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“He is, and I would be most grateful if you could see to his needs. If you’re up to it,” he added a moment later. “If not, I can do it.”
“Of course I’m up to it,” the old man snapped. “I’m no in the grave yet. Will ye be stayin’ the night?”
Royal pulled off his hat and scrubbed his head. “I have no idea. I’ve yet to talk to anyone in the house.”
“Why the bloody hell not?”
“Because no one the bloody hell answered the door when I knocked.”
“Och, that’ll be Hector, for ye. Useless,” Darrow said. “All right, I’ll see to this laddie’s needs and get him settled.”
“Thank you.” Royal patted Demetrius. “I’ll come check on you in a bit, good boy.”
The horse nickered and then docilely went off with the old man, who handled the animal with practiced ease.
“By the way, how do I get into the house?” he called after Darrow.
The coachman pointed past one of the outbuildings. “Go ye to the kitchen and knock. Mrs. Campbell or Betty will let ye in and fetch her ladyship. If ye try the front door again, ye’ll be waitin’ all bloody day for Hector.”
Clearly, Lady Margaret had a servant problem. Royal found it hard to believe that Ainsley would put up with the likes of the mysterious Hector.
The kitchen was easy enough to find, since several large windows were opened to catch the breeze, and the smell of apple pie and baking bread wafted out in delicious waves. Lady Margaret might preside over a madhouse, but it appeared that Bedlam had a competent cook.
Since the door stood wide open, Royal ducked his head under the lintel and took the few steps down to the flagstone floor. A middle-aged woman, her brown hair tidy under a neat cap, was slicing potatoes at a wooden table in the middle of the old-fashioned but well-organized kitchen. She quietly sang an old Highland ballad that Royal’s mother used to sing, although she broke off when a clattering noise erupted from a door on the other side of the long, low-ceiling room.
“Och, Betty,” she exclaimed. “Ye’ll not be dropping any more of the crockery, I hope. Not after ye broke my best mixing bowl, just last week.”
“Never fear, Mum,” answered a cheery voice. “Just puttin’ the trays away.”
A moment later, a young woman emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. “I was . . .” She pulled up short when she saw Royal. “Mum, who’s that?”
The cook spun around. “Excuse me, sir, but how did ye get in here?” Then she winced before trying for a smile. “I mean, how can I help ye?”
Royal doffed his hat. “I’m sorry if I startled you, ma’am. I’ve come to see Lady Margaret. When I knocked on the front door, no one answered.”
The women exchanged a glance. “Hector,” they said simultaneously.
“Indisposedagain, the daft fool,” Mrs. Campbell muttered.
Indisposed, no doubt, imbibing a wee too many drams of whisky.
“I beg yer pardon, sir. Willy has gone into the village on an errand,” she said apologetically, “else he would have answered it.”
Betty, a bonny girl with a pretty smile and flaming red hair, gave Royal a flirtatious wink. “Or I would have, if I’d heard ye. Ye can be sure I would have answered.”
“Er, thank you,” Royal said.
“None of that, lass,” her mother said with heavy disapproval. “He’s a gentleman, dinna ye ken? Not one of yer flirts down at the tavern.”
“Sorry, Mum,” her daughter said, not sounding the least bit sorry.
“Is Lady Margaret at home?” Royal asked with some exasperation.
“And is her ladyship expectin’ ye?” Mrs. Campbell asked a mite warily.
“Not entirely,” he hedged. “But Lady Ainsley will not be surprised to see me. We’re good friends.”
The cook eyed him, clearly dubious.
