“They say the Duchess gave aid to three thousand people on her estate,” Mrs. Grayson interjected in a mocking voice.
“Three thousand?” Kiernan repeated. “Kind of her, considering she’s likely displaced that many this year alone—despite her advanced age.”
Mrs. Grayson snorted. “More like ten times that many.”
“Ah, Bridget, perhaps not quite so many?”
“It might as well have been,” she answered in a lofty tone, “for all the damage she caused.”
“True,” he agreed.
“Duchess?” Heddy asked.
“The Duchess of Sutherland,” he said.
“She displaced these people? Then the famine isn't the cause of their plight?”
“The famine is the final nail in the coffin. The real cause is the clearances.”
“Clearances?” Heddy repeated. “I've heard the word bantered about, mostly as propaganda voiced by elders not in favor of progress. I understood the changes in Scotland were for the better.”
“For the noblemen," he replied. "For the tenants who have been farming the land for generations, the switch to cattle ranching has meant eviction, homelessness, and starvation. The duchess has been clearing her land for years and, though she alone can't be blamed—the Morenish and Breadalbane evictions are just as terrible—she has displaced nearly fifteen thousand Highlanders.”
“By heavens,” Heddy said. “I can see why the three thousand she aided is paltry in comparison. Why is she doing this?”
Kiernan gave a wry smile. “The most common reason.” Heddy gave him a questioning look, and he said, “Money.”
*****
Phoebe waited until the occupants of the Green Lady Inn had retired for the night before stealing to Kiernan MacGregor’s room, a taper in hand. A clock inside the room struck a muffled gong. She waited until ten more gongs sounded and the room fell silent before tapping lightly on his door. As hoped, silence followed. If her instincts were correct, Kiernan was checking on Alan Hay. Earlier, when the strangers arrived, there had been no mistaking Kiernan’s curt remarks. He clearly didn't trust Alan Hay.
She knocked again. When no answer came, she turned the knob and eased open the door. Silence. Phoebe stepped inside and clicked the door shut behind her. She lifted the candle and scanned the room. An empty bed sat against the far wall and a chair and small desk were located in the far right hand corner. Her gaze caught on the single letter lying on the desk. Was that the letter from Clachair that Davis had given him?
When Davis handed Kiernan the letter and said it was from Clachair, she recalled four years ago, reading a notice in the paper about a five thousand pound government bounty on a man with the unusual name. The likelihood of the wanted man being the man who'd written the letter was slim, but this was just the sort of information she was obliged to investigation. Phoebe hurried to the desk and picked up the envelope.
A thrill raced through her. Was this how her father felt when he investigated Arthur Thistlewood? For the first time since she had agreed to spy for Great Britain, Phoebe felt the kinship with her father she had always sought. They hadn’t shared their lives, but they shared patriotic passion. The exhilaration was replaced by unexpected regret. If this Clachair was the man wanted by the government, that meant Kiernan MacGregor was himself a criminal. By heavens, she hadn't liked any of the criminals she'd come in contact with—hadn't considered the possibility she could like any of them. But then, Kiernan MacGregor wasn't like Lord Capell, who sold women, or Lord Wallace, who would sell his Parliament vote to the highest bidder. Phoebe suddenly wished she knew nothing of the letter. But she did. She withdrew the single piece of paper from the envelope and read.
Dear Kiernan,
All is well here. I received the writing paper you sent. As always, your generosity comes at the most opportune time. I have distributed the paper amongst my students. They shall make good use of it. Thank you for thinking of us. I look forward to seeing you when next you come north.
Clachair
There was nothing the least bit suspicious about the letter, and Kiernan had left it in plain sight. Tension eased within her as she slipped the letter back into the envelope, then placed it back on the desk. How many times would she suspect a man of criminal activities and find out she was wrong? Not many she feared.