“Not at all. Come along, Belle. Let us go argue about how long you’ll stay up reading with the lights on.”
Belle rolled her eyes, and then with final good-nights, they were gone.
Evie blew out her breath. Belle had called Jamie a maelstrom, but his relations were as well. The whole family exuded energy.
Agnes returned as soon as the ladies had gone, her arms full of clothes. The nightgown she assisted Evie into did indeed fit well. Agnes bundled Evie into the bed, warmed by a hot brick, then called in the two sturdy maids to carry out the tub.
Evie lay back and watched Agnes flit about the room, hanging skirt, shirtwaist, and a jacket in the wardrobe, then tidying up before she turned out the gaslights and departed.
Evie dropped off quickly in her exhaustion, but her dreams were full of Jamie, the kisses he gave her palpable as he rolled over her in a warm, downy bed in a Parisian hotel.
Jamie left the quiet suburb of Chelsea once he’d seen Evie settled, and headed north again to Oxford Street and a building of serviced flats much like his own.
The men who lived here were professionals, with jobs in the City or in the halls of barristers, the building providing maid and butler service as well as meals, if the tenants desired.
Jamie knocked on the door of a flat on the third floor, and was admitted by a tall, very fair-haired man with flint-gray eyes. The hair was tousled as though he’d been tugging at it, and the eyes lit in relief at the sight of Jamie.
“Thank God it’s you,” Andrew McBride said, ushering Jamie inside. “I was afraid it was my clerk, demanding to know where my notes were—alphabetized and indexed to his satisfaction, and by the way, where are those fees I was supposed to have collected? A barrister’s life is hell, Jamie. Hell. Especially a junior’s.”
Andrew waved for Jamie to find a chair among those piled with books and papers, while he produced a decanter from somewhere in the mess and poured them both a whisky.
After they’d sipped in companionable silence for a time, Jamie turned to the reason for his visit.
“I’ve come to you because you know everything there is to know about everyone. Or can find out, anyway.”
Andrew’s gray eyes stilled over his whisky glass. “Possibly,” he said with caution.
“Chap called Hayden Atherton.” Jamie rolled his crystal goblet between his fingers. “Son of Sir Hector Atherton.”
Andrew’s brows climbed. “Sir Hector I’ve heard of. Businessman. Stickler. No toleration for nonsense. Nonsense as defined by him, of course.”
“Exactly. His son holds my interest. I need information on him.”
Andrew set his whisky glass on his desk in the one space that held no papers. “I thought you knew everyone in Town.”
“Only in certain circles. Smug sons of businessmen, not so much.” Jamie let out a breath. “Actually the lad is friendly, chummy even. Maybe too much so.”
Andrew’s concern gave way to amusement. “Your face is all pinched up. He must be interesting for some reason. Is a lady involved?”
Jamie tried to ease his expression. “Why would you say that?”
Andrew laughed, a hearty sound. “Because I know you. Have known you since we were lads. It’s the McKnight girl, isn’t it?” His laughter grew louder. “Your face is all scrunched again. Is Jamie Mackenzie in love, at last?”
Chapter 15
“Calm yourself,” Jamie growled. “She’s not the McKnight girl. She’s Miss Evie McKnight, and she’s a friend.”
“Not what Gavina thinks.”
“Gavina is an imp.” Jamie scowled at Andrew. “I should have known she’d spread tales.” At least Gavina hadn’t had time to inform Andrew that Jamie had brought Evie to her tonight, disheveled and thoroughly kissed.
“She won’t blab outside the family.” Andrew was Gavina’s cousin on her mother’s side. He was no blood relation to Jamie, but the Mackenzie and McBride offspring had grown up side by side.
“Evie’s engaged to the blot,” Jamie went on. “I want to make certain there’s no sordid surprise he’ll spring on her once he’s got her to the altar.”
“I see.” Andrew pulled a sheet of paper to him and scribbled on it with a pencil. “Hayden Atherton. Address?”
“Upper Brook Street.”
“Yes, Sir Hector is a successful businessman. Seems like your girl—excuse me, Miss McKnight—has done well for herself there. Son will inherit the lot?”
“Presumably.” Jamie shifted in the chair, which was rickety and uncomfortable. “But something’s wrong with the chap. Can’t put my finger on it. Other than that he’s an ass.”
“Father or son?”
“Both. Never met the father, but if he’s anything like the son …”
Andrew’s interest was piqued, Jamie could see, which boded well. Andrew, like his father, a famous KC, now retired, would stop at nothing to discover the truth once he’d decided to. Andrew had more vigor than anyone Jamie knew, including himself.
Andrew made a few more notes, then picked up his whisky. “I’ll see what I can find out. When are you interested in having the information?”
“Anytime from right now.”
“That soon? Well …” Andrew made another note, swallowed the contents of his glass, and opened the decanter again. “Another?”
Jamie held his goblet out for Andrew to trickle more whisky into. Mackenzie single malt, of course.
“How are you, Andrew?” Jamie asked, relaxing a bit. “I haven’t had much time to speak to you since I returned to the country.”
“Not until you wanted a lady’s betrothed investigated.” Andrew chuckled. “It’s no matter. I’ve been up to my ears in briefs. As the junior barrister, it’s my job to do all the research and make sure my senior looks good.” His expression became pained. “I’m usually sitting behind some of the densest men in Britain. We win cases only because I whisper into their ears what they should say. I used to be modest about that, but now I’m growing fed up.” He broke off, mouth twisting wryly. “Your pardon, Jamie. You didn’t come to listen to me whinge.”
“I’ve missed it.” Jamie shrugged. “You’ll take silk soon, I’m sure. You’re the son of Basher McBride.”
“Don’t I know it.” Andrew drank deeply. “Whenever the court hears the name McBride, they perk up, then dissolve in disappointment when they see it’s only me.”
“It is hell being the son of a famous man,” Jamie agreed.
They commiserated in silence a moment.
“How is my cousin Magdala?” Jamie asked.
Andrew’s woeful expression told Jamie all he needed to know. “I imagine she’s doing well. Enjoying learning how to be Scots at Kilmorgan Castle.”
Magdala, who’d taken the surname Mackenzie, was a distant cousin, descended from Jamie’s ancestors who’d fought at Culloden. She’d been raised in Newfoundland but decided to seek her relatives in Scotland to escape a bounder of a stepfather.
Andrew had instantly taken a fancy to her, but that had been ten years ago. Andrew had gone back to university then apprenticed in Middle Temple and now labored in a barristers’ chambers, while Magdala had explored her new home and started working for the distillery.