A cold wind blew fiercely through the streets scattering raindrops, as the gray dreary day deepened into the greater gloom of approaching night. An old woman, bent almost double, fought her way against the wind and others shivering, huddled deeper into their clothes and hastened towards their destinations.

A tall thin man strode purposefully down St. James Street seemingly unaware of the weather or the approaching darkness. He turned off St. James and continued down a darkened side street where he stopped and stared up at a narrow house. The moon, peeping out between some scattering clouds, briefly illuminated its peeling paint and shuttered windows, before promptly disappearing again.

What he saw seemed to satisfy him as he continued towards the door. He dipped into his pocket, pulled out a key and unlocked the door with a soft click; the well-oiled door opened without a sound. Inside the darkened hallway, he softly closed and locked the door and made his way towards the staircase. He ran lightly up the stairs, remembering to skip the squeaky one. At the top of the stairs he made his way towards a pool of light spilling from a half-open door.

Inside the room, a woman lounged on a sofa toying with a cut crystal container. Her glossy black hair lay loose and curling upon her lacy negligee.

"Ah, Cecily, my dear. Boredom already?"

Cecily gave a great start and almost dropped the crystal decanter she was holding. "Damn you! You almost made me drop this bottle, and I know you wouldn't want all my efforts on your behalf to go to waste." She waved the bottle in his direction.

"It is done?"

"Yes, it is ready and I am sure it will be as effective as you could wish."

He held out his hand and Cecily rose sinuously from the couch and glided towards him, holding out the bottle. He grabbed the bottle and held it toward the light where a deep rich amethyst glowed from its inky depths.

"Your knowledge of poisons and potions almost makes you worth your weight in gold," he paused, looking from the bottle towards Cecily and saw greed fight desire in her eyes. "Almost... but not quite." He laughed and pocketed the bottle.

"The one thing I like about you, my dear, is you are so blatantly honest in your desire for riches."

Cecily reached up to draw him towards to her, but he held her off with one hand.

"Not so fast, business first." He sat Cecily on one end of the sofa and went to the sideboard, picked up the wine decanter and raised an eyebrow towards her. She nodded and he poured two glasses of wine, he handed one to her and took a seat at the other end of the sofa. "About your cousin, Rosamund, Rosalyn, whatever her name is."

"Yes? Rosemary."

"Ah, yes, Rosemary. You've handled all the details regarding that matter, have you not? I don't want any mishaps this time."

"I handled all the details myself. It was fortunate that Robert Carlyle was killed in the massacre," responded Cecily sipping her wine.

"Yes, that was fortunate. When is she expected to arrive from India?"

She sailed on the Star of India which is expected to arrive any day." A bark of laughter answered her.

"The Star of India? I almost suspect you of a touch of irony, Cecily." Cecily smiled and continued her recital.

"Rosemary was so pathetically grateful to hear from her family. She doesn't understand why Anne has never answered her letters, she's written several times to inform Anne of Robert's death. Her letters are in my desk, by the way; as well as the ones Anne has written to her." A catlike smile curved Cecily's lips as she contemplated all the havoc she had caused. "I contacted Rosemary myself, and gently hinted that Anne married a Marquis and wants nothing to do with her less well to do relatives. She had planned on arriving in England and staying with Anne until she untangled her affairs. I proposed an alternative scheme."

"You are sure Rosemary won't try to contact Anne?"

"I am an expert on this type of thing, I am sure of it. I laid the groundwork well."

"Excellent. And Anne..."

"She won't even know Rosemary is in England. She and James have been living quite retired lately." Cecily stretched langorously and continued, "Are things progressing as planned on your end... General?"

He tossed off his wine and stretched his hand towards Cecily. She rose and settled herself on his knee. "They are proceeding as planned. Business is finished, I have other things to discuss." His head bent towards hers.

Dr. Alistair Erskyn rode to the top of the rise and surveyed his estate. Situated in the Scottish Highlands near Midculter, it was a small but neatish property with a manor house, stables, and home farm; everything needed to make his life there comfortable.

It had been several years since he had been here. Prior to the uprising he used to come here with his twin brother Alex, and their friends Gareth Cave and Kenneth, Lord Dunnett because the hunting and fishing were always better here than at Erskyn Hall. His happiest memories were of times he had spent here and memories were all he had left of his previous life. Now he was a disgraced, cashiered military surgeon who had been hounded out of Edinburgh.

Alistair spurred his horse and headed towards the manor house. Upon his arrival, the front door opened and Tibbits, the caretaker was there to welcome him. He removed the saddlebags from his horse and entered the house.

"Tis good to see ye home again where ye belong, Sir. An' may I say, Mrs. Tibbit's will also be happy ye're home. We've kept the house ready in case ye ever took it into ye head to stop by."

"Thank you Tibbits. I am sure eveything will be fine, give my best to Mrs. Tibbits and please bring the brandy decanter to the library."

Alistair entered his bedchamber and tossed his saddlebags onto the bed. He opened them to begin unpacking. As he reached into the bag, his hand encountered a strange object. He grasped the object in his hand and withdrew it from his saddlebag. As he opened his hand he saw a large deep green emerald gleaming in the light from the bedchamber window.

Erskyn stared into the glowing green depths of the flawless emerald. He saw no beauty in its perfection. The foul stench of rotting hay combined with the metallic odor of blood seemed to permeate the master bedroom. He could hear the screams of a woman and his own calm voice, a million miles away. "Almost, Lassie! The babe is almost here. Soon you'll be holding your own fine, strong bairn." When the baby finally made its appearance, its indignant but healthy squalling sounded like music to his ears after the hoarse screams of the exhausted mother. She held her wee one and smiled at Erskyn, but the dead whiteness of her face told him no power on earth could help her. He steadied the baby's head as, with one last painful breath she spoke, her whispered words committing him to the course of action that had led him...

A knock on the door roused him. Furious at himself for continuing to dwell on the past he barked out, "Devil take it! I came back home for a little peace!" He strode to the door, and flung it open, roaring, "I said I wanted the brandy in the library. A simple enough request, is it not?" Oddly enough the yelling, completely unjustified as it was, felt good. He opened his mouth to blast poor Tibbits further when the heavy paneled door rebounded off the wall and bumped Erskyn's back, almost knocking him into Tibbits.

Tibbit was not impressed by Erskyn's pyrotechnics. "Aye, sir," he spoke amiably, "Well if you want to face Mrs. Tibbits without fortification that is up to you sir, I'm sure. Only I thought it only fair to warn you she is on her way up right now. And she is muttering beneath her breath fit to shame the devil."

Erskyn paused. Tibby muttering was always a bad sign. Without a word he snatched the flask out of Tibbit's hand and slammed the door. He abruptly jerked it open again. Tibbits was still standing there grinning affably.

"Thank you, Tibbits, for the brandy and the warning." growled Erskyn and slammed the door again.

He had only made it to the washstand to pour himself a tot when an even louder knock on the door startled him into spilling his libation down the front of his lawn shirt.

This seemed as good a time as any to utilize the words he learned from the cavalry men during the Uprising. He was still cursing as the door opened.

"Master Alistair! A fine way to talk, and you only home a few minutes," scolded the diminutive, white haired lady who had entered without waiting for an invitation.

"Tibby," said Erskyn eyeing her uneasily. He had hoped to get the full effect of the brandy before this interview. She looked the same; perhaps the soft hair was a little whiter, and the neat figure a little plumper, but the fire in her eyes was certainly stronger, stronger even than the time she caught him licking the jam out of all the tarts she had made especially for the minister's visit. Erskyn suddenly felt as guilty as he had that day at age six.

She brushed past him, making the tsk tsking sounds that seemed to be obligatory for all nannies and housekeepers in the British Isles. "Mud all over the floor, wet saddle bags soaking the bedcover, I can live with, but profanity I will not allow."

She shook out his riding cloak, which he had tossed over a bust of Hippocrates, each shake of the cloak emphasizing her speech, which she seemed to be addressing to the solemn Greek.

"Back home again!" (Flap! went the cloak). "After setting Edinburgh on its ear!" (Flap!) "Straight up to his room without so much as a "Good day, Tibby!" (FLAP!) "All manner of cursing coming from the room your saintly mother drew her last breath in!" (Flap!) What would she have said of your doings with Lady Sylvia, I'd like to know." At the words "Lady Sylvia," Tibby flapped the cloak so vigorously its corner caught Erskyn in the eye. He involuntarily flung his hand up and the emerald, which he had kept balled in his fist fell to the floor where it lay reflecting the last beams on the afternoon sun.

Tibby pounced on the emerald. "Oh, and is this a fine gewgaw for that hussy? For shame Master Alistair!"

Erskyn, his hand over his stinging eye, had had enough. Tibby had been the lady who had taught him his letters, scolded him for teasing Alex, and revealed to him the fascination of healing the sick. The memory of her loving care had kept him silent during her litany of his sins, but seeing that evil stone clasped in her work worn had broke something inside and he said in a voice Tibby had never heard...

"God damn it, Tibby drop the bloody thing now!"

Master Alistair's harsh words shocked her so that she did as he demanded. She watched in horror as he threw himself onto the floor to chase after the rolling jewel.

What had become of the sweet shy lad that she had raised? The boy that had nursed every wounded creature found in the wild or on the home farm with a tender devotion. The boy who was so soft-spoken that birds would land on his palms to get their crumbs. Even when he was a lively young man just down from university, he never took spirits to excess or used language that she could not have repeated to the vicar in church on Easter Sunday.

Yet here he was now, speaking to her as if the very devil held his heart.

She looked at him in bewilderment as he knelt on the carpet, clutching the big ugly stone to his chest. It was true, she had not seen him since he had joined the military. But never would she have believed that her gentle Master Alistair had turned into this shouting foul-mouthed drunkard, scrabbling on the floor like a kitchen maid. 'Twas all the fault of the bloodthirsty English, of that she had no doubt. If she wasn't a church-going woman, she'd curse the English army. Perhaps she would ask Mr. Tibbits to curse them for her.

To her dismay, Master Alistair did not stand up. Instead, his head dropped down and his breathing became labored.

"Just leave me be, Tibby," he said so softly she had to strain to hear. Nine and twenty years or no, this was her darling Master Alistair. She could not bear to see him so.

She was bending to gather him into her arms when the door opened.

"Oh dear! I'm interrupting a tender scene. Shall I leave?" Despite his words, the man strolled into the room and shut the door behind him.

Master Alex! Tibby stood up, flustered. Mr. Tibbits had told her he was on his way. Nevertheless she was startled to see him. It had been over ten years - unlike his brother, he had never returned to Midculter once he had joined London society. He sauntered over to where she stood hovering over his brother and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Tibby, you haven't taken a birch to the brat, have you?" He stooped and bussed her cheek. She turned to take a proper look at him.

Master Alex had not changed one whisker, that she could see that within a second. He was wearing a dusty riding coat and corded breeches over his white shirt, but he still managed to make them seem like the most fancy court dress. Perhaps it was the way they were tailored to fit his form, although Tibby remembered that even when she made their nankeen britches herself from the same pattern, Alex had somehow managed to make his look more elegant, the cheeky imp.

"You're as beautiful as ever, Tibby." He gave her his charming smile. She remembered it well and sighed. Without thinking, she brushed some of the dust off of Master Alex's jacket. He must have been riding hard out for days to have gotten here so quickly. He squeezed her hand.

Her gaze went to his twin brother on the floor. It had been nigh impossible to tell them apart when they were boys if they were standing still. Fortunately for her and Mr. Tibbits, like all little boys, they had usually been running or squirming or chattering. Their striking resemblance to each other had held now that they were grown, she saw. They were both tall and strongly built and fair in coloring. Of course, each had those striking blue eyes with a green line around the iris, just like their dear sainted mother. Today, they had even worn their fair hair in the same way, unpowdered, tied simply behind with a black riband. Good looking lads grown into handsome men, she thought with pride.

So alike in appearance but so different in nature! Dear Master Alistair had been quiet and shy. His tutors were always so pleased with his cleverness and attention to detail. He never had to be bribed or threatened to study, unlike his brother. Even from a young age he had always made a point of knowing everything about the tenants, and always treated them with kindness and consideration. Indeed, while growing up, Master Alistair had always been credit to the Erskyne name, even if there were no close relatives left to appreciate it. She and Mr. Tibbits had been so proud when he had become a physician. Gentleman or not, the lad had chosen to follow his calling, for unlike his twin, Master Alistair was always happiest when he had a useful occupation. And caring for the sick and helpless had suited him to a cow's thumb.

As for Alex, the day he left for Cambridge, she and even Mr. Tibbits had gone down on bended knees to give thanks that the boy had made it to university in one piece, what with his gaming and reckless riding and - as much as Mr Tibbits had tried to hide it from her - his wild pursuit of the village girls. Any girls, she corrected herself, having had to endure the looks and sighs of Squire Bascome's three daughters when it became clear that Master Alex would take up residence in London instead of returning to the country. Thank heavens the Bascome girls were all safely married off. And far away, she added to herself, recalling the fencing master's wife.

As Mr. Tibbits always said, the Good Lord's only kindness to the poor bedevilled Erskyne family was to let Master Alistair be brought into the world a full three minutes before his brother.

"Have you done saying your prayers, Alistair?" said Alex. He stood directly over his brother who still knelt face down on the blue silk carpet.

"Go away." Alistair said.

"Yes, well, we have heard that suggestion, have we not, Tibby?" Alex ushered her to the door. He winked and patted her hand. "Leave this to me, my dear. Why don't you go prepare something interesting to eat. A nice dish of gruel, perhaps." Alistair snorted, but did not move.

Despite her misgivings about leaving Master Alistair in such a sorry state, Tibby left the room. It was good to have the boys home again. She would feed them a lovely luncheon. Not gruel, of course. Master Alex knew that his brother loathed the stuff. But something hearty. She was not so henwitted to think that the Erskine family's problems would be solved with a bowl of porridge, but a nice hot meal was sometimes the Good Lord's way of making a problem smaller. Well, she hoped it was. She hurried to the kitchen.

Alistair considered the pale blue threads of the rug and his brother's grimy spurs from his position on the floor. It would be nice to stay curled in a ball here forever - with a bottle of brandy - trying to blot out the disaster his life had become. He had forgotten to take into account the maternal instincts of Tibby. She had simply surprised him when his guard was down, that was all. Fortunately the moment had passed and with it the appalling urge to weep. He had not given in to it this time. He never would again.

Damned Alex. What did he want? How embarrassing to be caught, collapsed on the rug in mama's old room, as if he still was a mewling puling infant, ready to wail at the sight of an injured bird wing. Had he really ever been such a pitiful gudgeon? At least he had not given Alex the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Smug, sophisticated Alex, who had been horrified at his bourgeois desire to be useful, first as a physician, then in the English army. Alistair still stung from his brother's scathing assessment when he had told him he had bought his commission. The army was no place for a sensitive dreamer, Alex had said. Why could he not he stay home with his books and his potions and be satisfied to dose the locals when they had a chill?

Why not indeed? What misguided patriotic fervor had goaded him into joining the army. An army that expected him to fight in a war against the men he had grown up with at Midculter - the only family he had known. An he had the brains not to stray outside the limits of gentlemanly behaviour, he would not be lying here now contemplating soaking the Aubusson carpet with pathetic tears. But he had given up stupid sentiment. He had hardened his heart. No, he had no heart left. It had been discarded along with the brass buttons of his shredded uniform.

He reluctantly lifted himself off the carpet. Alex was settled cosily in the heavy armchair before the fire and was looking at him with his familiar smirk. Alistair ignored him. He found his flask and gulped down a healthy portion and felt the spread of the liquor's warmth.

Alex raised a mocking eyebrow. "Brandy. What an original solution."

"Go away Alex. I didn't ask you to come and share my disgrace." Alistair took another deep swallow from the flask and sat down on the bed. He was cold. But he was not going to go near the fire to warm himself, not when his brother was in the way.

"You aren't asking me to share your liquor either." Alex held up his hand to forestall his brother. "Nay, nay, do not repeat it. Go away Alex. There, consider it said. Fortunately for you, I am not the sensitive one, otherwise my feelings would be wounded." He reached into the pocket of his riding jacket and pulled out a flask of his own. "I am obliged to bring my own provisions. Pitiful."

Alistair did not answer and his brother did not immediately make further comment. How unusual for Alex, Alistair thought. It shows the depth of my debasement when even Alex cannot think of something facetious to say.

"So how many bottles of brandy is the cure for discharge from the army?" Alex said mildly after a few moments of silence.

Alistair's voice was hard. "I was not discharged, Alex. I was cashiered. I was stripped of my uniform in a touching ceremony, the gist of which involved my very public humiliation in front of as many fellow officers and soldiers as possible." He did not bother to keep the bitterness from his voice. "I'm supposed to be grateful that I was not shot. Or hanged."

"Or both."

"You won't goad me into losing my temper Alex. I'm a changed man. I don't doubt that some version of whole sordid story has become a most amusing tale for the London supper crowd. How you could tear yourself away?"

"Well you see, that is exactly why I have had to come." Alex made a show of studying the jewelled quizzing glass that hung from a ribbon around his neck and then smiled ruefully at his brother. "Oddly enough, London society takes these little incidents of near treason quite seriously, I'm amazed to say. So while you've been poring over Scottish poetry, I have had to pay the price for it."

Alistair looked up at his brother. "You have been cut as well?" He was surprised, although he realized that he ought not to be. Since his removal from his Majesty's army, no respectable member of the ton had spoken to him other than out of unavoidable necessity. He should have realized it that the hideous stain he had placed on the Erskine name would taint his brother as well. He started to apologize, but stopped himself. Apologies were for those who cared about the feelings of others, not for someone who had vowed to stop being a sentimental idiot. Besides, his failure was beyond apology and Alex would knew it. Alistair wished his brother would leave. He was tired and cold and wanted another bottle of brandy.

"Tragic, is it not?"Alex shrugged. "Even my invitation to Lady Goderich's ball was rescinded. And Lord knows she welcomes practically anyone with a pulse as long as they agree to dance with her horse-faced daughters. So there is nothing for it, Alistair, but that I must return to this bucolic paradise to rescue you and get to the bottom of this whole debacle."

"There is nothing to discover, " Alistair said flatly. "I am a traitorous womanizing coward."

Alex went over and stood in front of his brother. He leaned down and spoke softly. "Is it so bad that you cannot tell me?"

"It is worse." Alistair could not meet his brother's eyes.

"Yes, I see you're a changed man. When we were boys, you would have told me the whole sorry story. Twice. Whether I cared to hear it or not."

Despite himself, Alistair smiled. But it truly was hopeless. Explaining what had happened would not change anything. Nothing ever would. He had made a mess of it and now everyone near him was obliged to pay the price. Alistair wanted to drink until he fell unconscious in front of the fire. Surely Alex would be bored soon?

Abruptly, Alex reached out and grabbed his hand. Alistair had forgotten that he still held the emerald. The combination of the unexpected strike and the surprising strength in his brother's neatly manicured hands forced Alistair to open his fist and drop the jewel. With a satisfied grunt, Alex seized it. He brought it to the window and examined it in the daylight with his quizzing glass. Alistair lay back helplessly and stared at the canopy over the bed.

After a few moments, Alex returned to his brother's side and dropped the emerald onto his brother's chest.

"And what about this gaudy thing? Found it in some poor idiot's liver, did you?"

The emerald. Alistair brought his hands up and covered his face. No matter what, he could never tell his brother about the emerald. The emerald was his burden to bear alone.