In the play of light outside the entry, it was easy to imagine phantoms of another age—a small lass wrapped within her plaid against the cold, her face upturned in earnest conversation with the captain of the old town guard.

I passed them by, and went inside.

Gilroy was waiting for me at a table in the farther corner. He was not alone.

The man who sat beside him, of an age to be my father, had a sharply featured face that made a contrast to his friendly manner.

Gilroy made the introductions and said drily, “Dr. Pitcairn is certain I’m holding some secret and thinks that this claret will loosen my tongue.”

The older man promised, “It is an exceptional claret.” He called for another pint, and filled a cup for me. “At least in here we still have our Scots measurements, although the terms of Union soon will take those, too, to please the English. Fools. It takes three English pints to fill a Scots one. The commissioners would do much better to increase the size of English pints than to shrink ours.”

I did not know how long they had been sitting here, but Scots pints notwithstanding, Gilroy seemed to be resisting all attempts to make him drunk. He sat casually, but kept the same expression that he always held.

In level tones he told the doctor, “Even if I had a secret, I would hardly tell you here. These walls have ears.”

“And all of them connected to His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton. I do agree. But surely, since he is the leader of our side, he would already know the details of the planned invasion, so to him it would not be a secret, therefore you may freely tell me what you know.” Having thus set down his train of logic, Dr. Pitcairn settled back and helped himself to bread and cheese from the broad platter set between us.

Gilroy’s glance had touched me when the doctor spoke the word “invasion,” but there’d have been no reaction on my face for him to see. I reasoned Dr. Pitcairn was referring to the same Jacobite plot I’d heard discussed at dinner earlier today at Lord Seafield’s table—a proposed invasion that would bring their young James Stewart, living in his shadow court in exile outside Paris, back to Scotland in an effort to reclaim his throne. I also reasoned that the doctor, and most likely Gilroy, too, were Jacobites, from this exchange.

But it was not my business. Merely something to take note of, nothing more.

I drank my wine. The claret was, in truth, exceptional.

The doctor smiled at Gilroy’s stubborn silence. “I should hope, at least, Lord Grange will stand on the right side of the occasion when the moment comes. He is not like his brother, who stands always where the wind will blow most fair.”

“I do not know the mind of either man,” said Gilroy, “for I am not paid to know their thoughts.”