“Queens County.”

“Long Island? You don’t have the accent. And I should know, for I did spend some years in the Americas. My Violet, here, was born at Philadelphia.”

My turn to smile. “If you’ll allow, she does not have the accent, either.”

Dr. Young said, “I should hope not. There is a community of Scots at Philadelphia, and we kept close amongst ourselves, so she was raised with others who spoke properly.” Leaning back to let the servant clear his first course plate, he asked me, curious, “Were you born at New York?”

I shook my head. “Here in Scotland. The Williamsons have long roots in Kirkcaldy.”

“Fifeshire.” He’d been there. “It has a good harbor, though I cannot fault your parents for believing the Americas would offer them a brighter shore.” He paused, then asked, “Are they yet living?”

“No.”

Violet Young said, “I am sorry.”

I thanked her, grateful for the distraction of the second course now being served that let me focus my attention elsewhere for a moment.

Her father asked, “What did become of their property, then, in Queens County? Did you inherit?”

It was a blunt question. I had to decide how to answer. “There was little left to inherit, sir. A simple house and barn, and both destroyed.”

“But surely land remains,” he said. As proof, he gestured to the windows and the vista of the gardens with the rise of Arthur’s Seat beyond. “And every house can be rebuilt. What happened to your own?”

“A fire.” I owed him no more details, though because he seemed to wait for more, I did allow, “I was not there. I was then fighting under Captain Schuyler on his expedition to engage the French in Canada.”

The doctor looked impressed. “A brave venture. Though I do confess, had you been my son, I’d have hired a servant to fight in your place.”

I noted the lace at his cuffs and the fine cloth that covered his buttons, and called to mind all the men like him I’d known in my life who played carelessly with the lives of those beneath them.

Forcing a tight smile, I answered, “If I’d been your son, sir, I would have refused such an offer.”

He looked startled, then smiled in return. “Good man.” Looking to Violet, he said, “What we have here, my dear, is a man of honor. A rare thing to find these days, in any company.”

On that point I agreed with him, for when the meal was over and the ladies had departed to the drawing room, my own impression was that honor seemed distinctly lacking in the men remaining at the table, who soon turned their cutting talk to politics.

I’d not have trusted any of them, and since I was wary of the reason why I’d been invited, I stayed silent, drank my wine, and used the time to make a study of the Earl of Seafield.

He wore a fair, long wig that would have met with Helen’s sure approval, being of the very latest fashion. If I’d had to judge his age, I would have put him ten years older than myself, approaching his midforties, with an elegance of dress and movement that belied his friendliness of manner. As a host, he had that quality of setting all his guests at ease and making them feel they were on his level, which undoubtedly some were, but I suspected it was also something he had learned to do throughout his long years in the government. He had survived the revolution and switched sides to serve King William and now served Queen Anne as chancellor for Scotland, which position—from my understanding—put him at the head of all our nation’s law, above all other officers of state. A man did not accomplish that without becoming skilled at learning how to handle other men.