Seven

F inding Nigel proved to be easier than finding an elephant in a crowded ballroom.

Liam had ventured out dressed in a suit of clothing he had borrowed (loosely speaking) from Grif. He wore a coat of dark blue superfine (too tight in the shoulders), dove-gray trousers (too tight in the legs), and a waistcoat so foppishly embroidered that Liam feared someone might actually mistake him for a dandy. But then again, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he did resemble the other gentlemen milling about London (not that he wanted to look limp-wristed and fastidiously groomed). The only detracting feature was his hair, which was swept back and long, to his shoulders. That was because he did not have (nor would he ever have) the proper utensils to coif his hair, thank you, God. But it was not so distracting that he could not pass for a gentleman of means.

He strolled along St. James and Pall Mall, and the gentlemen's clubs catering to a privileged clientele there, paying careful attention to his gait (slowing it down) and mimicking the English walking style—leaden and indolent. While it took a bit of going about and in and out of several clubs, Liam finally found him, and truthfully, he couldn't have missed Nigel if he had tried—his cousin had certainly wintered well these last several years. The buttons of his waistcoat were under such a strain that Liam feared, should one work its way loose, that it might put someone's eye out.

As he settled in with a Scotch whiskey, neat, Liam smiled. His plan was working beautifully. All he had to do now was put himself in Nigel's path. Then Nigel would see him, believe he had stumbled on his Scottish cousin quite by accident, and inquire as to what he was doing in London. The rest would be child's play. Unfortunately, Liam was soon to discover, getting Nigel to recognize anyone was a damn sight harder than finding the old goat, because jolly old Nigel had fallen so far into his bloody cups.

In the first club, Liam positioned himself just at the door so that when his cousin left, he could not help but notice Liam standing there. Indeed, no one else could help but notice—he was the subject of several curious glances as he waited.

Unfortunately, Nigel didn't notice Liam there, and in fact, brushed past him so carelessly that Liam was pushed into the wall.

A bit nonplussed by that, Liam had gathered his wits and followed Nigel and his companions to the next club, where they immediately sat down and engaged in a round of cards. Biding his time once again, Liam had a whiskey. Then two. Then a third, rolling his eyes in exasperation as he listened to his cousin's wheezing laughter at every bawdy joke his companions told.

When at last Nigel and his companions decided to quit the establishment, Liam once again positioned himself where Nigel might see him. His cousin came lumbering toward the door directly behind his two companions, and this time actually peered at Liam with watery, bloodshot eyes. But there was no flash of recognition, no hint of anything in residence behind those eyes, and Nigel continued on, lurching for the door.

Blast it! Sighing impatiently, Liam leaned against the door and watched as his cousin fell out the door (his complete spill stopped only by the bodies of his companions), righted himself, slapped one poor chap on the back, and lunged for his carriage.

As he watched the carriage (listing to one side) pull away, Liam could clearly see meeting his sot of a cousin would require a different strategy. With a shake of his head, Liam headed for his rooms on Belgrave Square.

At noon the next day, Liam was starving, having opted, in spite of his military training, to forgo the dark, foul-smelling shape on his morning plate. Absolutely infuriated by the lack of food in spite of the ridiculous rent he had paid Farnsworth, and literally starving for something good to eat, Liam decided that if he was going to survive his London mission and have enough funds to return home, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

With a pistol in one pocket, his sgian dubh in his stocking, and a pillow covering attached to his belt, Liam set out, striding purposefully across town, past rows and rows of ornate town homes and into the lush green paths of Hyde Park. He walked past trees and benches and play areas where children frolicked. He joined the English on the main promenade, hardly noticing their curious looks in his direction as he strode, arms swinging, eyes straight ahead, his stomach roaring with hunger. He kept walking until he came upon a little pond he had discovered several days earlier, and a smile broke his stoic face. There they were, the four geese he had seen previously swimming languidly across the pond. Breakfast.

Oblivious to anything else around him, Liam slipped his pistol from his belt, waited until the geese neared the edge of the pond. Sighting the healthiest of the four, he fired. The three surviving geese immediately set off in a racket of flapping wings and honking beaks as he ran down to the pond, splashing headlong into the water before the dead goose could sink or float away. He caught it up by the neck, was inordinately pleased to see that he had managed to shoot the thing so that most of the meat was still intact. Aye, she'd make a delectable meal!

Liam turned, sloshing his way back to the edge of the pond.

Only then did he notice that several people had come running at the sound of gunshot, and now stood, gaping, as he bent down on the pond's edge and quickly began to pluck the feathers. Let them gawk. Bloody English had never gone hungry, was that it?

"I beg your pardon, sir! What do you think you are doing?"

Liam glanced up at the sound of the effeminate male voice, his gaze landing on a thin little man who peered at him through wire-rimmed spectacles. Behind him stood a woman gripping a parasol as if she intended to use it on him.

"You can't just go about killing the geese!" the man insisted.

Liam looked around. "I didna see a posting forbidding it."

The man lifted his chin. "Clearly, sir, this is not a hunting park, nor has it been for more than one hundred years! I daresay there's no posting, but I should think common sense and decency would dictate your behavior!"

"A desire for decent food dictates me behavior, sir. How can ye expect a man to live on the rubbish ye English call food?"

The man gasped his outrage; he looked at his companion, then at Liam again. "You are poaching sir! You leave me no choice but to summon the authorities! "

Bloody hell. He'd not be able to clean his goose without an audience, apparently. Exasperated, Liam muttered a little Scottish saying about the English under his breath, shoved the half-plucked, oozing goose into his pillow casing and stood.

The Englishman took two quick steps back as he peered up at Liam.

"I'll take me goose elsewhere, then, if it bothers ye so," he said gruffly, and slinging the bag over his shoulder, disappeared up the path, leaving an errant feather to drift between him and the gawking onlookers.

Liam marched back to Belgravia, but not without a small detour to the markets, where he purchased a head of cabbage for a half-pence. With the cabbage in one hand, the goose dangling over his shoulder, and his mouth watering with the thought of cooked bird, Liam strode through town, taking the most direct route to the Farnsworth house, directly across the middle of Belgrave Square. His stride was long and urgent, so urgent, in fact, that he almost walked right over little Natalie when she suddenly darted from behind a hedge, her bright red cape streaming behind her.

"Good afternoon, Captain!" she called brightly, skipping toward him. Her hair, he noticed, lit by the early afternoon sun as it was, looked as silken as her mother's. "Where are you going?"

Aaah, bloody rotten hell, then! Liam stopped. Closed his eyes. Sighed heavenward. God intended for him to starve, apparently—he felt near to death he was so famished, and the last thing he wanted was a conversation with a child. This child in particular. He lowered his head. "My destination is hardly yer concern, is it, lass?" He attempted to step around her, but Natalie moved, too, blocking his path.

"Do you know where I am going? To the milliner."

Liam had no idea what a milliner was, and furthermore, he hardly cared. His stomach was roiling, and he still had to dress the damn bird, no thanks to that spit of an Englishman and his tender feelings. "Splendid," he drawled. "Now if ye'd move out of me way—"

"I am going to be fitted for a new hat…for the Christmas pageant in Laria," she said, walking in a tight little circle before him, round and round, "and I will be one of the actors."

"Bloody grand, that is," he said to the little dervish. "But if ye please, suithad!"

Natalie paused in her circling to squint up at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means ‘Go now and be off with ye!' " he said, gesturing impatiently for her to run along, and as he did so, he noticed two girls on the path walking toward them, a woman trailing lazily behind. They looked to be about the same age as Natalie. "Ah, there now, some children to play with ye," he said, and pointed at the girls.

But as Natalie followed his gaze up the walkway, she instantly stepped back, so that she was standing directly in front of Liam. "I…I don't know them," she mumbled.

The child was missing the point. His patience now gone the way of his stomach, Liam clamped a hand firmly on her shoulder. "All right then, ye little bugger, run on, then! I've a goose and a cabbage and I'm near to starving, I am!"

But Natalie didn't seem to hear him; annoyed, Liam groaned and looked up at the girls walking toward them…but he noticed that they were walking slowly, their hands shielding their mouths as they shared their whispers, their eyes full of laughter. It took him a moment to understand that whatever the whispering, they were laughing at Natalie. And if he had any doubt, Natalie pressed up against him, and her little hand reached up to touch his on her shoulder .

Confused, Liam looked at the girls again. They were walking and giggling in a way that seemed derisive, and worse, the woman walking behind seemed oblivious to them, examining rosebushes along the path as she was. Why anyone would laugh at a lass as bonny as Natalie, Liam could not begin to imagine, and surprisingly, it angered him. He instantly felt the indignation he had felt as a child when children would taunt Mared about that ridiculous curse. All right, then, he'd just ask the children why they were laughing, have a little chat. But as they neared, Natalie suddenly bolted, disappearing into a gap in the hedge, and the two girls burst into gleeful laughter.

Liam looked at the hedge, then the two girls, who had scurried on. He could not begin to interpret the children's actions, but he did understand one thing quite clearly—they had upset Natalie, and without thinking, he walked through the hedge after her.

Only he was larger than the gap, and it took him a moment to push through the hedge and out the other side. He just saw Natalie's red cape disappear around another hedge. Damn it all to hell, then. Liam strode after her, rounding the same bend as she had, but instantly and awkwardly drew up at the sight of Natalie's mother sitting on a bench, quietly reading. Natalie ran and slipped in beside her mother, then laid her head on her shoulder.

Liam froze where he stood, paralyzed by the sight of that bonny woman again, and suddenly filled with indecision. He looked down at the cabbage he held and immediately decided to turn and retreat the way that he had come with all due haste before she—

"Captain?"

Damn. With a wince, he looked up; her blue eyes instantly arrested him on the spot. Run! his mind screamed, but Liam stood like a deaf-mute, staring doltishly at her fair face. He shoved the cabbage under his arm, looked right, then left, but saw there was no easy, polite method of escape. His palms were sweating now, and he adjusted the bag on his shoulder, shifted the cabbage again.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Liam swallowed and growled, "Good day."

She smiled that bloody gorgeous smile of hers that made him feel warm and golden again, put the book aside, and stood, leaving Natalie to sit staring morosely into space. "I see Natalie found you again. I thank you for seeing her safely back to me. I confess she quite got away—I was rather absorbed in my book."

Liam put his free hand on his waist. Then dropped it. Then took the cabbage from beneath his arm and held it. "Ah. I… see," he said with a slight nod. I see? What sort of ridiculous response was that? He cleared his throat and looked toward the hedge again. Think! Think, think…

"Do you walk in our little park often?" she asked, and Liam jerked his gaze to her again.

"Ah…no. 'Tis the path to town. For me, that is. I mean, considering where it is I go." Ach, ye imbecile! Shut yer gullet, then!

"Ah." She smiled, put a hand to the side of her gown and ran her palm across it. He noticed her fingers were long and delicate—

"Well. I shan't keep you from your tasks," she said, and with another quick, alluring smile, carefully resumed her seat and picked up her book.

Liam shifted the bag with the goose in it, dislodging a feather from his shoulder. He told himself to turn and walk away, but his mouth opened of its own accord. "I beg yer pardon, madam," he blurted, "but might I ask, where is Laria, then? "

"Pardon?"

Had he said it incorrectly? "Ah… LAA-ree-aah," he said again, enunciating carefully.

Natalie's mother looked at him in surprise, then at the heavens as she shook her head, muttering something unintelligible before she turned a charming smile to him again. "I do beg your pardon, sir. I'm afraid my daughter has quite an imagination. Laria exists only in her mind."

Only in her… Ach, what a bloody fool he was! Strangely, he could feel a curious heat rushing up his neck. He should have known, what with the crippled mother and all that. The beauty was smiling, clearly amused by his foolishness. That was not an image he would have linger, so Liam took an uneasy step toward her, smiling thinly. "Then I should presume there will be no Christmas pageant, eh?"

She laughed, tossing her head back, drawing attention to the smooth curve of her neck. "A Christmas pageant? Did she say such a thing? Goodness, Natalie!" she exclaimed, smiling down at the girl. Natalie scooched further down on the bench.

Liam took another step forward. "And…a milliner—more fantasy, is it?"

"Oh, no, the milliner is quite real, fortunately," she said, and laughed again, a sound so low and rich that it gave Liam goose bumps (the goose notwithstanding). "The milliner fashions hats," she explained, "but we mean to only look at them," she added, looking sternly at Natalie for a moment. She smiled up at Liam again. "Captain…I beg your pardon, but have you a name, sir?"

"Lockhart. Captain Lockhart."

"How do you do, Captain Lockhart? Ellen Farnsworth."

Ellie. A lovely name for a lovelier woman. It suited her, he thought. "'Tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance," he said properly, bowing low, cabbage in hand. And it was indeed a very special pleasure, he thought, straightening again to gaze at her smiling blue eyes—until he realized he was gawking, and instantly took a step backward, a wee bit flustered. God blind him, what was the matter with him? He was not the sort to be so easily unsettled! He was a Highland soldier, an assassin, a man with nerves of steel! "There ye are. I suppose I ought to be on my way."

"You've sprung a bit of a leak," she said pleasantly.

Horrified, he blinked. "I beg yer pardon, I've done what?"

"You seem to be leaking," she said again, nodding politely to the bag he was holding.

Liam looked down, saw it was the forgotten goose that was leaking ( not him, thankfully!), but felt his heart nonetheless climb right to his throat. Marvelous, this was. He was a rustic bumpkin who carried his food about in a pillow casing and a cabbage in his hand! He stared at the blood dripping to the ground and wondered what a true gentleman might say in an awkward moment like this. Righto, so I have. Or Bugger me, look there, will you? Liam remembered his training—when one is in a situation from which one cannot cleanly extract oneself, one should retreat with all due haste—and took one involuntary step backward. "Well then. Good day to ye."

"Do enjoy your day, sir. It's rare to have so much sunshine this time of year," Ellie said, looking at the blue sky with a smile on her face.

"Aye," he said stupidly, and pivoted sharply, striding instantly in the opposite direction, as fast as his legs would carry him, the goose leaving a thin red trail behind him.

When he reached his rooms and shut the door firmly behind him, he realized he had been clutching the bag so hard that his fingers had frozen in a cramp.

What in hell was the matter with him? He was acting as if he'd never seen a woman before! Disgusted, Liam stalked across the room and tossed the bird in the bag into the basin, walked to the small brazier, stirred the coals from the morning's fire, and added more. As he waited for the coals to heat, he returned to the basin, took out his dagger, and began to clean the bird, plucking her feathers in a sharp, jerking motion.

A half hour later, he had removed all his clothes but the buckskins, had eaten his cabbage, and was roasting his bird over the brazier coals. When he finished his meal, and was at last fully sated, he cleaned up best he could, dumping what was left of the bird into the bag. He wandered to the lumpy bed and fell onto it, thinking about Ellie.

He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew the smell of entrails was quite strong, permeating everything in the room. Liam glanced at his pocket watch—it was late afternoon. He had slept for more than two hours! A bloody waste of time—if he wanted to find Nigel before the chap fell into his cups again, he'd best be about it!

However, the stench in the room was unbearable. Who knew when Follifoot might come around to remove the remains? Liam took the foul-smelling bag to the window. He opened the double panes, leaned over, and looked at the mews below, spotting the rubbish heap he had noticed earlier. He lifted the bag, gave it a good swing, and watched it fall, landing atop the heap. Satisfied, he began to pull inside the window, but a movement caught his eye, and he leaned out, looked to the right. There on the walk in front of the house was Farnsworth, tottering off on his little feet, wrapped in a cloak .

Gone gambling for the evening, he supposed. Behind him, Miss Agatha appeared, scurrying across the square, trotting off to a life heaven knew where before she had to return to Hades House the following morning.

Liam pulled himself back in and shut the window, staring at the dingy, cracked pane for a moment as a very dangerous and ill-advised thought played at the corner of his mind. A thought so ludicrous, so absolutely preposterous, that it was a damn disgrace to the soldier that he was. After all, he had his work cut out for him with Nigel and the English Lockharts, didn't he? Losing his focus could only compromise his mission; how many times had that been drilled into him? Single-minded, focused on a task. Isn't that what they had taught him in the military?

He shook his head, returned to the basin, and used what little water there was left in the ewer to clean up. He dressed in more of Grif's foppish clothes, combed his hair, and washed his mouth, preparing to set out for the evening.

When the familiar knock came to his door, he opened it, stepping aside so Follifoot could bring in whatever foul thing they had served up that night. As usual, Follifoot was silent as he passed by, carrying a tray laden with something that smelled remarkably like raw haggis.

Liam picked up his coat, slung it over one arm. "Be a good lad and clean up the basin, will ye?" he asked, and walked out, smiling at the shock on Follifoot's face. He proceeded down the long corridor, turned at the bottom of the winding staircase toward the door, one foot in front of the other, on his way out to find his cousin.

But the foot came down and stopped dead, immobile. Glued .

Slowly, Liam turned and peered up the winding staircase, leaning as far to one side as he could to see around the bend. Nothing. Not a sight of anything or anyone, not even a peep. His fingers drummed impatiently against his thigh. Lunacy, sheer lunacy! Of course now he knew why Farnsworth had forbade him from climbing those stairs. If he were going to leave a wife as bonny as Ellie here alone, he would not only forbid it, he'd put an iron gate across the bloody staircase. Armed guards. Hell, he'd not leave her, which just proved once again that Farnsworth was a stupid bastard.

Aye, better to leave well enough alone, he told himself, even if he did have a burning need to show her that he was not some rustic bumpkin, contrary to all appearances thus far. He had given Farnsworth his word. Besides, what should he care what she thought of him? She was a married woman, a mother, and English, for chrissakes, a member of the Quality and all that, the last sort of woman who should ever spark an interest in him. Actually, he had no business thinking about her at all. At all.

Except that he couldn't seem to get her out of his mind.

Just go, then! Disgusted with himself, Liam snapped back around, faced the door, and reminded himself that he had to find Nigel before the goat drank his weight in whiskey, or else he would lose another entire day. But the sound of Follifoot at the basin drifted down the corridor, rattling Liam in his indecision, and suddenly, in a moment of sheer insanity, he pivoted on his heel again, looked up the winding staircase, and darted stealthily upward.