The candle-light gleamed softly on the round arms and bare shoulders of the women as they passed between their partners and courtesied, each reflected in the long mirrors lining the room, so that three Lady Stairs appeared to be dancing, one in profile, one full face, one with her back, all clad in satin that caught rippling lights and gleaming shadows, all smiling, faintly.
Lord Stair spoke at length.
“My letters—that I wrote at the time of this affair—you kept them?”
“They were vera imprudent—yes, I kept them.”
Lord Stair lifted his blue eyes; they were dark, a little troubled.
“You can give them back to me, my lord, there is no need for them to serve Tweeddale’s turn.”
The music crashed to its climax; the three Lady Stair’s advanced, receded, bowed with the glittering shaking of a cloud of gold embroideries.
“Send me those letters,” repeated Lord Stair. “I shall be obliged, my lord.”
A curious look passed over Breadalbane’s face.
“They are nae langer in my possession.”