“Surely you are mistaken, my Lord. This gentleman and I have met before, and I think his name is Brown.”
Macdonald laughed a little sheepishly. “The air of London is not just exactly healthy for Highland Jacobite gentlemen at present. I wouldna wonder but one might catch the scarlet fever gin he werena carefu’, so I just took a change of names for a bit while.”
“You did not disguise the Highland slogan you flung out last night,” I laughed.
“Did I cry it?” he asked. “It would be just from habit then. I didna ken that I opened my mouth.” Then he turned to my affairs. “And I suppose you will be for striking a blow for the cause like the rest of us. Well then, the sooner the better. I am fair wearying for a certain day that is near at hand.”
With which he began to hum “The King shall have his own again.”
I flushed, and boggled at the “No!” that stuck in my throat. Creagh, standing near, slewed round his head at the word.
“Eh, what’s that? Say that again, Montagu!”
I took the bull by the horns and answered bluntly, “There has been a mistake made. George is a good enough king for me.”
I saw Macdonald stiffen, and angry amazement leap to the eyes of the two Irishmen.
“’Sblood! What the devil! Why are you here then?” cried Creagh.