Nine

Nin e

W ith the dead mouse quickly put out of sight in his pocket, two females gaping at him in raw disbelief, and really, being quite stuffed to the gills on goose and beef, it seemed as good a time as any to take his leave, so Liam grabbed up his overcoat.

Natalie was looking up at him as he shrugged into his coat, both hands clamped across her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, which, he thought irritably, begged the question of why exactly they should go around complaining about the radan if they didn't want it removed from the premises? And how did they propose he do that, if not by the boot?

"I beg yer pardon, Natalie, lass. I didna understand ye were so attached to the, er…mouse."

Still wide-eyed, Natalie looked at her mother, who, regrettably, looked almost as horrified. Bloody hell, then, he'd made quite a blunder, had he not? Just proved that he should never have climbed those stairs, damn fool that he was.

"I, ah…I should thank you," Natalie's mother said uncertainly, but she didn't sound as if she really wanted to thank him at all.

"Aye," Liam grunted as he took a giant step backward, toward the door. "I should be on me way, then."

"But…but you didn't finish your meal, Captain," sh e said, looking at his plate, which was, by anyone's standard, near to empty.

"I thank ye kindly for the hospitality, and in particular, the most excellent beef," he said, bowing sharply. "But I regret to say I am expected elsewhere."

Natalie's mother nodded, folded her hands in front of her. Knuckles white as snow, he noticed. "Thank you for joining us. It was quite, ah…lovely. And thank you for…well…you know. That, " she said, glancing at his pocket.

But he had thought she had wanted it gone! "Ye've been too kind, truly ye have," he said, groping for the door behind his back and swinging it open.

"Please. Think nothing of it."

Would that he were so fortunate. Would that he could forget ever setting foot on those stairs, but something told him this little impromptu supper and his slaying of the mouse would be on his mind for quite some time to come. "Well, then, I wish ye a good evening," he said, and backed out the door, shutting it quickly in case she thought to say more. Then he turned and strode quickly to the curving staircase, feeling like a wayward school lad as he paused on the top step to listen for any sound below. When he was convinced there was none, he hurried down the faded carpet of the steps, across the landing of what seemed to be an empty first floor, and down to the main foyer. He paused there, cocking his head first to one side, then the other, listening carefully. Quiet as a kirk on Monday.

Assured that no one saw him sneaking down from the floors above, Liam straightened the lapels of his coat and strode outside, pausing to toss the mouse carcass into the shrubs that lined the front of the house before jogging down the steps to the street and square below .

He marched across the square and wandered up the few streets to Hyde Park, where several hacks were gathered, but opted for the more austere and prudent form of travel (his feet), and hied himself across Mayfair to St. James. There, he slowed to the lazier, English pace as he looked for his cousin among the dozens of men who went in and out of the gentlemen's clubs along St. James and Pall Mall.

There was no sign of Nigel as yet. Liam checked his pocket watch, saw that it was still early—he might still catch the old sot before he drank his weight in ale. With his hands clasped nonchalantly behind his back, he strolled up St. James Street like all the Englishmen, peering into different windows, trying to appear interested. But in truth his mind was on Ellie (as he had named her in his imagination). Diah, she was beautiful, as beautiful as any woman he'd ever seen…or dreamed of, which actually constituted a much larger group of women. She reminded him of the French actress he had once seen in Rouen. That woman had long blond hair, skin as fair as a new bairn's, eyes as blue as a robin's egg. He'd only seen her for a moment as she crossed the cobblestones in the company of a high-ranking British officer, but she had glanced over her shoulder and smiled, and for many nights after that, Liam had dreamed that she smiled at him.

He had thought there was no one bonnier. Until he'd seen Ellie, of course, with her smile as bright as a thousand stars, her skin as smooth and rich as butter cream, and her eyes as crystal blue as an early morning sky. Unfortunately, each time he looked at her, his brain shriveled up to a bean and he lost the ability to use his tongue. It was one of those rare moments in life he wished he had a wee bit of Griffin in him. Grif knew how to charm a lady—not he. No, he'd never been a ladies' man, had never been in the company of ladies long enough to know what to do. Aye, but he was a soldier, a man who made his living in the pursuit and destruction of the enemy, spending days and weeks in trenches and camps. He was not some parlor Paddy who had spent years on the settee learning how to make ladies laugh.

Then perhaps, he sternly reminded himself, he'd do best to stay out of the parlor to begin with instead of lurking about and practically inviting himself in for supper.

Liam turned and crossed the street, strolled down the walk past Brook's and White's, looking at the gentlemen who came out of the clubs in twos and threes, trying very hard not to scowl. Englishmen, really! While he'd known several good, courageous Englishmen in the course of his military career, and could honestly avow to admiring a handful of them, it seemed that in London they were all a bunch of fops, dandies, and coxcombs. There wasn't a one of them who hadn't curled his hair or cinched his waist or padded his shoulder. It wasn't right, to Liam's way of thinking, went against the grain and the natural way of things. Men should be men and leave the cosmetics to women.

He paused at the corner of St. James and Pall Mall, propping himself against the corner of one building, and observed a group of young men sauntering across the street, laughing with one another. A carriage careened around the corner and sent the young men scrambling in different directions. It hardly surprised Liam to discover that the reckless carriage transported his cousin—the body of the vehicle surged toward the walkway, and out tumbled his rotund cousin, followed by a new pair of male companions.

One of the young men, who had come very close to being splattered on the street by his cousin's reckless driving, said something that caught Nigel's attention. He pirouetted on his heel, pitched toward the upstart, his finger wagging, and responded with something that caused the young men to laugh uproariously. As they regrouped and walked away, more than one turned his head to have a look at Nigel and laugh again.

Nigel attempted to straighten his waistcoat, but one hand wouldn't function properly, so he quit trying and pivoted around and let one of his companions push him in the direction of the door of the Darden Gentleman's Club.

"Ach, ye blasted sot," Liam muttered underneath his breath. "Ye leave me no option, do ye?" With his jaw clamped tightly shut, Liam pushed away from the building and marched to Darden's.

The inside of the club looked like most the others he had visited—dark paneling, thick leather chairs around small tables, the golden glow of wall sconces, the cloudy drift of smoke that burned his eyes. Liam walked deeper into the club, shrugging out of his coat. A man appeared on his right, offering to take it. "No, I'll keep it," he said, jerking it back from the man's helpful hand. One never knew when one might have to make a hasty exit.

He paid the required fee for gracing this club—a bloody two pounds, he noted with disdain—and the man pointed him toward the common room. Liam walked across the thick carpet toward a small table in the center of the room. It was hot as blazes in here, with twin hearths on opposite walls stoked to infernos. Thin-blooded bastards, the English Quality. With a humph, Liam dropped into a thickly padded leather seat and tossed his coat onto the chair next to him. When the footman arrived, he asked, "Have ye good Scotch whiskey?"

"We have whiskey, sir. I could not say if it was Scotch or Irish."

That rankled—Irish whiskey could hardly be counted in the same class as Scotch whiskey! "A dram of what ye have, then," he said, and wondered if the footman always looked that pinched or if he was merely sneering at his scarred face.

Never mind that. He had a look around; the tables in the common area were all but full, and in addition he could see four doors leading to other areas. Private rooms, no doubt. Probably where Nigel was now with his sycophants, filling their gullets with port. The footman brought him a dram of inferior whiskey, and Liam sipped carefully, as this quest to put himself in front of Nigel was costing him a pretty pence, and he would do well to make his whiskey last. Which made him wonder, rather impatiently, how exactly he might acquaint himself with the private rooms.

But as good fortune would have it, jolly old Nigel came bursting out of one door a moment later, laughing so uproariously that several of the club patrons swiveled in his direction to see what he was about. "Keep your cards on the table, Maxwell. I'll just be a moment," Nigel called loudly to his companion, then proceeded to bang his way through the tables toward the front of the club. There he spoke to the man who had let Liam in, talking loudly about something to do with the fire. When the man seemed to promise to take care of whatever it was that had upset his cousin, Nigel turned, obviously prepared to teeter-totter back to his private room. Not one to miss an opportunity, Liam threw the rest of his whiskey down his throat at the same time he came to his feet and grabbed his coat, slinging it over his arm.

He stepped in front of Nigel as his cousin reached the last table between him and the private room. "Pardon, sir," he said, looking Nigel directly in the eye.

"Yes, yes, of course," Nigel muttered, trying to bob around Liam without so much as a glance .

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Liam suppressed a sigh of irritation and said, in a voice of incredulity worthy of the theater, "Mo creach, could it be? Cousin Ni gel?"

"What? What's that?" a startled Nigel asked, raising his bleary gaze to Liam's face, squinting. "Pardon?"

All right, then, how hard would he make this? "Nigel, old chap! Do ye no' remember me, then?"

"Remember you? I daresay I don't, sir. I—" He stopped, peered closely at Liam, then reared back, hands on belly. "Liam? Cousin Liam?" he exclaimed. "By jove, it is you!" he exclaimed, still peering, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "How long has it been? Ten years?"

"No' as long as that. Seven?"

"Seven! Seven …bloody saints! Well, you've changed a bit, haven't you? A bit gray around the gills, what?" Nigel observed, then, his gaze traveling the full length of Liam. "A bit thicker, too, I'd say!"

Coming from someone who had gained at least two stone and had added the distinction of sot to his mantle since last they'd met, Liam didn't think his cousin's observations were terribly amusing. "A wee bit of gray, I suppose," Liam admitted. "Ah, but ye look the same, Nigel!"

Nigel grinned, smoothing his soiled waistcoat. "I suppose I've done rather well, all in all. Well, then, Lockhart—do tell what brings you to London after all these years? The last we saw you, you had purchased a commission into the navy, wasn't it?"

"Army. Highland Regiments."

"Aaah," said Nigel, nodding slowly.

The goat had no idea what Liam meant by that. "Just back from the war against Bonaparte," he added helpfully.

"Oh." Nigel's eyes grew round. "Ooh," he said again. "Back to London, really? I thought your people were in Scotland. "

Aye, thank God. Liam glanced ruefully at his cousin and tried hard to affect a sad mien. "I'm afraid we've had a bit of a falling out," he said quietly.

"A what?" Nigel all but shouted, not understanding.

Liam clenched his jaw, leaned forward, and said again, "A falling out. I'm rather at odds with me family."

"The Scots?" Nigel asked, confused.

"Aye, the Scots." God blind him, what a blockhead! "Father in particular. He's of the old way of thinking. Doesna believe in the Royal Army, if ye take me meaning."

Nigel blinked, swayed backward, then forward again. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Ooh, I seeeeee," he said low, nodding enthusiastically. He suddenly clamped a hand on Liam's arm. "There now, cousin, you simply must come join me and my companions."

Victory. "Ah, I wouldna think to intrude—"

"No intrusion! The more the merrier!" Nigel paused to stifle a hiccup, then asked, "You enjoy a good card game, don't you?"

"Aye, of—"

"Of course you do! Come along, then—you must tell me all about my Scottish cousins," Nigel blithely continued, pushing Liam in the direction of his private room. "Ah, yes, the Scottish Lockharts. How frightfully quaint. What, there were four or five of them, weren't there?" he asked, as if referring to a herd of livestock.

"Five in all," Liam bit out as he turned and accompanied Nigel to the private room.

Nigel stepped through the door first, unremarked by his two companions, who were engaged in a heated argument over a card. "Look here, Maxwell! Uckerby!" Nigel boomed, drawing Liam forward. "Look who has come to join us! My Scottish cousin Lockhart!" That succeeded in gaining the two men's attention, and they turned identical bloodshot gazes to Liam .

"My Scottish cousin Lockhart!" Nigel said again, then laughed and clapped Liam so soundly on the back that he nearly lost his breath. "He's from Scotland."

In spite of the fact that he was forced to endure the company of Lockhart, Maxwell, and Uckerby for the rest of the evening, and worse, well into the early-morning hours, Liam felt good about his progress with Nigel. They had not spoken again of his defection from the Scottish Lockharts, but Nigel did invite Liam to join him again the next evening at the exclusive White's, where Nigel held a membership. "There's better gaming there, you know," he informed him. Liam certainly hoped so.

The next afternoon, in between thoughts of Ellie, Liam penned another letter home.

Dearest Mother, Cousin Nigel sends his regards.

he wrote, then paused to study the letter and found it lacking somewhat. He therefore added:

I ate quite a good goose yesterday. Fondly, L.

He sealed the letter, took it to the post, then walked to Hyde Park.

He had determined, in the bright light of morning, that his stomping on a mouse in the dining room and in the course of a delightful supper had been rather inelegant. It was, upon reflection, something he was quite certain his mother would have objected to and a deed for which she might have perhaps tossed him out on his arse. Which meant, naturally, that he must apologize to Ellie. And he could hardly make an apology empty-handed, could he? He needed something to soften his transgression, such as flowers. Big and beautiful flowers. Hence his trek to Hyde Park, where he remembered there were several gardens full of blooming roses.

Indeed, there were several gardens, and Liam perused them all, finally deciding that the small garden near Park Lane had the best specimens. So he circled round until he reached that garden again, stepped over the rock border separating the roses from the pedestrian thoroughfare, and carefully moved to the middle of the patch to closely study the various bushes. After a quarter hour of hemming and hawing, he settled on the bloodred roses in the very middle of the garden, and pulling his dagger from his boot, he made several cuttings, exclaiming sharply with every prick of a thorn.

When he at last had what seemed to him a suitable bouquet to accompany his apology, he slipped the dagger back into his boot and turned toward the thoroughfare. A frown instantly washed over his face as he glared at the various onlookers who gaped at him in surprise and dismay. Barmy English! What, were these the only roses in all of Britain, then? Would the entire populace of London begrudge him a measly dozen of them? Liam carefully inched his way through the thorny bushes to the edge of the garden, stepped over the rock border, and straightened his clothing. With a scowl for the lot of them, he set off, his homemade bouquet in hand, feeling rather cheerful for the first time since he had arrived in London.