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Helen tapped her foot as they waited for the door to open.
“Relax,” Alistair growled softly beside her.
“How can I?” Helen said impatiently. “I don’t know why that letter was so important. What if we missed the luncheon altogether?”
“We haven’t. The carriages still clog the street, and besides, these things go on for hours; you know that.” He sighed and muttered, “You should’ve stayed in the hotel room as I suggested.”
Helen glared. “They’re my children.”
He cast his eye heavenward.
“Tell me again what your plan is,” she demanded.
“All I have to do is get Lister to relinquish claim on the children,” he said in a maddeningly soothing voice.
“Yes, but how?”
“Trust me.”
“But—”
The door was opened by a harried maid at that point. “Yes?”
“Late as usual, I’m afraid,” Alistair said in a loud, cheerful voice entirely unlike his normal tones. “And my wife has just now torn a lace or some such. Perhaps you can show us to a room where she can put herself to rights?”
The girl wrenched her horrified gaze from Alistair’s face and stood back to let them in. Blanchard House was one of the grandest houses on the square, the interior hall lined with pale pink marble and gilt. They passed a white marble statue of Diana with her hounds, and then the girl opened a door leading to an elegant sitting room.
“This will do excellently,” Alistair said. “Please, don’t let us keep you from your duties. We’ll show ourselves in when my wife is ready.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. The occasion of a luncheon honoring the king no doubt involved every available servant.
“Stay here, please,” Alistair said. He pressed a hard kiss to her lips and swung toward the door.
And froze.
“What is it?” Helen asked.
On the wall by the door was a huge painting—a life-sized portrait of a young man.
“Nothing,” he muttered, his gaze still on the painting. He shook his head and turned to her. “Stay here. I’ll return and collect you after I’ve talked to Lister. All right?”
She had barely nodded when he strode from the room.
o;It’s quite amazing what a wife will keep from her husband,” Vale mused. “My innocence has been crushed since our marriage. But, yes, she did indeed finally deign to tell me why she was looking so pleased with herself recently.” Vale splashed more brandy into his glass. “The lengths to which you’re prepared to go to please a housekeeper make me wonder about the servant situation in Scotland. Good help must be thin on the ground.” Vale widened his eyes and took a drink.
“She’s more to me than a housekeeper,” Alistair growled.
“Wonderful!” Vale slapped him on the back. “And about time, too. I was beginning to worry that all your important bits might’ve atrophied and fallen off from disuse.”
He felt unaccustomed heat climb his throat. “Vale…”
“Of course, this means my lady wife will be near impossible to live with,” Vale said to the bottom of his glass. “She does get a trifle self-satisfied when she thinks she’s pulled something off, and I’m sure you’ve realized by now that she sent Mrs. Fitzwilliam to you with a purpose.”
Alistair merely grunted at that and held out his glass. Women and their mechanisms were no longer a shock to him.
Vale obligingly refilled it. “Tell me about these children.”
He closed his eye and inhaled, recalling their small faces. The last time he’d seen Abigail’s face, she’d been red with hurt and near tears. Dammit, he wanted a chance to make that better. Pray God he’d have it.
