The footman had deftly moved the tureen back to Evie. Sorry, she mouthed at him and quickly laid the ladle in the tureen, scrubbing at her skirt with her napkin.
She glanced at Hayden as the beleaguered footman continued to serve. Amusement lit Hayden’s eyes, and his small smile held reassurance.
Once the footman retreated, Mrs. Atherton lifted her spoon and very carefully scooped up a dollop of soup—the signal for the others to begin.
Evie shoveled soup into her mouth, knowing that the moment Mrs. Atherton finished, the footmen would rush in and remove all the bowls, regardless of how little the others had consumed. Mrs. Atherton had a birdlike appetite and would only take a few slow mouthfuls. Hayden had become adept at eating as much as possible during his mother’s leisurely bites, and had instructed Evie how to empty her plate quickly without seeming to rush.
Evie wished she had mastered Hayden’s skill. She fumbled with the spoon and slurped, feeling Sir Hector’s eye upon her.
“My dear Miss McKnight,” Mrs. Atherton said. Blast. Evie would never eat her fill if Mrs. Atherton insisted on conversation. “I am happy to have you grace our table once more. My friend, Lady Featherstone, insists she saw you traveling about London in a motorcar, of all things. I told her that was nonsense. You would never ride in a motorcar.” She took a hushed sip of her soup.
“Oh.” Evie’s spoon froze. “I actually did ride in the motorcar, Mrs. Atherton. Mama’s carriage never arrived at the train station, and a friend offered to drive us to the hotel.”
Mrs. Atherton’s perpetual smile faded at this news, and Sir Hector’s formidable brows came down.
“Exciting,” Hayden interposed. “A few of my chums have motorcars. They go like the wind once you get them outside the city and on a decent road.”
“The lot of them should be melted down and the metal used for something sensible,” Sir Hector snapped. “Smelly, noisy things clogging up the roads. Not safe to cross the streets these days.”
There had been far many more wagons and carts careening dangerously through the streets, Jamie’s motorcar barely having a space to squeeze through, but Evie did not say this. She scooped more soup into her mouth, savoring the tasty chowder while she could.
“Father will certainly not approve of me buying one,” Hayden said, his voice light.
“Waste of money.” Sir Hector slurped his soup. “Frivolous machines.”
Mrs. Atherton laid down her spoon. Evie gulped one more hasty mouthful before gloved hands slid her half-full bowl from the plate. Hayden, drat him, had managed to finish his.
“Which hotel?” Mrs. Atherton asked in the tone of one calming the waters.
Evie hesitated as the footman began to pass the fish. Mrs. Atherton accepted a minute portion. Evie pointed to a plump, delectable-looking filet, and the footman laid it on her plate along with a good dollop of butter sauce.
Mrs. Atherton did not touch her fork, even after the men had been served their fish, as she awaited Evie’s answer.
Evie found it difficult to lie. “The Langham.”
“The Langham?” Mrs. Atherton jerked in surprise. “Good heavens. Did your father come into a sudden fortune?”
“A bit rude, Mama,” Hayden said jovially. “Perhaps her sister Clara got herself engaged to an American millionaire.”
“No, no,” Evie said. She snatched up her fork as Mrs. Atherton finally lifted hers. “My sisters decided Englishmen were good enough for them.”
“Quite right,” Sir Hector mumbled around his fish.
“Then how did you get into the Langham?” Hayden went on, eyes alight. “Do tell, Evie.”
The collective interrogation was beginning to wear on Evie’s temper. “If you must know, a friend put us up. In a suite.”
“Friend?” Hayden persisted. “Someone you met in New York?”
“No, someone I met right here in England. Mama’s hotel reservation was mislaid, and we were at our wits’ end. My friend’s family has a suite permanently reserved at the Langham, they are not there at the moment, and my friend kindly booked us in for the night. It was that or sleep on benches at the train station.” Evie stabbed her fork into her fish, hoping the lengthy explanation would satisfy everyone.
“Of course, you could not have done that,” Mrs. Atherton said. “It was very good of your friend.”
Evie noticed that Mrs. Atherton did not exclaim that Evie and her family could have spent the night in this large house with its eight bedrooms. Mrs. Atherton did not like to have many guests in her house at once—she only just tolerated Evie’s presence.
“Who is this most generous friend?” Hayden asked in continuing interest. “Have I met her?”
“Him. His name is Jamie Mackenzie.” Evie’s face heated. “I also met his cousin Gavina,” she added swiftly.
“Mackenzie.” Hayden turned the name over as he ate several mouthfuls of fish. “Have you mentioned him before?”
“Probably not. I’d forgotten all about him.” Not quite true, but she could hardly explain how she’d met Jamie the first time. “His cousin Gavina was at Newnham. That is another ladies’ college at Cambridge,” Evie explained as Mrs. Atherton looked mystified. “Mr. Mackenzie comes from a very large family. His uncle—he’s the one who takes the Langham suite—races horses. Famous ones, I believe.”
“You mean Lord Cameron Mackenzie?” Hayden asked, astonished. “Indeed, his horses are celebrated. What a treat for you, Evie.”
“Yes, it was quite grand.” Evie snuck in a bit of fish with its wonderfully herby butter sauce.
Sir Hector had been dragging his fork through his sauce, brows lowering. “This Jamie is not the son of Hart Mackenzie, is he?” The words held an ominous rumble.
“No, I believe Jamie is the son of Lord Ian.” Evie said quickly. “Not the duke.”
“Hart Mackenzie is a menace,” Sir Hector said through her answer. “He claims to avoid Whitehall to rusticate in idyllic Scotland, but he has plenty of toadies do his dirty work for him.”
Evie wasn’t certain how she was to respond. Mrs. Atherton continued to nibble at her fish, a blank smile on her face.
“Does he, sir?” Hayden asked dutifully.
“That damned, sneering bastard, Fleming, for one.” Sir Hector shoveled in a mouthful of fish and masticated while he spoke. “They want to tear Scotland from the bosom of the Union as though they could chop it off at Hadrian’s Wall and set it adrift. What will they do then, eh? Damned Scots fight so much amongst themselves they’ll be bashing each other with claymores before we know it.”
“I believe there are more sheep in Scotland than claymores these days, Father,” Hayden said mildly.
“Don’t be flippant, boy. That’s another thing. Many Englishmen have estates in Scotland, running sheep for wool. They’d lose fortunes if Scotland became independent. And those blasted Scots would lay waste to the land and run through all that money the English have made for them over the years.”
“That is rather a long shot, isn’t it?” Hayden pointed out. “I doubt even the Duke of Kilmorgan can make Scottish independence stick.”