Two London, England

Tw o

London, England

S o sure of his abilities and the importance of his mission—and rather anxious to get onto something more exciting than the bucolic life around Loch Chon while he waited for word of his regiment's next destination—Liam insisted on leaving by the end of that very week. With his plaid and his dirk carefully packed in his knapsack, along with proper clothing borrowed from his father (and simply taken from Grif), and as much cash as the family could scrape together secreted away in his sporran, Liam kissed his mother and his sister, clapped Griffin on the back, and shook hands with his father as he set off to retrieve the beastie.

He arrived, via the post coach, at High Wycombe, just west of London, late on a wet and dreary afternoon, the kind that comes early in autumn to portend a particularly nasty winter. He wrapped his regimental coat around him, adjusted the heavy knapsack on his back, and walked the mile or so from the coach station to the Hotel Marlowe, where he knew there would be various ranks of military men milling about. He was not disappointed. By the end of the evening and after a few too many tankards, Liam had what he wanted— the name of someone in London who might help him find lodging. It was a name that was even known to him—Colonel Alasdair MacDonnell of Glengarry. Liam knew all about the man's military career, having made it a point to follow as many Scots as he could. But what he didn't know was that the colonel had helped establish the Highland Society of London, a gentleman's club of sorts that catered to the old clans of Scotland. Colonel MacDonnell, they said, could be found at the club on St. James Street most afternoons.

Liam could not possibly have been happier.

Feeling particularly sprightly the next morning, Liam was the first passenger on the public cab at dawn bound for Piccadilly Circus. But as the cab drew closer to London, the driver managed to squeeze eleven people into the interior (and what seemed like another ten on the bumper seat and running board), which forced Liam up against the stained and threadbare wall of the coach. The crush of humanity included a small lad with big brown eyes who stared at the scar across Liam's left cheek the entire trip, a man with a crude crate of squawking chickens, and a baby who, having chewed something quite vile, judging by the remnants that covered his wee fingers, had the audacity to pound his chubby little hand on Liam's knee.

Unfortunately, Piccadilly Circus was little improvement. Once he was able to extricate himself from the overcrowded cab, Liam was in the middle of a street teeming with people and carriages, carts filled high with goods, various braying animals, and a veritable field of pungent horse manure. Aye, it was all coming back to him now, the many reasons he did not care for London. First, it was full of Englishmen, a lot he had never really warmed to. Second, it stunk to high heaven.

But that was neither here nor there. Liam withdrew the crude map one of the soldiers had drawn last night, determined the direction of St. James Street, and with head down, the high collar of his coat pulled up around his face, he quietly disappeared into the sea of people and animals.

He found the club on a small street directly behind St. James, just as the soldier said, and pushed open the heavy door.

An hour or so later, after a few well-crafted compliments, Liam and the anglicized Colonel MacDonnell were in a room with dark paneling and thickly padded leather chairs arranged in quiet groupings, enjoying a whiskey (for which the man wanted a full half crown), and reminiscing about the war. Rather, MacDonnell was reminiscing, as he liked to talk about himself. In an English accent, which really annoyed Liam.

"Ah, Waterloo…" He sighed after a time, and looked at something in the distance only he could see. "A bloody bad time, wasn't it? I despised sending so many men forward." He shook his head as he studied Liam. "Looks as if you saw your fair share of battle," he said, motioning to the scar on Liam's face. "You held a command, did you?"

No, Liam had not held a command, but had been commanded to the field many times to gain intelligence about the French and then assassinate them. "Aye," he said simply. "'Tis hard to speak of it," he said, and hoped to high heaven MacDonnell would drop it. Fortunately, a well-fed man in blue and gold superfine came rushing in at that moment.

"Ah, what have we here, MacDonnell? A countryman?" the man all but squealed in the exact same English tone as MacDonnell had affected.

"Lockhart. Served at Waterloo," MacDonnell said proudly.

"Captain Lockhart," Liam reminded him.

"Lockhart," the man repeated, and fairly bounced like a ball onto one of the leather seats. "I'm Lovat. Well, then? You've brought a plaid, have you? We have fourteen now, not counting your contribution."

He looked so terribly eager that Liam reluctantly reached for the knapsack at his feet. He had noticed the various squares of clan tartans on the wall, had hoped he would not be asked. Slowly, he opened the knapsack, pulled out his carefully folded plaid, which he would wear when the time came to complete his mission.

"Ooh," Lovat drooled. "It's the entire tartan, is it?" he asked, reaching for it. But Liam could hardly stomach the thought of these two men touching his plaid and instantly jerked it from Lovat's reach. Lovat reared back, blinking like a doe. Liam held up a finger to Lovat, silently telling him to wait, then leaned forward, extracted his sgian dubh from the top of his boot, ignoring the wide-eyed look of Lovat as he pressed the tip against the plaid. Gritting his teeth, for this act pained him greatly, Liam dragged the tip of the dagger across the fabric, cutting a small square from one corner, which he handed to Lovat as MacDonnell looked on admiringly.

"Ah, lovely," Lovat said. "Fine quality. Your contribution to our quest to preserve clan history is greatly appreciated, Mr. Lockhart."

"Captain," Liam muttered.

Lovat smiled, folded the square, and tucked it away in his coat pocket. "How long are you in London, then?" he asked amicably.

"Indefinitely."

"Taking up residence, are you? That makes, what, a dozen or more, does it not, MacDonnell?"

"A dozen?" Liam asked.

"Displaced Scots."

Why a Scot worth his salt would be displaced to London was something Liam could not fathom. He'd rather sail to America than be stuffed inside the bounds of London for all eternity. "Aye, that I am," he said on a weary sigh, trying very hard to sound displaced. "And ye'd be most kind if ye could direct me to lodging," he said. "I shouldna like a large place—something very simple would do."

"Lodging?" MacDonnell echoed. "Aren't there Lockharts in London? I'm certain I've heard the name. Perhaps you should seek quarters there?"

"Ah…no," he said carefully. "The Lockharts of London…well, my father, ye see, has had a bit of a falling-out with Uncle. I think it best if I billet nearby…but I'm no' a rich man."

Lovat and MacDonnell looked at him as if he had just announced he had developed leprosy.

"Ye understand… sheep," he said, by way of vague explanation.

"Aaah," they both declared in unison, nodding their heads in sympathy.

"Have ye any knowledge of a room or two for let, then?"

Lovat's brow wrinkled as he thought about it, but MacDonnell nodded thoughtfully. "There is one place…but really, I couldn't recommend it in good conscience."

Lovat looked at him questioningly.

"Farnsworth," MacDonnell said with a grimace.

"Egad!" Lovat exclaimed. "I can't say as I've met a tighter Englishman. And he's rather disagreeable, all in all, don't you think? Oh, I shouldn't recommend it, really, Captain. You'd do far better to present yourself to your uncle."

"I'm afraid that's no' possible. At least no' at the moment," Liam said, and sighed in an effort to demonstrate how deep the family feud ran.

MacDonnell considered him for a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose it's really not so bad as that, if you can stomach Farnsworth. He at least has the suite of rooms to let. And it's perfectly situated for town, I daresay, just there in Belgravia," he said, motioning toward the back wall. "Not the fashionable side of the square, but nonetheless…Really, you could do much worse, Captain, although you ought to clear it all up with your uncle."

"Yes, milord, that is me primary reason for coming to London," Liam quickly assured him.

"But still, Farnsworth is such a dour man," Lovat complained. "He's an eccentric old bird. He likes the gaming tables to be sure, but God forbid he should lay one single farthing of his own considerable funds on the table. He lets the suite and uses that income to feed his dreadful lust."

Ah… a pinchpenny with a nasty little habit. One who perhaps could be manipulated should the situation warrant. Liam bit back a smile—it sounded perfect. "Might I have the direction, then?" he asked pleasantly, and reached for the last of his whiskey.