Chapter 7
Perry saw the shift in Jenny and tried to fathom what about the girl revealed her attraction to Fergus MacEwen. Though she didn’t smile, Jenny’s face softened and brightened, her eyes went to MacEwen, then flitted away, then back again. Was that how she herself looked around Fox?
The heated looks were not all one way either. There would be mischief between these two.
She hadn’t thought Jenny capable of more than lock-picking, perhaps some pocket picking, and some complicity in sneaking around. She’d never had a maid who showed interest in men, not in Perry’s presence, anyway.
She glanced at Fox. He was fighting to hide a most irritating smirk.
Mischief, and that on top of the disturbing comments made by MacEwen.When he shows up here, I’ll take a message.Drat that they’d not arrived sooner to hear who was supposed to arrive.
If he’d even mentioned it. Perhaps he was like Father, never giving anything away. Since Father’s return a few years ago, she’d been observing his habits and techniques. Father never revealed anything he didn’t have to, and he always pretended to know less than he did.
She lifted her chin. “What is your name, man?”
MacEwen was all polite deference introducing himself, but she’d heard his remark about the King. Never mind that she agreed with him, at least about George being a ridiculous figure, staging a ridiculously extravagant spectacle when some of his people were lacking in regular food. The undercurrent here of two rebels cooking up mischief under her roof made her uncomfortable.
“I’ve seen you with Mr. Kincaid.”
“Aye, miss.”
“You serve my brother, Mr. Gibson?”
“When your father or Mr. Kincaid tells me to do so. My cousin and I are distant kin of Kincaid and Mrs. Gibson.”
She abstained from rolling her eyes. Weren’t all the Scots distant kin of each other?
Jenny took the kettle from Fox and fussed with it, glancing over her shoulder at MacEwen. He didn’t look back—the man’s attention was focused squarely on Perry in a way that sent her skin wriggling, like a butterfly pinned to a mat.
She stood taller, bringing her eyes almost even with his. “Why are you here, Mr. MacEwen?”
Something shifted in his gaze. Fox drew closer, as if standing where he could come between them if they came to blows.
“I’m here on your father’s business, my lady.”
“And what is that business?”
A twitch started next to his eye. “I’m here to serve Mr. Fox.”
Yes, she’d heard that part, and she’d also heard it was pretense. Who was arriving? A smuggler? A spy bringing a report? Or…a traitor her father was hunting?
Her pulse quickened. There’d been much of that these last couple of years, her father seeking out the men and women who’d betrayed England during the long conflict with France. Why her father could not leave the war behind, she didn’t truly understand.
“I see. My father sent you along to serve Mr. Fox, who’s come here to paint. You’re serving him, and yet he’s cooking for you.”
“As I made dinner for you and Jenny,” Fox said. “I am, after all, one of those hardy republicans, throwing off the yoke of class and aristocracy.” He went to the stew pot and lifted the lid. “Warming up nicely. Seat yourself, Lady Perpetua. You too, MacEwen.”
The last was a terse command. MacEwen eyed him hotly and sat. She took her seat and glanced at Jenny, who nodded and brought her the teapot.
While she poured, Jenny went to the crockery cupboard, returned with a bowl and filled it with stew. Her breast brushed MacEwen’s arm as she set the bowl in front of him, sending his dark eyes bulging.
The cheeky, clever girl. If MacEwen got her with child, she would make him marry her.
Or perhaps he had a wife in Scotland.
Perry took a careful sip of her tea. “As you’re to be living in my home, tell me about yourself, Mr. MacEwen.”
MacEwen gave a sketchy description of his roots and his history. He’d been in the army, as had many of Father’s men. Both Jenny, and surprisingly Fox, listened attentively.
