“But the Mackenzies can make all sorts of trouble about it, can’t they?” Sir Hector demanded. “Insisting the Stone of Scone is returned. Never heard such blasted poppycock. Whole family is a nuisance. One’s an artist—can you credit it? If I were a duke, I’d die of shame to have a brother as an artist. It’s a fine thing to daub in one’s garden as a hobby, but to sell the bloody paintings far and wide is quite another.”
Hayden’s expression remained neutral. “I hear Lord Mac gives his paintings away.”
“And that one who runs the horses,” Sir Hector went on, ignoring him. “Gambling is a disease in this country, and Mackenzie lures men into it.”
“Father lost a pile of money at Newmarket years ago,” Hayden confided across the table to Evie.
Sir Hector’s color rose. “And the youngest one is mad, quite mad. Why he was ever let out of an asylum, I have no idea. You say his son drove you in his motorcar?” His piercing gaze lit on Evie. “Surprised you didn’t end up overturned in a ditch and left to bleed to death. Never do it again, girl.” He jabbed his fish fork in Evie’s direction. “Never again.”
Evie drew a breath to respond—she could jolly well ride in any car she wanted, and besides, her own mother had been with her—but Hayden gave her the barest shake of his head. Then he winked.
Evie relaxed slightly. At least Hayden didn’t share his father’s stances, though she doubted Hayden would ever openly defy Sir Hector. She glanced at Mrs. Atherton to see what she made of her husband’s diatribe, but the lady only watched her husband with adoring eyes and quietly ate her fish.
Evie gulped a few more bites of hers. Sure enough, the footmen whisked away Evie’s unfinished serving as soon as Mrs. Atherton laid her fork across her plate.
Sir Hector continued his theme of why Scotsmen were terrible for the country, haranguing about the rebellions of two hundred years ago, while Hayden slipped in remarks about the contributions of James Watt, Adam Smith, and Alexander Graham Bell.
Evie concentrated on downing as much capon in white sauce as she could, trying not to smile at how Hayden subtly needled his father.
Once the pudding had been served and consumed, Mrs. Atherton bade Evie withdraw with her to the sitting room while Sir Hector prepared to return to his office in the City. Evie hastily stuffed a final bite of vanilla mousse into her mouth and followed Mrs. Atherton out, still chewing.
A half hour of sipping tea while playing a silent game of cribbage followed. Mrs. Atherton, for all her dainty ways, played cards like a shark, and her points mounted up quickly on the board.
It was a relief to hear Sir Hector’s rumbling voice approach, that gentlemen looking in to tell Evie and his wife good-bye. Mrs. Atherton dropped her last hand of cards and hurried to escort him to the door.
Hayden watched them go then strolled into the room and dropped to the sofa. “Whew,” he said. “He went on a bit, didn’t he?”
Evie left the card table and joined him. She sat on the other end of the sofa from Hayden, lest any servant peep in the open doorway and report the betrothed couple reposing too close to each other.
“I apologize for bringing it up,” Evie said.
“You didn’t. Mother did.” Hayden slung his arm across the sofa’s back and sent Evie his most winning smile. “What next, bride-to-be? Is the game afoot?”
Chapter 8
Jamie leaned against a bookcase inside the British Museum, pretending to peruse an interesting tome he’d taken from one of the shelves. He supposed he’d look more convincing if it weren’t a book on the insect calosoma sycophanta and its impact on the fruit trees of North America.
Around him, museum goers hurried through the courtyard on the way to gaze at the mummies in the Egyptian collection or the marbles from Ancient Greece. Fewer confidently entered the inner sanctum of the reading room, the space under the rotunda that only a privileged ticket holder could access.
Jamie glanced up from the charts of the six-legged pest’s infiltration of New England and Canada, and scanned the visitors for Evie and whoever she’d come to meet.
His father’s advice in his ears, Jamie had returned to the Langham the morning after he’d left Evie there, but he’d been too late. The family had departed the suite early, the concierge had told him, the mother and daughters journeying home to Bedfordshire.
Jamie had started to turn away from the concierge’s desk, disappointment blending with determination, when the concierge had mentioned that, by the way, the oldest daughter had not accompanied her mother and sisters. She had taken a cab to Upper Brook Street, to reside there with her fiancé’s family.
“Did she mention doing anything else?” Jamie asked, trying not to sound too urgent. “Outings in the country? Visits to London’s famous sights? Fittings for her wedding gear?”
“Nothing of that sort,” the concierge, his black hair slick with pomade, said. “They seemed a modest family. Asked us to do very little for them—book tickets for the train, summon a cab to take them to the station. Very polite ladies.” He nodded at Jamie as though congratulating him on his choice of friends. “And, oh yes, the young lady who remained in London did send a telegram.”
The concierge closed his mouth after that information, hands behind his back, an innocent expression in place.
Jamie took his time asking the next question. He copied the concierge’s stance, his joined hands resting on the tartan over his backside. “Do you remember at all the nature of this telegram?”
The concierge contrived to look scandalized. “You know I cannot possibly divulge the content of another person’s messages, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“No, of course not,” Jamie agreed. “That would be most improper. A betrayal of confidence.”
“Exactly.” The concierge and Jamie stood in silence another moment, then the concierge inhaled sharply. “But I rather think if you enter the courtyard of the British Museum, placing your visit around eleven tomorrow morning, you might catch sight of the young lady.”
Jamie barely suppressed his grin. “I see. You are a gem, Mr. Francis.”
“So they tell me, sir.” The concierge gave him a formal bow. “Please convey my best to your mother and father and your dear sisters.”
“That I will.” Jamie fished a gold coin from his pocket and surreptitiously slipped it to the concierge under the guise of a handshake. “Good day to you.”
“Good day, Mr. Mackenzie.” The gold coin disappeared quickly, as though it never existed.
Jamie had spent the rest of the day discovering all he could about Hayden Atherton. Hayden was an only child who lived at home with his parents and assisted his stockbroker father at the company in which Sir Hector was a director. This information Jamie gleaned from various people he questioned, from doormen at clubs to friends in the City. Hayden was the apple of his father’s eye, because he remained dutifully in London instead of gallivanting wherever young men gallivanted, and worked every day.
As I suspected, Jamie told himself. A dull stick.
He knew he was being unfair to a man he’d never met. Jamie’s family was no stranger to business, and Ian had told Jamie that he could step into running the Mackenzie distillery any time he wished. Take over the reins so Ian could loll on the riverbank near his home north of Kilmorgan and fish all day. Ian had also told Jamie he didn’t expect him to do this, leaving Jamie to make up his own mind.