For the first time since moving into Laverloch, Fox had ended the day with a rather alarming sense of optimism. It had been that bonhomie—not his usual morose despondence—that had driven him to pour glass after glass of Bordeaux (and perhaps a finger or four of whisky for good measure). A self-congratulatory celebration.
But that optimism appeared short-lived, if the cacophony outside his window were any indication.
Staggering to his feet—groaning and cursing his inability to leave off strong drink—he stumbled to the window and peered down through slitted eyes.
Two stories below, a pair of burly Scots stood scarcely a foot apart, shouting at one another. Fox, with his English upbringing, struggled to understand them.
“Th’ windaes need tae be sussed foremaist,” the shorter, older man said, waving a hand toward the castle.
“Ye’re aff yer heid,” the other shot back—younger and sporting a shock of red hair under his Scotch bonnet. “Th’ roof is aboot tae fall doon. Ye cannae hae windaes if there’s nae roof.”
“O’course ye can hae windaes wi’oot a roof.”
Fox scanned the courtyard. Dozens of men milled about, waiting for the other two to either finish their argument or begin a brawl. Their expressions said they would be perfectly fine with either option. Fox could practically feel the swirling mass of male ego radiating upward from the courtyard flagstones.
Surely these men were Leah’s doing, but his wife was nowhere to be seen.
Giving in to another groan, he stumbled to the pitcher on a side table and drank two large glasses of water in succession. Water, he had found, helped ease the symptoms of a hangover. Granted, it took an hour or two for the water to have an effect, so he collapsed once more onto the bed, an arm flung over his eyes.
The men continued to argue.
His head continued to throb.
Fox scrubbed a hand down his face.
Right.
Was Leah even aware of the commotion happening outside?
Probably.
She was very competent, his wife.
He relaxed, trying to doze off and sleep away the worst of his hangover.
But then—
Madeline.
His eyes flew wide.
Where is Madeline?
Yes, Leah was competent, but there appeared to be much afoot. Was Madeline safely stowed in the nursery, away from prying eyes?
With another groan, he pushed himself upright and reached for his trousers.
Fifteen minutes later, Fox stumbled into the nursery, relieved to find his ward there. Bethany sat darning socks in the corner and, thankfully, keeping a hawk’s eye on her charge.
For her part, Madeline knelt on the nursery window seat with her face pressed against the paned glass, hips twisting her body right to left in an attempt to see what the men were doing down below. She scarcely turned her head when Fox entered the room.
“Is Mr. Dandy down with the noisy men?” Madeline asked, still craning her neck to see.
“I’m sure the cat knows better than to get near the workmen,” Fox replied, head throbbing and throat dry.
The girl glanced at him over her shoulder and frowned, forehead puckering adorably. “I think Mr. Dandy is down there. He wants them to shush.”
“Regardless, you are to remain here, Madeline. Do you understand?”
