“The malice of the Jacks,” suggested Lord Stair with a smile.
“It’s mair than that, my lord—is this story that makes England and France shout shame on us and the mob pelt us as we pass, a mere invention of the Jacks? Ye hae a bitter secret enemy—my lord—canna ye guess at one wha might do this thing?”
Lord Stair dragged the pilfered rose across the table, leaving the gold pollen dust staining the inlaid wood; he still smiled.
“I know of none—my enemies are numerous—but not—my lord, secret.”
The violins commenced a gavotte. Lady Stair crossed the floor, Mr. Wharton was her partner; her husband looked at them and reflected that Mr. Wharton was too often in Edinburgh; these three years had not softened his dislike of the good-humored beau.
Breadalbane spoke again.
“Ye are mistaken—the maist deadly of your enemies is the hidden one wha hae trumped up this tale.”
“Maybe it is an enemy of your own,” answered Lord Stair. “Maybe you, my lord, are the object of this spite.”
“It is na directed against me—if I fall it will be only in complication wi’ ye—they hav’na’ mentioned me—it is always ye, Lord Stair.”
A little silence fell; no voices broke the spirited measure of the gavotte; Lord Stair trifled lazily with the ruined rose; Breadalbane watched him covertly.