and his second cousin had arrived to join the grand march into the ballroom, and there was a bit of shoving and braying about seniority and there were ill-humoured remarks, all from the toffs, of course. I am proud to say the servants conducted themselves with a bit more dignity.

As one of the Queen's oldest relatives, the marchioness had a place of honour near the front of the pack. Vicker, face blanched white and lathered like a Boer's ox, was carrying around another of his infernal lists. When I presented the marchioness, he thumbed through the pages, then barked at me to conduct Her Ladyship to the fourth place in line. Mr. French would join her there and escort her into the ballroom. I nearly made myself sick with silent laughter as I positioned my employer in line, thinking of the fastidious French offering a snowy cuff upon which the marchioness would place her snuff-stained glove. I hoped he had an adequate supply of handkerchiefs, as he'd likely need them ere the night was over.

I realized that I had not found my own place in line, so I reluctantly consulted Vicker again and endured the subsequent snarling and spitting. I was walking in with one of the ghillies, a shy youngster named Jock MacBeath, with jug ears and red down on his cheeks, who blushed when I introduced myself. But I'm a dab hand with raw youth, and within ten minutes I had the pup twisting around my legs in delight. Thank G.o.d, I'd be spying tonight, or I never would be able to shake my new admirer.

It was quite a sight, that a.s.semblage of hairy, kilted men and bright-eyed ladies in their best dresses. The male servants wore the Royal Stewart tartan, topped with black wool Argyll jackets with gauntlet sleeves and epaulettes on the shoulders, or the more elaborate Prince Charlie, a cutaway jacket of fine wool with short tails and braided epaulettes. Each wore a bristling sporran of fox or rabbit fur (the Scottish version of a wallet, though I suspect most of the chaps had a flask tucked in there tonight) dangling over his goolies (a dashed odd place to carry your cash, but then the Scots are an odd lot). I'll tell you true, those men were so dashing and romantic, I almost wished I'd been born in the Highlands, so I could gaze on their hirsute magnificence to my heart's content. All the male guests wore white ties, though some had put a sprig of thistle through their b.u.t.tonholes. The female guests were decked out in ball gowns of pink satin, gold moire silk and cerise tulle. There was gold blond lace, red velvet bows and trains of light blue silk and white satin in abundance. Even the female servants were decked out festively, in muslin gowns in pastel shades, which contrasted sharply with their reddened hands and large knuckles.

Flora was a fantasy in a creamy satin dress with a swatch of the Royal Stewart tartan for a shawl, her strawberry curls twisted into an elaborate affair. Her pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled. She had provided me a simple silk gown of robin's egg blue, with a low neckline that set off my decolletage to full advantage (which I must admit, is a considerable advantage indeed) and accentuated the cobalt of my eyes. I'd put up my hair and rouged my cheeks, and the male staff went down before me like wheat before a threshing machine. I looked ravishing, if I do say so myself. But I digress.

Silence fell over the a.s.sembly, and the Queen, looking as pink, plump and complacent as a well-fed pig, descended the stairs. She was dressed in black, of course, but she'd made some concessions to the occasion by donning a striking little hat of ermine and an ermine collar and cuffs, with a miniature rosette of the royal tartan pinned to her breast by a yellow cairngorm. Bertie had been loitering about, flirting with anything in skirts and trying to avoid the irate gaze of his dearly beloved, Princess Alexandra. When the Queen appeared in view, Bertie stiffened at the sight, broke off his conversation with the youthful baroness he'd been ogling and scrambled to the front of the line. I expected him to escort his mother into the ballroom, but he slunk up to his wife and took her arm, while she looked with loathing at the baroness and the baroness pretended not to notice.

'Twas John Brown who materialized at the Queen's side, tucking her arm under his and gazing about with an arrogant grin. Bertie snarled. Disraeli, third in line and spanned with Lady Dalfad, looked bored. He'd wriggled his way into the Queen's good graces, and he didn't fret about sharing them with Brown. In fact, the crafty old Hebrew had encouraged the Queen's affection for Brown, earning Dizzy the Queen's devotion. Bertie, pondering whether the monarchy would survive the lurid tales in the newspapers of "Mrs. Brown" (and thus be worth inheriting), could hardly contain himself when Brown was in the room.

From inside the ballroom I heard the sc.r.a.pe of fiddle strings and the wheeze of an accordion. There was a buzz amongst the crowd, with a few of the youngsters standing on tiptoe for a glimpse of the band and gabbling excitedly. Then Brown, acting as drillmaster, raised his hand and signaled for silence, and an expectant hush settled upon the revelers. The band issued a desultory note or two to finish tuning their instruments, and then they launched into "Hielan' Laddie," which young Jock MacBeath was pleased to inform me was the regimental quick march of the Forty-Second (Royal Highlanders) Regiment of Foot, popularly known as the "Black Watch." It's a d.a.m.ned fine song, inspiring enough to induce young soldiers from the glens to forget their fear and charge the French line at the Battle of Quartre Bras, and John Brown and the Queen marched into the ballroom to its stirring refrain with their heads held high. We followed after them, making a circuit of the room with everyone grinning foolishly (except Dizzy, who looked as though he'd rather be having a tooth extracted). Red Hector, already well in his cups, was bouncing along, probably hoping for a chance to slaughter some English infantryman before the night was over. The marchioness looked as giddy as a schoolgirl at her first dance, and even French's lips were quirked in a tight smile. I'm not ashamed to admit I was beaming; the prospect of an evening of dancing and drinking and . . . oh, curse it, I'd forgotten I had to be vigilant tonight. Well, it always pays to make the best of things, as my mother used to tell me when we'd been chucked out onto the street because we couldn't make the rent (again), and I resolved to enjoy myself (a bit of dancing and a nip of whisky now and then) while keeping a close eye on Munro and Vicker.

When the whole troupe had squeezed into the room, we formed off into groups of eight (Jock MacBeath still dancing attendance on me), and the band swung into the "Reel of the Fifty-First Division." I hardly knew what I was doing, but MacBeath proved as lively and quick as a hare and had me weaving and bobbing right along with the others in no time at all. Scottish country dancing is simple, really, once you pick up the basic steps, as you tend to repeat them several times before moving on to another set of steps, which are then repeated, and so on. Sounds dull, but in fact it was great fun, even if I was dancing with a spotted youth with ears the size of water pitchers.

I caught sight of French, with a grim expression on his face, dutifully flinging the marchioness around the room. Dizzy had opted out of the athletics and was nursing a whisky at one of the tables with Lady Dalfad, a prim expression of disapproval on her face as she watched Effie dance with one of the under butlers. The Queen . . . Lord, there was a surprise. She and Brown were scampering about like a pair of frisky fox cubs. For a plump woman, Her Highness proved remarkably spry. It was said that she couldn't stand anyone touching her, and so I was amazed to see Brown grasping both her hands and draping his arm around her shoulders during the dance. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumours of conjugal visits between the two.

Between twirls, I checked the room for a.s.sa.s.sins. Flora had proved prescient; she had Robbie Munro in a chokehold as they cantered among the other couples. Vicker was studying the buffet table, ticking items from the list he carried and frowning. Now and then, he reached down to straighten a bowl or line up a fork with its fellows. I hoped he wasn't sweating into the horseradish.

Those two were my responsibility, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to check on the other fellows. Archie Skene had a pewter tankard in his hand and was disporting himself with the boys from the stables. They were dressed formally, in jackets, ties and kilts, but they still looked as if you could pull hay from their hair. Vincent had attached himself to Archie, and as I watched, he took the old man's jug and filled it for him from a barrel of ale standing nearby. Ho, ho, Vincent, I thought. What a clever way to keep tabs on the fellow: get him falling down drunk and you won't have to move ten feet from the liquor the whole evening long. Red Hector's ginger hair was tousled and his face flushed with brandy. He was gamboling with one of the housemaids, who was pleased as punch to be dancing with one of Scotland's eligible bachelors. I could have warned her things wouldn't end well, but it wasn't my business to interfere, so I turned my attention back to Jock MacBeath.

Dancing was hard work, so after the reel ended the band gave the crowd a chance to slake its thirst and sample the comestibles on the buffet. French sauntered up with a gla.s.s of whisky in his hand.

"You and the marchioness make a fine couple."

He scowled. "It's not the dancing I mind; it's the sneezing. It's like swimming upstream through a Nile cataract. Care to dance?"

I'd danced once before with French, a waltz at the Russian Emba.s.sy several weeks ago, and he proved as attentive a partner now as he had then, which is to say, he paid no mind to me at all, except for the minimum of effort required to rein me in and set in on the right path when I was inclined to miss a step. He was busy looking over my shoulder for Red Hector and Munro and the others. We executed a mechanical turn and I b.u.mped into Flora, who was dancing in the next group to ours. She did not look happy.

"Here," she hissed at me. "I'm supposed to dance with French."

"You've Robbie Munro attached to your arm. Don't be selfish."