He grinned. “I do say, Miss LeBeau, you saved—”
The Spotted Elk’s last nail chose that moment to retire completely.
With horror, she used all her strength and power to leverage the gentleman sideways.
The flat of the sign landed at the back of his head.
Mr. Smith’s eyes formed round circles. Then they rolled back.
All Mr. Smith’s weight came tumbling down atop her. All twelve stone worth of him.
Oh, guid Lord. I killed Mr. Smith.
Nettie’s reassuring voice sounded from nearby. “Och, ye havena, lass!” the older woman said brightly. “His chest still moving, it be.”
Relief brought her eyes sliding closed.
Lucy lay stunned, both from her own fall, and the fact her family’s establishment was to blame for Mr. Smith’s demise. Or, as Nettie said, his almost demise.
She looked up, even as her uncle and Joseph worked in concert to get the gentleman to his feet.
“We do need to bring the lad home to his family. Nettie is already gone to get the cart.”
She’d always wanted to meet the big, happy family Mr. Smith often spoke of. He’d shared enough details of them over the years, and she had hoarded them like a squirrel gathering up acorns for a long winter.
Nettie appeared with the wagon.
Lucy expected the family wouldn’t be happy for long when they discovered what she was guilty of.
Chapter 2
Captain Arran McQuoid would hand it to the McQuoid and Smith clans—they could smile through even the most shite of times. Or attempt to, anyway.
At present, Arran’s family did so in the White Parlor of McQuoid Manor. Look at them. Hanging ornaments. Tying ribbons upon the freshly cut Scots pine. All of it in keeping with their annual Yuletide tradition.
Rubbing the back of his neck muscles, tense from hours of sitting in the carved, giltwood armchair, Arran hung on the fringe of it all.
They let their masks slip every now and then: his mother, the Countess of Abington, his happily-married sisters, Lady Helia and Lady Myrtle, their husbands, his cousin, Brone Smith and his wife, Lady Cora.
The younger members of their clans—Arran’s siblings, twins, Fleur and Quillon, and cousinly twins, Andromena and Oleander, were either lads at university or ladies about to have their first Season. They remained filled by the usual holiday spirit and untouched by the hovering darkness.
Arran uncorked his flask and took a healthy swig of whiskey.
Such was youth.
Adjacent to him came a noisy crinkling that drew his attention to where his sire, the Earl of Abington, sat buried in his newspaper.
Correction.
Such was youthandold age.
Lucky bastards…
Arran took another drink.
Andromena’s happy squeal filled the parlor. “Oh, we must sing!”
“Must we?” Arran muttered to himself.
