Page 63 of The Devil Wears Kilts
London was more crowded than it had been the last time he’d passed through, but Arran noted that only peripherally as he held in his quick-footed black Thoroughbred, Duffy. His last visit hadn’t been during the middle of the Season, of course, which could explain the difference, but he preferred places where he could better see his surroundings. “I know it’s an inconvenience,” he returned, “but there’s someone I need to take a look at, and I have it on good authority that he’s at White’s.”
His companion sighed. “I suppose that’s why you called it a favor.”
“Aye. And I’ll owe you a large one after this, Will.”
“Am I permitted to ask who it is you’re looking for?” William Crane, Viscount Fordham, asked, keeping his gaze and presumably his attention on the crowded street.
Will was likely to figure it out on his own soon enough, anyway. “The Earl of Berling.”
“Ah. Does this have anything to do with the beating your brother handed him last week?” Fordham asked, not sounding the least bit surprised.
“Not entirely. But if we should coincidentally come across him at White’s, and as I dunnae think he knows who I am, if ye could call me John Reynolds, say, I would appreciate it.”
Will coughed. “Wasn’t that the name of the captain you wagered a hundred quid over whether you could shoot his hat off his head?”
Arran sent his friend a mock frown. “Ididshoot his hat off his head.”
“Along with half his ear.”
“He moved.”
They reached the plain-looking front door of the club, and a stable boy ran up to collect their horses. As Fordham had warned, White’s was packed to the gills, and the best the head footman could offer them was a pair of seats and a bottle of cognac in the library.
“If I need to introduce you,” the viscount asked quietly, “are you certain you want to be Scottish?”
“Nae. Say I’m yer cousin from York.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from York.”
“I will. Take us by way of the dining room, if you please.”
Shaking his head again, the viscount surreptitiously handed five pounds to a second footman, who immediately left them on their own. “I don’t see your friend,” he said after a moment, as they made their way through the obstacle-laden dining room.
“Keep looking. I heard he was here.” It had cost him twenty quid to root out the information, actually, on top of the favor he now owed William Crane. “And introduce me to as few people as possible. I don’t want them realizing I’m not who I say.”
“You’re not titled, Ar— John. No one cares who you are or what you’re doing here, so long as you don’t cause trouble.”
That was the way he preferred it. He knew London—and the English—better than either of his brothers or his sister, but there were things—alliances, friendship, animosities—that he needed to view and decipher for himself. And at the top of the list of things he needed to see with his own eyes was Donald Gerdens, Lord Berling.
“There he is,” Will said, on the tail of his thought. “Blue coat, eating pheasant, bruised jaw. On the left.”
“I see him.”
Berling didn’t look all that formidable, with his delicately held fork and the hanging weightiness on his face. But danger didn’t always come from straight ahead, and it didn’t take physical strength to light a fire. Arran kept a blank expression on his face as he walked up behind Will.
“Lord Berling, isn’t it?” Fordham said, utilizing all of his considerable charm. “Fordham. I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but since last week I’ve been wanting to shake your hand.”
The earl inclined his head, wiping off his fingers and shaking hands with the viscount. “It’s good to meet another man of conviction,” he said with a brief smile, then gestured at the two men seated with him. “Fordham, Charles Calder and Arnold Haws. Gentlemen…”
“Will Crane, Lord Fordham,” Will supplied with a smile. “Pleased to meet you.” He gestured at Arran. “This is my cousin, Mr. John Reynolds, down from York.”
Ranulf had warned him that Berling seemed to have allied himself with the Campbells, so he wasn’t surprised to see them sitting there together. Steeling himself, Arran also shook hands with the three men. If he’d been the sort of fellow who preferred a knife, he might have ended Berling and his cronies right there. But for some reason Ranulf had been set on gathering proof, which evidently meant they were going to attempt something legal. Either that, or blackmail.
“Glengask’s had his share of trouble since that fight,” he noted, stifling his brogue. “His stable burned down two nights ago.”
“Did it?” Berling’s eye twitched, and he reached for his glass of wine. “How unfortunate.”
“I would love to know who to thank for that,” Will took up, chuckling.
