Starry Knight (22 page)

“That sounds great.”

“Afterward, if you’re not too tired, I’ll take you to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. Just for fun.”

She shot him a puzzled look. “Why a blacksmith shop?”

“It’s a bar, Miss Bentley,” he said with a good-natured laugh. “The oldest in the city and a local institution. The pirate brothers Jean and Pierre Lafitte used it as a front for their more nefarious pursuits. Since the forties it’s been a popular watering hole for locals, tourists, and even some celebrities. Tennessee Williams, for one, used to hang out there.”

“Really? Wow.” She was genuinely impressed.

“How’s tomorrow night sound?”

“Tomorrow sounds fine,” she told him—as long as she could feed tonight as Nala. The thought of hunting alone in a creepy swamp filled with crocodiles didn’t thrill her, but it sure beat the alternative.

* * * *

The next morning, Callum found himself amid a crush of bodies as he waited to board the tube to Victoria Station. Ten minutes later, the Underground train came barreling up and screeched to a stop. As the doors opened with a pneumatic whoosh, the human current pushed forward, carrying him along with it.

At Victoria Station, the flow carried him out again. As the throng moved toward the exit, it diluted into a trickle. He rechecked his watch, glad to see it was only half past eleven. There was still plenty of time to walk to the exclusive gentleman’s club where he’d be lunching with Vanessa’s father.

Callum ambled outside, surprised to find a chill in the air. June was usually warmer. He headed south toward Buckingham Palace. As he strolled, a fierce wind from the Thames cut like a knife through the conservative black suit he’d purchased at Selfridge’s yesterday to make a good impression. Luckily, it didn’t need any alterations.

When he reached the appointed meeting place, a few blocks from the Houses of Parliament, he headed straight for the lounge, nabbed a choice spot near the crackling fire, and ordered a pot of Earl Grey to warm his cockles. As he poured himself a cup, the peppery citrus scent of bergamot filled his nostrils.

Sipping his tea, he glanced around the room. He’d been there before, though not since his last foray into politics, back when Victoria was on the throne and Lord Melbourne was prime minister. Back then, this was the place where deals were forged and alliances cemented over heated debate, whisky, and cards. It had been the last time the stars shone favorably on Scotland’s bid for independence, though not favorably enough, as it turned out.

The club itself had changed remarkably little. Still the same tawny oak paneling, stodgy furniture, and stuffy aristocrats hiding from their mistresses and wives. Still the same comingled aromas of stale smoke, timeworn leather, and furniture polish. Still so bloody English, sexist, and elitist it set his teeth on edge.

Callum refilled his cup, looking up in time to see Lord Bentley coming through the door. Tall and trim with graying hair, the earl looked commanding in a double-breasted charcoal suit.

The earl was an Aries—Callum did his homework to prepare for the meeting—which made the man smart, passionate, bold, confident, and idealistic, but also maddeningly intolerant, thoughtless, selfish, and demanding when he didn’t get his way.

As the Englishman drew closer, Callum stood, pasted on a smile, and extended his hand. What did Vanessa hope the meeting might accomplish? Was her real agenda political or personal? If personal, he doubted her father would be pleased. A longhaired political astrologer and Scottish nationalist was probably not what he had in mind for his only daughter.

“You must be Lord Lyon.” He shook Callum’s hand with vigor. “I’m William Bentley. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thanks awfully for coming all this way.”

“Thanks for the invite,” the Scot replied, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “It’s good to make your acquaintance, your lordship.” Callum reclaimed his seat and reached for the pot on the table. “Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

“Tea?” Lord Bentley scowled in distaste. “Last time I checked, the club still had a bar.”

Callum licked his lips. He could use a drink to take the edge off his nerves. He would have ordered one had he not feared making a poor impression. He wasn’t about to reinforce the stereotype that Highlanders were a bunch of sheep-shagging, whisky-swilling savages. “I thought it a wee bit early for—”

Bentley’s jovial chuckle cut him off. “Nonsense, the sun’s over the yard arm, isn’t it?” Turning, he motioned for a waiter. “What’s your poison, Lyon?”

“Oban, if they’ve got it.”

“Ah, single malt. The Scotsman’s water of life. I might have known.”

Callum cringed at the condescending tone of voice and thanked the stars he’d had the good sense not to wear a kilt.

The waiter hurried over and Lord Bentley hastened to order for them both. “I’ll have a gin and tonic—Magellan, please. With a squeeze of lemon. And my young friend here will have a pour of Oban.”

Young friend? Callum fought the smile threatening to sprout. What might the man say if he knew the youthful-looking Scot beside him had once been an adviser to King James IV? Not that he planned to disclose as much.

The waiter shifted his gaze to Callum. “How old, sir?”

The Scot coughed. It took him a moment to realize the waiter meant not his age but the vintage he preferred.

“The fifteen will do.”

The waiter bowed and left.

Bentley took the chair opposite and set his hands on the table. Callum took in every clue in view. The gentleman’s hands were frail, long-fingered, and splattered with liver spots. Expensive-looking links secured the French cuffs peeking out from under the sleeves of his bespoke suit.

Looking up, Callum found his subject studying him in return. “My daughter must think highly of you, Lord Lyon. I believe you’re the first of her chaps to warrant an introduction.”

Before Callum could offer a response, the waiter arrived with their drinks, set them down, and left. Lifting the glass to his nose, Callum drew the sharp, smoky aroma into his nostrils.

“Aye, well. What can I say except that I’m flattered by her regard and your willingness to take time out of your busy schedule to take this meeting?”

“She tells me you live in Caithness, in a castle, and that you’re friends with Duncan Faol, the national party adviser.”

Callum took a tidy sip of Oban. “Guilty as charged on all counts.”

“She also tells me you’re considering running for the seat now occupied by Alasdair Sinclair.”

“Also true, though I’m still weighing the pros and cons.”

Lord Bentley looked away, his jaw tightening, and shook his glass. “One of the cons, I should think, if you’re serious about my daughter, is that she’s now living in the United States.” He turned back to Callum, meeting his gaze. “If you should decide to run and win the seat, your relationship with her will be intercontinental at best. At least while the House is in session. Have you considered that?”

“Aye, sir. And you’re right. It’s one of the drawbacks.”

Lord Bentley shook the ice in his otherwise empty glass to summon the waiter. “She sang your praises to me and insisted I throw my full weight behind your candidacy.”

Callum’s interest was piqued. “What did she say about me, if I may be so bold?”

“Well,” Bentley began, licking his lips, “she said you’re progressive, liberal-minded, trustworthy, loyal, and that your heart’s in the right place. You might think about cutting your hair, but otherwise, you seem ideal. With little effort, you could take the seat in a walk.”

Though flattering enough, Bentley’s description caught in Callum’s craw. “With all due respect, you make me sound like a lap dog, which, I assure you, is not the case. Nor do I have the slightest interest in becoming one, however noble the cause.”

Lord Bentley fixed him with a long, steady gaze. “I understand your concerns, Lord Lyon. But you’re only a yes-man if your actions and beliefs are in conflict. Isn’t that right?”

“Aye. I suppose so.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

The waiter brought another round. Callum picked up his and took a sip while considering what to say next. He was getting the distinct impression Lord Bentley was as keen on Callum running for the seat as Vanessa was. “Your daughter aside, why do you want me to run?”

The politician smiled over the rim of his glass. “Because I’d much rather have a liberal fill the seat than see it claimed by another conservative, especially a party yes-man like Sinclair. And, judging by what I’ve learned of you since speaking with my daughter, you’ll do the job as creditably as anyone I could dig up on short notice.” Holding Callum’s gaze, the earl sipped his drink and licked his lips. “The question is, can you get behind the party’s platform wholeheartedly?”

Drawing a calming breath, Callum called to mind the party’s main tenets—equal rights for women and minorities, freedom for all from poverty and subjugation, educational opportunity, fair housing, and environmental safeguards.

“Aye.” The Scot nodded. “For the most part.”

The earl’s eyebrows shot up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is,” Callum returned, eyes narrowing, “I have no desire to step into the spotlight. I’m mostly content with my life as it is.”

“Even if a little bit of change and discomfort on your part could help make things better? Not only for yourself, but for the entire United Kingdom?”

Callum bristled at the phrase “United Kingdom,” a union he’d hoped would be dissolved long before now. “With all due respect, I’m not all that sure the world can change. Not until people do, anyway. From what I’ve observed, humanity has remained tragically consistent since the dawn of time. The whole of history is an endless cycle of selfishness, cruelty, and a total disregard for the welfare of others. Not to mention, the good of the planet.”

Lord Bentley sighed and shook his head. “You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen more than my fair share of humanity’s foibles.”

The earl sipped his drink before clearing his throat. “If I can be candid, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came here today. My Nessa, you see, takes delight in shocking me, among others. And, when I walked in and saw all the hair, well, I thought she was up to her old tricks.”

“And now you don’t?”

“No.” Bentley downed the last of his cocktail, ice clinking. “I now see why she called me. And, should you decide to run, I’ll jolly well back you.” A gleam backlit the earl’s eyes as he added, “Provided you promise to visit a barber before you announce your intention to run.”

Lord Bentley must have gotten wind of Callum’s nationalist leanings because he’d invited Walter Mackintosh to join them for lunch. Mackintosh, another Scottish Member of Parliament, opposed the dissolution of the UK.

A tall man of slender build with steel-rimmed glasses, thin lips, and receding ginger hair, Mackintosh had sweaty palms but a firm handshake.

“Lord Lyon is thinking of running for Sinclair’s seat in Caithness,” Lord Bentley said by way of introduction. “He’s one of us, but I’m given to understand he disagrees with the popular vote on the question of Scotland’s independence.”

Callum glowered at Vanessa’s father. “Tell me something, your lordship. Do you change parties every time a Tory takes up residence at Number Ten Downing Street?”

“Point taken,” Lord Bentley conceded with a smirk.

Mackintosh gave Callum the hard once-over. “We’re elected by the people and the people have made their wishes clear.”

“Aye,” Callum said with a sneer. “As clear as the tainted Sassenach Kool-Aid they’ve been drinking by the barrel.”

“Be that as it may.” Mackintosh cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “Why rock the boat, Lord Lyon? I say better to leave well enough alone.”

Bitterness churned in Callum’s gut. He’d been born in a free Scotland and wouldn’t rest until independence was restored. It galled him no end that, after centuries of bloody struggle, the Scottish people gave up their chance to be free of English control not on the battlefield, but in the voting booth.

“With all due respect, sir,” Callum returned with a leer, “we’re a long way yet from well enough.”

“I disagree,” the other Scot countered. “The economy’s recovering and unemployment is down
, thanks in large part to the bailouts of the English banks. Where would Scotland be now if not for England? How is she supposed to compete in the global economy?”

“There’s a strong market for whisky,” Callum pointed out, “and if we could retain a mere fraction of the revenues from North Sea drilling, and invest in sovereign wealth funds the way Norway does—”

Lord Bentley cleared his throat, cutting Callum off before he could put forward his argument for Norway’s approach. “Shall we continue this discussion over lunch? If we wait much longer, we risk losing the table I’ve reserved.”

Getting to his feet with the other gentlemen, Callum followed his hosts through a doorway and across the stuffy dining room to a table set for four. The two parliamentarians sat side-by-side on the side nearest the wall while Callum claimed the chair opposite Mackintosh, eager to continue their discussion.

Waiting until his sparring partner looked his way, Callum said, “Have you read Gavin McCrone’s report on the oil revenue? He says North Sea oil could make Scotland as rich as Switzerland. He also says an oil boom could make Scotland’s budget surplus so large as to be ‘embarrassing,’ that our currency ‘would become one of the hardest in Europe,’ and that our wealth would soon outstrip England’s.”

Mackintosh looked from Callum to Lord Bentley and back again. “What report is this?”

“It was presented to the cabinet office forty years ago,” Callum explained, “before being buried in a vault, never to be seen again.”

Mackintosh shot a glance at Lord Bentley, who’d been listening while perusing the menu. “Why have I not heard of this until now?”

Before Bentley could say anything, Callum leaned closer and licked his lips, eager for the kill. “The vote doesn’t change the fact that Scotland is the put-upon wife in this marriage. As her friend, I see it as my duty to advise the poor lass to reconsider divorce when she has all the facts.”