“I’ll help,” Alex agreed, barely stifling a sigh, “but only if ye promise to not turn to whisky if this all goes to pot. You’ll stay sober and you’ll write us regular-like. Your word.”
“I’m not going back to the bottle, Alex. I’m no help tae my Jamie if I’m soused. I ken that now.”
Alex stared at him for a heartbeat.
Kieran’s gaze was steadfast and resolute.
That was good. But would it last?
“What do ye need from me?” Alex asked.
Kieran smiled, a bleak thing. “A loan of fifty pounds and a promise ye’ll keep my whereabouts from the others.”
Alex pressed two fingers to his forehead.
Well, considering that Alex intended to remain mum about his own issue before the Committee on Privilege . . . he supposed adding more secrets to the list did no harm at all.
2
The Long Gallery
Frome Abbey, Wiltshire
January 15, 1821
Cousin Alex had come at last.
Lottie watched him climb the front stairs, her body partially hidden behind the Florentine damask curtains Grandmère adored.
She had been keeping vigil since daybreak. Lord Frank said Dr. Whitaker was to arrive today, but the lack ofwhenhad haunted her. She had tried to lose herself in a recent translation of Mr. Immanuel Kant’s celebrated treatiseLogic, but philosophical reading was slow going at the best of times. When waiting for a potentially life-altering visit, absorbing subtle inflections of logical thought was nearly impossible. She had given up after reading the same page for the fourteenth time.
But now, well past luncheon, Cousin Alex had finally come.
Lottie had been unsure what to expect. The Cousin Alex of her memory was soft. Kind eyes. Kinder voice. A gentleness to his hands that belied the no-nonsense economy of his movements. A healer.
But the man climbing the steps below her did not appear soft. The rigid lines of his caped Garrick coat and the gleaming shine of his Hessians matched the tense set of his jaw beneath his top hat. He appeared to be less a healer and more a knight preparing to storm the enemy’s keep.
In short—Cousin Alex had come ready for combat.
Which, all things considered, was a somewhat apropos tactic, she supposed.
But she still felt a pang for the gentle doctor of her memory.
“Who the man, Tottie?” Freddie asked.
Lottie smiled, never tiring of hearing herself called Tottie—an elision ofAunt Lottie—in Freddie’s lisping three-year-old voice.
Her nephew slid a sticky hand into hers. Lottie darted a glance down to his fingers. Why were children’s hands always so distressingly sticky? It was an eternal mystery.
Regardless, she clasped his fingers and smiled at Freddie’s blond head. “That is our cousin, Dr. Alex Whitaker.”
“Mmmm. Papa no like him.” Freddie pressed his small face to the glass, attempting to watch Cousin Alex enter the house below. As was typical of a three-year-old, he became distracted by the sensation and instantly stuck out his tongue.
“Frederick Fulton! Gracious! Windows are not to be licked!” Margaret’s voice cut through the room.
Freddie jumped back.
Margaret met Lottie’s gaze with an exaggerated shake of her head that saidI cannot believe the things I say as a mother.
