Read Online One Little Sin by Liz Carlyle - Free Book Online Page A

want to ask Miss Hamilton. She was not the enemy. No, not precisely. But already, if seemed as if she held the key to some important secret. Something held tantalizingly just beyond his reach.
    This morning, he’d felt like a stranger in his own home. His smoking room was gone, his billiard table was shortly to follow, and in their place he was to have females, one of them very small and willful, and the other disconcertingly pretty, with eloquent all-seeing eyes, and the scent of the Highlands still clinging in her hair. Yes, better to be thought an idiot here, with a woman he did not know, than in his own home in front of his little spitfire of a governess and his own… child.
    Good God! There it was again. Reality, intruding on what otherwise would have been a trouble-free life of ease and debauchery. Alasdair tucked his hat down to hide the mortification in his eyes and hastened his step toward the sheltering portals of White’s. One little sin, and now all this! It really was too much to absorb in one day.
     
    It was early afternoon by the time Esmée decided what her next step ought to be. Swiftly, she dug through their trunk and extracted Sorcha’s walking shoes. She looked at them and sighed. Regrettably, the little leather boots were not as tidy as one would wish.
    “Come along, my wee trootie,” she said, hefting the child to her hip. “I’ll no’ have you looking like a dirty little jaudie out amongst these fancy English.”
    Together, they went belowstairs, Sorcha jabbering merrily about everything she saw along the way. On the last landing, she saw an oriental vase she took a sudden liking to. But when thwarted, she went rigid and began flailing and squealing, “Gee! Gee me!” at the top of her lungs.
    Somehow, Esmée soothed her, but at the butler’s pantry, Sorcha began to squirm to be put down. Her hands full, Esmée bumped the door open with her hip and started through. Unfortunately, she did not see MacLachlan’s valet coming in the opposite direction. The swinging door cracked him hard across the elbow, resulting in a muffled curse.
    “Och, what have I done!” said Esmée, hastening on through. A pile of cravats and a puddle of black wool lay scattered across the floor. “Oh, Mr. Ettrick! Do forgive me.”
    “Really, Miss Hamilton!” said the testy valet, seizing the trousers. “I just this instant finished brushing that set of clothes!”
    Esmée had put Sorcha down, and was on her knees, trying to salvage the freshly starched cravats. “I am so sorry,” she said, swiftly gathering them. “My hands were full. I did not see you.”
    Esmée stood, and laid the stack of cravats on the brushing table. Ettrick was shaking out the coat now, a lovely garment which looked to be made of premium superfine. “Well, I daresay there’s little harm done,” he said, picking a piece of lint from the hem. “Just a speck or two. Hawes, look sharp, man!” he called across the room to one of the footmen.
    The footman looked up from his work at the opposite end of the long table. “What is it now, Ettrick?” asked Hawes irritably. “I’ve these boots to finish, haven’t I?”
    Ettrick shook the coat at him. “Sir Alasdair wants this delivered to Mrs. Crosby’s house,” he said. “Have it there by four or else.”
    “Oh, aye, I’ve nothing better to do than run all the way to Bloomsbury!” complained the footman.
    “No, you’ve nothing better.” Ettrick smiled sourly and hung the coat on a hook at the footman’s end of the table. “And for pity’s sake, Hawes, put a muslin sleeve over it this time.”
    Ettrick returned to the table and began inspecting the cravats. With one eye on Sorcha, Esmée picked up one of the many shoe brushes. Curiosity got the better of her. “Who is Mrs. Crosby, Mr. Ettrick?”
    At the distant end of the table, the footman sputtered. Ettrick gave a weary sigh. “Mrs. Crosby is Sir Alasdair’s particular friend.”
    “Aye, one of ’em!” interjected