“You’re flying your American colors,” he said.
She smiled up at him from beneath that beguiling flower-brimmed hat. “Nice to blame any untoward behavior on that.”
He sat on the edge of his desk as she settled in a cane chair, her skirts a perfect half circle about her.
Gesturing to the bank notes on his desk, he asked, “Are you in need of any funds?”
“Nay, just seeing how the land lies.”
“So, where have you been?”
“Far enough to know to avoid the horse ford and slaughterhouse near the river and keep to the Bridgegait, the safe, respectable part of town.”
“Briggait, as we Glaswegians say.”
“Where exactly is Ardraigh Hall?”
“Are you bored with the city already?” He crossed his arms, remembering his promise about the twins. At her continued study of him, he yielded. “A few miles southeast of Glasgow, on the right bank of the River Clyde in the county of Lanark.”
She seemed relieved.
“I’ve sent word ahead of our arrival,” he added.
“Meaning all the house servants will be on tenterhooks.”
“All seven of them.”
“So few?”
“You’ll need to hire more. There’s already a veritable army for the gardens, park, stables, and the like.”
“Meaning you are more out of doors than in.”
“Aye.”
Reaching out, she fingered his waistcoat, pulled on the gold chain attached to his watch, and lifted it out of his pocket.
“Should I send for tea?” he queried, only half joking.
“Tea?” Her face flashed amusement. “Something tells me you prefer something stronger.” She let go of his watch and it returned to his pocket with a small plop. Her gaze rested on the bottle atop a small silver tray at the edge of his desk.
“I’ve more refined brandy if you’d rather.” He reached for the whisky and poured a dram. “You’ve ne’er tasted Scots whisky?”
“Having it flavor my marmalade is plenty.”
He swallowed it down, along with a lick of guilt. Confound it, but she trod on his temper. Did she mind his drinking?
With the door closed, she was driving out the scent of ink and paper and all his ironclad intentions with it. Rosewater, he guessed. She was so close, his right shoe buckle was hidden beneath the hem of her petticoat.
“Where do you take your midday dinner if not Virginia Street?” Her curious question was absent of blame or rebuke.
“Most days I go to the Saracen’s Head on the Gallowgate, renowned for its mutton.” He omitted the cockfighting and Jamaican punch. “Nobles and judges and the like gather there.”
“Then I shall leave you to that.”
She went out as gracefully as she’d come in, rosewater trailing in her wake, every clerk standing and looking after her. Nearly forgetting common courtesy, he watched her leave, then followed her to the front of the building and escorted her to her coach. When he returned, the office was again at a standstill.
“Return to your work!” he all but roared. “This isna a garden party.”
