I smiled at him, relieved to see it.

“You’re not angry?”

He shook his head, looking down to be sure that his feet were clear of my sweeping skirt.

“I have tried to teach John the things he should know as heir to Kilmarnock. In teaching him humility I seem to have signally failed; perhaps your servant may have had more success.”

“I suppose you didn’t whack him outside,” I said absently.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” I said flushing. “Look, is that Lochiel? I thought he was ill.”

Dancing required most of my breath, and Lord Kilmarnock appeared not to wish for conversation, so I had time to look around. Charles was not dancing; though he was a good dancer, and the young women of Edinburgh vied for his attentions, tonight he was thoroughly engrossed in the entertainment of his guest. I had seen a small cask with a Portuguese brand-mark burned into its side being rolled into the kitchens in the afternoon, and glasses of the ruby liquid kept reappearing by Don Francisco’s left hand as though by magic through the evening.

We crossed the path of Jamie, propelling one of the Misses Williams through the figures of the dance. There were three of them, nearly indistinguishable from one another – young, brown-haired, comely, and all “so terribly interested, Mr. Fraser, in this noble Cause.” They made me quite tired, but Jamie, ever the soul of patience, danced with them all, one by one, and answered the same silly questions over and over.

“Well, it’s a change for them to get out, poor things,” he explained kindly. “And their father’s a rich merchant, so His Highness would like to encourage the sympathy of the family.”

The Miss Williams with him looked enthralled, and I wondered darkly just how encouraging he was being. Then my attention shifted, as Balmerino danced by with Lord George Murray’s wife. I saw the Murrays exchange affectionate glances as they passed, he with another of the Misses Williams, and felt mildly ashamed of my noticing who Jamie danced with.

Not surprisingly, Colum wasn’t at the ball. I wondered whether he had had a chance to speak to Charles beforehand, but decided probably not; Charles looked much too cheerful and animated to have been the recipient of bad news anytime recently.

At one side of the Gallery, I caught sight of two stocky figures, almost identical in uncomfortable and unaccustomed formal dress. It was John Simpson, Master of the Swordmakers Guild of Glasgow, and his son, also John Simpson. Arrived earlier in the week to present His Highness with one of the magnificent basket-hilted broadswords for which they were famed throughout Scotland, the two artisans had plainly been invited tonight to show Don Francisco the depth of support that the Stuarts enjoyed.

Both men had thick, dark hair and beards, lightly frosted with gray. Simpson senior was salt with a sprinkle of pepper, while Simpson junior gave the impression of a dark hillside with a rim of snow crusted lightly round its frostline, white hairs confined to the temples and upper cheeks. As I watched, the older swordmaker poked his son sharply in the back and nodded with significance toward one of the merchants’ daughters, hovering near the edge of the floor under her father’s protection.

Simpson junior gave his father a skeptical glance, but then shrugged, stepped out, and offered his arm with a bow to the third Miss Williams.

I watched with amusement and fascination as they whirled out into the steps of the dance, for Jamie, who had met the Simpsons earlier, had told me that Simpson junior was quite deaf.

“From all the hammering at the forge, I should think,” he had said, showing me with pride the beautiful sword he had bought from the artisans. “Deaf as a stone; his father does the talkin’, but the young one sees everything.”

I saw the sharp dark eyes flick rapidly across the floor now, judging to a nicety the distance from one couple to the next. The young swordmaster trod a little heavily, but kept the measure of the dance well enough – at least as well as I did. Closing my eyes, I felt the thrum of the music vibrating through the wooden floor, from the cellos resting on it, and assumed that was what he followed. Then, opening my eyes so as not to crash into anyone, I saw Junior wince at a screeching miscue among the violins. Perhaps he did hear some sounds, then.

The circling of the dancers brought Kilmarnock and myself close to the place where Charles and Don Francisco stood, warming their coattails before the huge, tile-lined fireplace. To my surprise, Charles scowled at me over Don Francisco’s shoulder, motioning me away with a surreptitious movement of one hand. Seeing it as we turned, Kilmarnock gave a short laugh.

“So His Highness is afraid to have you introduced to the Spaniard!” he said.

“Really?” I looked back over my shoulder as we whirled away, but Charles had returned to his conversation, waving his hands with expressive Italian gestures as he talked.

“I expect so.” Lord Kilmarnock danced skillfully, and I was beginning to relax enough to be able to speak, without worrying incessantly about tripping over my skirts.

“Did you see that silly broadsheet Balmerino was showing everyone?” he asked, and when I nodded, went on, “I imagine His Highness saw it, too. And the Spanish are sufficiently superstitious to be ridiculously sensitive to idiocies of that sort. No person of sense or breeding could take such a thing seriously,” he assured me, “but no doubt His Highness thinks it best to be safe. Spanish gold is worth a considerable sacrifice, after all,” he added. Apparently including the sacrifice of his own pride; Charles still treated the Scottish earls and the Highland chieftains like beggars at his table, though they had at least been invited to the festivities tonight – no doubt to impress Don Francisco.

“Have you noticed the pictures?” I asked, wanting to change the subject. There were more than a hundred of them lining the walls of the Great Gallery, all portraits, all of kings and queens. And all with a most striking similarity.

“Oh, the nose?” he said, an amused smile replacing the grim expression that had taken possession of his face at sight of Charles and the Spaniard. “Yes, of course. Do you know the story behind it?”

The portraits, it seemed, were all the work of a single painter, one Jacob DeWitt, who had been commissioned by Charles II, upon that worthy’s restoration, to produce portraits of all the King’s ancestors, from the time of Robert the Bruce onward.

“To assure everyone of the ancientness of his lineage, and the entire appropriateness of his restoration,” Kilmarnock explained, a wry twist to his mouth. “I wonder if King James will undertake a similar project when he regains the throne?”

In any case, he continued, DeWitt had painted furiously, completing one portrait every two weeks in order to comply with the monarch’s demand. The difficulty, of course, was that DeWitt had no way of knowing what Charles’s ancestors had actually looked like, and had therefore used as sitters anyone he could drag into his studio, merely equipping each portrait with the same prominent nose, by way of ensuring a family resemblance.

“That’s King Charles himself,” Kilmarnock said, nodding at a full-length portrait, resplendent in red velvet and plumed hat. He cast a critical glance at the younger Charles, whose flushed face gave evidence that he had been hospitably keeping his guest company in his potations.

“A better nose, anyway,” the Earl murmured, as though to himself. “His mother was Polish.”

It was growing late, and the candles in the silver candelabra were beginning to gutter and go out before the gentlefolk of Edinburgh had had their fill of wine and dancing. Don Francisco, possibly not as accustomed as Charles to unrestrained drinking, was nodding into his ruff.

Jamie, having with an obvious expression of relief restored the last Miss Williams to her father for the journey home, came to join me in the corner where I had found a seat that enabled me to slip off my shoes under cover of my spreading skirts. I hoped I wouldn’t have to put them on again in a hurry.