Highland Rogue, London Miss

The scoundrel was enjoying this far, far too much!

“Careful, my love,” MacLachlann said as he straightened, “lest your face remain permanently in that most unflattering expression.”

Then, with another aggravating smirk, he sauntered out of the room.

Esme immediately turned to confront her brother, but before she could say anything, he spoke with heartfelt sincerity. “I do appreciate you’re taking a risk for me, Esme, and I’m more grateful than words can express.”

Her frustration diminished; nevertheless, she had to voice her concern. “That was a lot of money to simply hand over to such a man, Jamie.”

“It will be well spent and if there’s anything left over, duly returned to me,” her brother replied.

He went to his desk, opened the top drawer and took out a ledger she’d never seen before. “Quinn keeps excellent account of everything he spends when he’s doing a job for me, so I know where every ha’penny has gone. Here, see for yourself.”

He opened the leather-bound book and turned it toward her. On the ruled lines were itemized expenses written in a hand even neater than her own.

On the surface, the list looked extraordinarily complete, down to a loaf of bread and pint of ale for a dinner. And yet … “How can you be sure that was how the money was spent?” she asked.

“Receipts. He gives me receipts, for everything. I have them here.” Jamie opened another drawer and took out a large folder full of pieces of paper of various sizes and in various conditions. Some looked as if they’d been crumbled into a ball, others seemed quite pristine.

“Very well, he may be fiscally responsible,” she conceded, “but there are other elements of his character, of his past, that are far from exemplary.”

“There’s no denying that he’s made mistakes in his past, as he’ll fully acknowledge. But he’s committed no crime and the only person he ever harmed by his actions has been himself.”

Esme pushed the folder back to her brother. “Yet his own family has cast him out, have they not?”

“It’s their loss more than his. His was a most unhappy childhood, Esme.”

“His family are rich and titled. Many people grow up in far more terrible conditions, yet don’t lose their money gambling or waste their days in idleness and drinking to excess.”

“A boy raised with wealth can still be lonely and miserable,” her brother observed. “And he never uses his childhood as an excuse. Indeed, he very rarely speaks of it. I found more out about his family from other friends at school than I ever did from him.”

Jamie put the ledger back in the drawer and raised his eyes to regard her steadily. “While he gambled and drank too much, that was in the past. He’s been absolutely trustworthy and done everything I’ve ever asked of him, and well.” Her brother sat on the edge of his desk. “He feels remorse, too, although he rarely shows it. Do you know where I found him that night I brought him home?”

She shook her head.

“On Tower Bridge. He never said what he was doing there, but the way he was standing there, looking down at the water …” Jamie shook his head before turning to stare out the window, unseeing. “I don’t think he was taking the air, and if I hadn’t been searching for him and found him …”

Quintus MacLachlann had been about to kill himself? She found it difficult to accept that a man of such vitality would ever seek to end his existence.

“Thank God I did find him, and I’ve been more than glad ever since,” Jamie said as he pushed himself off the desk.

He looked back at Esme and studied her face. “Is that all you’re worried about, Esme? Or do you think he might try to take liberties with you? If so, rest assured that he won’t. He’s had … well, there have been women in his life, I know, but he’s never been cruel or lascivious. If I thought there was any chance of that, I’d never let you go with him, especially in the guise of his wife. Besides, if there’s a woman alive who’s immune to any man’s attempted seduction, it’s you.”

Yes, she would be immune to any man’s seductive efforts, especially those of a man who teased and mocked her.

Jamie put his hands on her shoulders as he looked deeply into her eyes. “You can trust him, Esme. Please believe me when I say that beneath Quinn’s devil-may-care exterior is a good, honest man, or I’d never have suggested you go to Edinburgh with him.”

Esme nodded her head. She wanted to believe Jamie. She wanted to believe she was going to Edinburgh for a just cause with a trustworthy man.

But she really wished neither Catriona McNare nor Quintus MacLachlann had ever been born.

Chapter Two

A week later and attired in new trousers and Wellington boots, a shirt of brilliantly white linen, black silk cravat, double-breasted vest in a black-and-gray horizontal-striped satin, black woollen jacket, and an equally new bottle-green greatcoat with three capes, the formerly Honorable Quintus Aloysius Hamish MacLachlann strolled up the street toward Jamie McCallan’s town house, a valise bumping against his thigh.

Jamie’s home was a well-kept little establishment on the edge of Mayfair, close enough to impress the ton, but far enough away to be affordable if a man made a good living, as Jamie obviously did.

As Quinn trotted up the steps to the front door and raised the polished brass knocker in the shape of a thistle, the curtain at the front bow window shifted. The movement was barely noticeable, yet it was enough to suggest that somebody was keeping watch.

Esme, no doubt. The woman was like a prison guard. She was also beyond prejudiced, always ready to believe the worst of him, regardless of any evidence to the contrary and despite the necessary work he did for her beloved brother.

Since she thought him beneath contempt, was it any wonder he was always tempted to say outrageous things to her? To tease and mock and goad her until she gave him the edge of her sharp and clever tongue?

Jamie’s butler, a tall, slender fellow of indeterminate age, opened the door and took Quinn’s hat and valise. “They’re waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you,” Quinn briskly replied, darting a passing glance at his reflection in the pier glass in the spotlessly clean foyer. In this rig he did look like his brother, certainly enough that the ruse should work.

He’d never imagined Jamie had such a devious streak. Well, there had been hints of it at school, he supposed. A few times Jamie had gone with him to sneak a bit of food from the buttery, and once even told him when the cook would be away, but he’d never gotten drunk on the cooking sherry, or cheated on tests, or lied to the headmaster.

The drawing room was as neat and tidy as the foyer. It was simply, but tastefully, furnished, with nary a figurine or knickknack in sight. He had never seen a speck of dust or dirt in either Jamie’s home or office. He suspected even dust and dirt were too intimidated by his sister to linger. Books there were in plenty, however, and what furniture there was had been well-crafted. The camelback sofa and chairs were worn, but comfortable, and the mantel—

Esme stood by the mantel, but Esme as he’d never seen or imagined her. Her eyes were downcast, her dark eyelashes fanning over smooth, pink cheeks and her slender, yet shapely, figure encased in a well-fitting traveling gown of soft pale blue wool. The bodice, bordered by a band of scarlet ribbon, accentuated perfect breasts. Glossy, chestnut-brown tresses were beneath a charming bonnet decorated with small scarlet rosettes, and a few even more charming tendrils of soft curls fell upon her cheek and neck.

She looked young, pretty, fresh, modest—the very picture of Youthful Femininity, until she raised her head and glared at him with irate hazel eyes, her bow-shaped lips turning down in an equally irate frown.

“Although I see you at least remembered to shave, you’re late,” she snapped, running an imperious gaze over him.

He sauntered farther into the room, just as fiercely determined to prevent her from seeing that he was even remotely disturbed by her disapproval. “I went to a barber, so now my cheeks are as smooth as silk. Care to feel?”

“Certainly not!” Esme exclaimed before she abruptly turned away.

But she was blushing, and she’d lowered her eyes again, as if she was tempted to touch him but didn’t dare.

Good God, could Esme McCallan secretly want to touch him? This was a most interesting development and one definitely worth exploring. “You look lovely, Esme.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your unwelcome remarks to yourself!”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t appreciate a compliment.”

“If I thought there was any sincerity to your observations, I might be flattered.”

Despite her contempt, he tried again. “I am being sincere. You look very nice. I never realized what a difference a change of clothes could make.”

She whirled around to face him.

And then, a miracle. She smiled—a warm and genuine smile. His heart leapt with what might be joy, although it had been a long time since he’d felt anything like true happiness, so he could be wrong.

“Jamie,” she said, walking past him.