One Little Sin

by Liz Carlyle

  “I wish,” snapped Alasdair. “But that particular shade is extremely rare.”

  “Perhaps discretion is in order, old chap,” said Quin, flicking a concerned glance at Miss Hamilton.

  But Alasdair was intent on his brother. “Merrick, don’t be an ass,” he insisted. “I’ve no interest in taking responsibility for the child of some woman whom I can barely remember bedding, but—”

  “Och, a bed, was it now?” snapped Miss Hamilton, cutting him off dead. “As I heard it, sir, there was no bed involved in doing the deed! ’Twas just a quick pump-’n’-tickle behind the draperies at some drunken New Year’s celebration!’ ”

  Merrick and Quin turned to gape.

  “Miss Hamilton!” Alasdair began, as she clutched the child tighter. “I say!”

  “No, I’ve heard quite enough blather out of you three!” Miss Hamilton’s creamy complexion had turned fiery pink, and she was quivering with indignation. “You people have the manners of swine. And Sorcha is not an it, if you please! She is your daughter, and she has a name. And I’ll thank you to use it—all of you.” Suddenly, she turned on Merrick. “And you, Mr. MacLachlan! I do not care for your manner one whit! Rest assured Sorcha could not possibly be yours. Even my mother, starry-eyed fool that she was, couldn’t have been seduced by a midge-brained maundrel with nothing which might remotely pass for charm.”

  On that note, Miss Hamilton whirled about and strode from the room with as much grace as she could muster given the toddler balanced on her hip. Lady Sorcha, however, was reluctant to go. She strained to lean out of her sister’s embrace, opening and closing her little fist in Merrick’s direction. “No, Mae, nooo!” she shrieked, flailing wildly. “Gee me ’atch! Gee ’atch!”

  As soon as they had disappeared from view, Quin collapsed into his chair with a paroxysm of laugher. Alasdair turned to look at him. “I am so glad you enjoyed that.”

  “Oh, she’s so callow!” Quin could barely stop laughing. “So innocent! Just a little wren of a girl! Oh, Alasdair, you are in for it now.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “It isn’t enough that you’ve been cursed by a Gypsy,” Quin returned. “You’ve just been stuck with a ball of fire—and a dashed pretty one, too, especially when she blushes. I begin to think your eyesight has gone the way of your appetite, old chap.”

  Esmée rushed through MacLachlan’s town house, the fine carpets and elegant staircase nothing but a blur as she flew round the newel posts, holding Sorcha close to her side. Dear God in heaven. Could there have been a worse time to let her temper get hold of her tongue? At least her trunk was not yet unpacked. It would save everyone time and effort when her arse landed in the street again.

  She reached the nursery and burst through the door, only to come face-to-face with one of the footmen. The worn leather furniture was gone, and servants were clearing the last of the boxes from the shelves. “Your pardon, ma’am,” said one of them stiffly. “Wellings said Sir Alasdair wished the room cleared out.

  Cleared out was an apt description, thought Esmée, looking about the room. Nothing but an old Pembroke table and two wooden chairs remained. Even the stench of stale tobacco was waning. “Thank you,” she said to the footman. “I don’t suppose there is any more appropriate furniture to be had?”

  “Of what sort?” The low, rumbling voice came from behind her.

  Esmée spun round to see that Sir Alasdair MacLachlan had followed her into the room. Her heart leapt into her throat. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “What do you need, Miss Hamilton?” he said more gently. “I shall send Wellings to fetch it.”

  Panicked, Esmée searched her mind. “Well, a…a worktable, I suppose,” she answered, setting Sorcha down. The child went at once to her toys.

  “Yes, go on,” he said. “What sort of worktable?”

  He did not mean to throw them out again? “Something low enough for Sorcha to use?” she managed. “With small chairs? And—and a child’s bed, perhaps?”

  MacLachlan smiled, his brown eyes warming. “Miss Hamilton, you are ending all your demands with question marks now,” he remarked. “It is most uncharacteristic of you. And surely Sorcha requires more than a table and a bed?”

  “Why, I—I daresay she does,” said Esmée, cursing her own stupidity. What did children need? She had but recently learned how to feed the child. How to keep her from tumbling into the fire. How to induce her to nap—well, sometimes. “Perhaps a high chair and a rocking chair?” she continued, struggling to remember what Lord Achanalt’s nursery had contained. “And one of those odd little buggies one sees in the parks?”

  “Ah, a yes, perambulator!” he said. “And a bigger, thicker carpet, perhaps? Just in case she decides to throw a tantrum?”

  Esmée felt her blush deepen. “She is a bit spirited, aye.”

  MacLachlan flashed his too-charming, toe-curling grin again. “Ah, the truth will out, won’t it, my dear?” he said. “Now, what was it you said last night? Ah, yes! ‘A good, quiet child! Not a drop of trouble to you, I swear it!’ ”

  Esmée looked away. “’Tis just the travel, I’m sure. The—er, the disruption in her life.”

  The smile softened at once. “Ah, well,” he returned. “Better a racehorse than a dray horse, I daresay.”

  The footman departed with the last box and gently pulled the door shut. MacLachlan strolled deeper into the room. He stopped before one of the windows and stared down into the street below. “You do not like me very much, do you, Miss Hamilton?” he finally said. “Indeed, I think it safe to say you quite loathe me.”

  Esmée opened and closed her mouth soundlessly for a moment. “I—I apologize for my behavior earlier,” she whispered.

  He made a strange choking sound. A stifled laugh? “You do have a dreadful temper,” he managed. “I’m not sure Merrick will ever be quite the same again.”

  “I cannot think what took hold of me.”

  The devil, she expected him to say. But MacLachlan turned to face her. “We did behave badly,” he admitted. “We are none of us boorish by nature, I assure you. And Quin is actually quite kind. It is just this situation. Even you must admit how odd it is.”

  “Odd?” asked Esmée. “From what I have seen of life, I am more surprised it does not happen with greater frequency.”

  “You must have lived an unusual life, Miss Hamilton.”

  Just then, Sorcha tugged on her skirts. “Mae, tee off!”

  Esmée bent down to see that Sorcha had pulled her doll’s dress over her head. “You must unfasten the hook first, sweet,” she said, kneeling down to show the child. “Like this.”

  The job done to Sorcha’s satisfaction, the child toddled back to her small collection of toys, which Esmée had arranged on a small rug by the empty bookshelves. She did not seem particularly interested in MacLachlan. That was probably a good thing.

  “What is that she calls you?” he asked curiously.

  Esmée shrugged. “Mae, or something like. She cannot yet get her tongue round Esmée.”

  MacLachlan was watching Sorcha as a naturalist might study a new species of beetle. Looking at his firmly chiseled profile, Esmée was struck again by how handsome he was. Oh, there were the usual signs of dissipation about his mouth, and a hint of world-weariness about his eyes. He was well on his way to becoming a wicked, worn-out rip, and around the edges, he looked it. She had noticed it last night, in a purely clinical way, as one might when summing up one’s adversary.

  But strangely, at the moment, he did not quite seem like her adversary. Indeed, he seemed almost as confused as she. Perhaps he was. Both their lives had been thrown into total chaos by her mother’s sudden death. All that she knew of child rearing she’d learned quickly, and very recently. It was more than a little daunting.

  Suddenly, Esmée realized Sorcha was lifting her hand to her mouth. She’d already learned that that was never a good thing. “Och!” she said, rushing forward to snatch the child. “A h-uile
nì thun a’ bheòil!”

  MacLachlan followed on her heels. When she snatched up the child, he pried something shiny from Sorcha’s wet fingers.

  “Nooo!” wailed Sorcha. “Gee to me! To meee!”

  “Well, well!” MacLachlan murmured, studying the shiny object. “My missing Roman solidus.”

  “’Tis what?” Esmée leaned over Sorcha’s head to stare at it. “Oh, an old coin?”

  “Very old indeed,” agreed MacLachlan, tucking it away. Esmée released the wiggling child. With one last glare at MacLachlan, Sorcha returned to her doll.

  “What was that you said to her?” he asked. “Something about her lips?”

  “Her mouth.” Esmée frowned. “Everything to the mouth. ’Tis just an old expression. Faith, MacLachlan, have you no Gaelic?”

  He shrugged. “I had a little once, I suppose.” He bent over and patted Sorcha’s head awkwardly, as if she were a beagle pup. Still, it was an attempt at affection, Esmée supposed.

  “Esmée,” he repeated, returning his gaze to her. “That is a somewhat fanciful name, is it not?”

  “Aye, my mother was a fanciful person.”

  “So I gathered,” said MacLachlan, drawing her away from Sorcha’s corner. “Your stepfather sounds like an ogre. How did a fanciful woman end up in such an illfated marriage?”

  Esmée thought it a strange question. “My mother was always accounted a great beauty,” she explained. “And Achanalt collected beautiful things.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Inexplicably, Esmée went on. “At first, Mamma thought it quite romantic to be pursued by an older, wealthier gentleman. Too late, she realized she was nothing but a possession.”

  “He did not love her?”

  Esmée looked at him oddly. “I think he loved her too much,” she finally answered. “That sort of all-encompassing love which turns cruel when thwarted.”

  “And did she thwart him?” murmured Alasdair.

  “I think she liked to make him jealous,” Esmée admitted. “Sometimes even angry.”

  “How so?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “After they married, he did not continue to pursue her,” she admitted. “He did not cater to her whims or court her, believing, I daresay, that she was already his property. Unfortunately, Mamma took that as a challenge. Matters soon…escalated.”

  “And you were caught in the middle?” he said musingly. “That cannot have been pleasant.”

  She dropped her gaze to the floor. “Do not fash yourself over me, MacLachlan,” she answered. “Your concern should be for wee Sorcha.”

  MacLachlan hesitated a moment. “Tell me, does the child—Sorcha, I mean—does she understand?” he asked. “Does she realize her mother is…gone?”

  Slowly, Esmée nodded. “Oh, aye, on some level. She has not asked for her since we left Scotland.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “Do you accept, then, that Sorcha is yours, sir? From your remarks in the dining room, I collect you do.”

  He surprised her then by crossing the room to Sorcha’s rug, and kneeling. The child looked up, giggled, and thrust out her naked doll. “Doll, see?” she said. “Mae gee me. See it? See?”

  “Yes, I do see,” he agreed. “She is a lovely doll. Here, shall we put her dress back on?”

  “Put ’ack on,” Sorcha parroted.

  Methodically, he picked up the doll’s dress and began to pull it back over her head. The child giggled again as he poked the arms through, and struggled to fasten the tiny hook with his large fingers.

  “May I help?” asked Esmée. “I fear that catching those tiny hooks is something of an acquired skill.”

  MacLachlan looked up from the floor, and crooked one brow. “I daresay,” he murmured. “It seems all my skill has been acquired in an altogether opposite direction.”

  Esmée was still searching for a proper set-down when MacLachlan returned the doll to Sorcha. He slid a finger beneath her chin, and lifted her gaze to his. “Did you look, Miss Hamilton, at my brother, Merrick?” he asked musingly.

  “Aye, that one was hard to miss.”

  MacLachlan tweaked Sorcha on the nose, stood, and returned to Esmée’s side. “But did you really look at him?” he pressed. “His features, you see, come from my mother’s side of the family.”

  “He has ‘MacGregor eyes,’ you said,” she agreed. “But I confess, I did not look closely.” He stood directly in front of her now. And close. Too close.

  “Frankly, his eyes can be a little unnerving,” said MacLachlan, leaning in another inch. “Like a wolf, staring at you from the edge of a wood. Ice-cold. Smooth and flat.” She could feel the heat radiating off his body. “Now, your eyes, Miss Hamilton are beautiful, too, but in an entirely conventional way,” he went on. “They are a sort of cool jade green, with little flecks of brown which one cannot discern until one is standing quite close.”

  Esmée took a step backward. “Do not be absurd.”

  “Ah, I cannot help it,” he said. “Life is so often absurd. Now, Miss Hamilton, look into my eyes and tell me what you see.”

  “Into your eyes?” she echoed sardonically. “They are just ordinary eyes.” God, what a liar she was. His eyes were the color of sunlit whisky, golden and beautiful, rimmed with black, and his dark fringe of lashes rivaled her own. “Really, MacLachlan, have you a point?”

  Suddenly, he smiled, and the strange moment was broken. “Not really,” he confessed. “Perhaps I was just fishing for a compliment.”

  “Your eyes are brown,” she said flatly. “A fine, fair color, aye, but as you say, quite conventional.”

  “Indeed, Miss Hamilton.” He gave her a muted smile. “My eyes are nothing at all like young Sorcha’s, and yet…”

  “And yet what?”

  He shook his head, and tore his gaze from hers. “It cannot be a coincidence, can it?” he said, his voice suddenly low. “I have never seen eyes like that on another living person, save my grandfather and Merrick.”

  A horrifying thought struck her. “Surely you do not mean to suggest that…that your brother—?”

  At that, MacLachlan threw back his head and laughed. “Good Lord, no!” he roared. “My brother has scarce left London this last decade. Indeed, he has scarce left his bloody desk. And, as you so succinctly pointed out, he would never trouble himself to charm a woman. He does not thrill to the chase, Miss Hamilton, as some of us lesser mortals do. If he gets it, I daresay he simply pays for it.”

  Esmée made a sound of irritation. “Mind what you say in front of the child!”

  He lost a little of his color. “My apologies, Miss Hamilton,” he said at once. “My wicked ways are hard to repress. And I keep forgetting that you are little more than a child yourself.”

  “Och, MacLachlan!” She looked at him chidingly. “I am twenty-two years old.”

  “Good Lord! Are you?” The shock must have shown on his face.

  “Oh, aye. And I feel forty.”

  He smiled faintly. “Well, I very nearly am forty, and I cannot even remember being twenty-two,” he returned, stepping back. “I should go now, if she has everything she needs?”

  Esmée opened her hands. “I hardly know.”

  He smiled again, and this time, the smile reached his whisky gold eyes, crinkling them just a bit at the corners. “Has she any toys beyond those scant few?” he asked, tilting his head toward Sorcha. “Perhaps a rocking horse and a few books would be in order?”

  Esmée nodded. “Aye, books and toys would be wonderful,” she admitted. “We had to leave most of our things behind.”

  MacLachlan nodded. The fleeting intimacy was gone. He had drawn away from her and retreated inside himself. Good. That was good. She let herself relax.

  “I shall be out until quite late in the evening,” he said. “Perhaps…even later than that. But Wellings will go up to the Strand for you. Should you think of anything further, I shall put it on my list for him.”

  “Thank you,” she said, following him to the door.
/>
  On the threshold, he stopped suddenly. “By the way, I almost forgot.” He dug into his pocket, extracted a plump fold of white paper, and pressed it into her palm. “Three hundred pounds. In advance. I thought you would prefer cash, flinty-hearted Scot that you are.”

  His hand was warm and oddly comforting. “Thank you,” she said.

  Slowly, his hand slid away from hers, and the warmth was gone. “Now tell me, Miss Hamilton, is that your insurance policy?” he asked quietly. “Just in case I should change my mind about taking care of Sorcha?”

  She dropped her gaze and said nothing. He had guessed, then.

  He pulled open the door, then hesitated. “Well, you shan’t be needing it,” he said. “Though I’m sure only time will convince you.” And with that, Sir Alasdair MacLachlan was gone.

  Alasdair escaped the house as soon as his letter to Uncle Angus was dispatched. He had the foresight, however, to order a suit of evening clothes sent across town to his friend Julia’s house, since he had promised to escort her to the theater that night, and he’d no intention of going home again anytime soon.

  Indeed, as he walked to his club in St. James’s, Alasdair toyed with the notion of simply moving in with Julia and leaving the house in Great Queen Street to his female interlopers. But that would not do. He needed to keep one eye on his new governess, and Julia wasn’t fool enough to have him anyway. Moreover, the house in Bedford Place wasn’t even Julia’s. It belonged to her friend Sidonie Saint-Godard, who had recently married the Marquis of Devellyn. Julia was at odd ends, too, having lost her best friend to the lure of wedding bells, just as he had. That, in part, was what had thrown them together.

  Alasdair lifted his gaze to see St. James’s Park ahead. The sun was unusually bright today, and the neighborhood nannies were out in full force, stiff white aprons flapping in the breeze, perambulators at the ready. He took the shortest route across the park’s expanse, but halfway along the path, a young girl with bouncing blond ringlets dashed out in front of him, her eyes intent on the pull toy she dragged behind.

  “Whoa!” said Alasdair, stopping abruptly.