Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore
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of that part of his business, yet although he had always been generous with her pin money and paid the household expenses without complaining, she’d tried to keep house as frugally as possible. Then to see him hand over so much money to a man like MacLachlann …!
Even more frustrating, when MacLachlann took the cheque, the man didn’t so much as bat an eye at the amount.
Instead, he tugged his forelock and said, “Thank you, sir! When are we to depart on this mission?”
“Do you think you can be ready in a week?”
“I can. The question is, can my charming wife?”
Esme ground her teeth and reminded herself that she must put up with MacLachlann’s insolence for Jamie’s sake. “I’ll be ready.”
“The coach and driver will be waiting at our house in a week,” Jamie said. “Come as early in the day as you can to get a good start on the journey.”
“I hear and obey,” MacLachlann replied as he strolled to the door, then turned back and gave them a theatrical bow. “And so, my little plum cake and dearest, bogus brother-in-law, I bid you adieu until we depart for Edinburgh. I only wish I could take my lovely bride to the ancestral seat in the Highlands, but alas, I fear time will not permit.”
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.