Chapter One

Upon returning to his town house in Great Queen Street, Alasdair waved away his butler's questions about dinner, tossed his coat and cravat on a chair, and flung himself across the worn leather sofa in his smoking parlor. Then he promptly slipped back into the alcohol-induced stupor which had served him so well on the carriage ride home.

A copious amount of brandy had proven necessary in order to endure the company of his traveling companions. Quin had become peevish about his twenty-pound wager, and grumbled all the way to Wandsworth. As for Merrick, Alasdair's younger brother needed no excuse to behave sullenly. It was his perpetual state of existence. At least the pretty Gypsy had called that one right, Alasdair mused, drifting into oblivion.

For a time, he just dozed, too indolent to rise and go up to bed. But shortly before midnight, he was roused by a racket at his windows. He cracked one eye to see that the unseasonable heat had given way to a brutal thunderstorm. Snug and dry on his sofa, Aladair yawned, scratched, then rolled over and went back to sleep, secure in life as he knew it. But his lassitude was soon disturbed again when he was jolted from a dream by a relentless pounding at his front door.

He tried mightily to ignore it and cling to the remnants of his fantasy—something to do with Bliss, the beautiful Gypsy, and a bottle of good champagne. But the pounding came again, just as the Gypsy was trailing her fingertips seductively along his backside. Damn. Surely Wellings would answer it? But he did not, and the knocking did not abate.

Out of annoyance rather than concern, Alasdair crawled off the sofa, scratched again, and headed out into the passageway which overlooked the stairs. In the foyer below, Wellings had finally flung open the door. Alasdair looked down to see that someone—a female servant, he supposed—stood in the rain on his doorstep carrying, strangely enough, a basket of damp laundry.

Wellings's nose was elevated an inch, a clear indication of his disdain. "As I have twice explained, madam," he was saying, "Sir Alasdair does not receive unescorted young females. Particularly not at this hour. Get back in your hackney, please, before you fall dead on the doorstep of pneumonia."

He moved as if to shut the door, but the woman gracelessly shoved first her foot, then her entire leg, inside. "Now whisht your blether and listen, man!" said the woman in a brogue as tart as Granny MacGregor's. "You'll be fetching your master down here and making haste about it, for I'll not be taking no for an answer, if I have to knock on this door 'til God himself and all his angels come down those steps."

Alasdair knew, of course, that he was making a grievous error. But drawn by something he could not name—temporary insanity, perhaps—he began slowly to descend the stairs. His caller, he realized, was not a woman, but a girl. And the laundry was… well, not laundry. More than that, he could not say. Halfway down the stairs, he cleared his throat.

At once, Wellings turned, and the girl looked up. It was then that Alasdair felt a disembodied blow to the gut. The girl's eyes were the clearest, purest shade of green he'd ever seen. Like the churning rush of an Alpine stream, the cool, clean gaze washed over him, leaving Alasdair breathless, as if he'd just been dashed with ice water.

"You wished to see me, miss?" he managed.

Her gaze ran back up, and settled on his eyes. "Aye, if your name is MacLachlan, I do," she said. "And you look about as I expected."

Alasdair did not think the remark was meant to be a compliment. He wished to hell he was fully sober. He had the most dreadful feeling he ought to be on guard against this person, slight, pale, and damp though she might be. Somehow, beneath her bundle, she extended a hand. Alasdair took it, realizing as he did so that even her glove was soaked.

"Miss Esmée Hamilton," she said crisply.

Alasdair managed a cordial smile. "A pleasure, Miss Hamilton," he lied. "Do I know you?"

"You do not," she said. "Nonetheless, I'll need a moment of your time." She cut a strange glance at Wellings. "A private moment, if you please."

Alasdair looked pointedly down at her. "It is rather an odd hour, Miss Hamilton."

"Aye, well, I was given to understand you kept odd hours."

Alasdair's misgiving deepened, but curiosity overcame it. With a slight bow, and a flourish of his hand, he directed the girl into the parlor, then sent Wellings away for tea and dry towels. The girl bent over the sofa nearest the fire, and fussed over her bundle a moment.

Copyright © 2005 by S. T. Woodhouse