Chapter 1

1

Edinburgh, Scotland

May, 1740

A wee smirr of rain struck the tenement's windowpanes at twilight, blurring Orin Hume's view of lamplit Edinburgh. Bringing a fist to his mouth, he stifled a yawn, the groan of his grandfather's ancient chair beneath him a reminder of just how long he'd sat stiffly trying to scratch out a few lines on the paper before him.

Poet Laureate of Britain, indeed.

His gaze rose to the room's equally ancient rafters, blackened beams painted with faded unicorns and thistles. Heavy drapes and furnishings carried a distillation of Lowland herbs and Highland spirits. He rarely came here except when he was guest lecturer at the university. He much preferred his London abode, Hume House, at number 70 Dean Street, with its bold red door and overhead fanlight chasing away the shadows. Quiet. Clean. Spare. Not this monstrosity from another century …

If he was inclined to believe in ghosts, this would be the ideal place for his long-departed brother, David Hume, to haunt. "Davie the devil" as some called him had lived here before losing his life to the Jacobite cause in the '15, a lasting lesson on how not to offend the reigning monarch. And now, in an ironic twist, he himself must honor George II's birthday celebration with an ode … or perish. Unless he resigned before the king could axe his position.

Inking his quill again, he dashed out a few haphazard lines, hearing Mrs. Archer softly singing a hymn as she approached with what surely was a toddy. A timid knock and then—

"Master Orin? Surely this dreich night calls for a bit o' cheer."

He let go his quill and stood to greet Hume's Land's housekeeper, steam rising from the tray that shook in her gnarled hands. She set it, or rather plopped it, atop the table near the hearth and he thanked her. She and the butler, Simms, were so old and had served the Humes so long they seemed as much a part of the house as the smoky timbers and drafty windows. And she had an uncanny knack of sensing his unspoken thoughts, probably since she'd known him since he was a wee lad.

"Simms told me ye're going to the theater tonight." She tarried in the doorway. "Have ye finished lecturing at the college?"

"As of today, aye. Now I must—um, puzzle out some poetry for His Majesty's Birthnight Ball for later this year and finish two plays I've committed to for Drury Lane and Covent Garden."

"I thought I heard the laird mention yer return to Wedderburn Castle for Lady Charis's summer debut when he was last here."

"Och, I canna forget that." But he had, nearly. He moved toward the fragrant toddy, stepping into the warmth emanating from the hearth fire. "Where is that letter?"

"I believe Simms put it in the cupboard." She smiled as if to encourage him. "I do hope ye go. 'Tis been an age since ye've been home."

An age . She was being kind. "Thank you, Mrs. Archer—for the toddy and the reminder of my Lowland obligations."

The door clicked closed and he sank into another chair, the worn seat nearly sagging to the thin carpet. The toddy was not the comfort he needed as he fixed his gaze on the cupboard that held the letter on the far wall, oft used to store items of importance. What had Charis written?

In seconds he'd retrieved it, the foolscap elegantly decorated with his niece's signature fairies and sprigs of heather, a habit since childhood that belied her eighteen years. Moving a candle closer, he studied the invitation.

Dear Uncle Orin,

Lest you forget your favorite niece …

He smiled. His only niece.

… the youngest child of your brother, Everard, and dear sister-in-law, Blythe, I am here to remind—nay, beg—you to return to Wedderburn Castle and escort me for a round of balls and entertainments beginning in June.

The honor is all mine, of course. I've adored you since birth and am in awe of your prodigious talents of the pen. No one else can boast arriving on the arm of the country's noted Poet Laureate.

Please come home and put the tragic circumstance of the past behind you. 'Tis best accepted if not forgotten. Carpe diem, my Latin tutor used to tell me. There's no one I'd rather seize the day with than you.

Devotedly, Charis

Setting the letter aside, he downed the toddy in another throat-searing gulp.

Tragic circumstance, aye.

Accepted, nay.