“Am I right? You’re here to ask Mr. Bastin for a favor, ain’t you?”
She sucked in her lips. Any hope she’d had of remaining incognito was now certainly lost. She could practically feel every concealed eye directed toward her back, and she could only pray her oversized cape provided her with sufficient protection. She squared her frame and faced the American. “Is Mr. Bastin at home?”
He smiled as if he were privy to a shared secret. “He’s here.” He stepped aside and allowed her to enter the residence.
Finally, the door closed behind her, shutting out prying eyes on the street, but instead of feeling safe, Ottilie’s stomach twisted into a knot as she stood in the silent foyer. Was Mr. Bastin actually home? Or had she just put herself in a dangerous situation with this ungentlemanly valet?
“Come on up.” The valet started up the stairs to the first floor.
Ottilie hesitated, wanting to stay near the front door. “Shouldn’t I wait here? I don’t wish to disturb his work.”
“I can’t see how it’ll make a difference.” He kept walking.
Ottilie swallowed. She could either make her escape now or take her chances and follow this strange American up the stairs. She glanced down the hallway.Where is that housekeeper Henry mentioned?
She edged toward the stairs, remaining several paces behind the American. He reached the top of the steps and disappeared onto the first floor. Relief flooded through Ottilie when she heard Mr. Bastin’s voice call out in surprise, “Brandt? What are you still doing here? I thought you left.”
Ottilie hurried to the top of the stairs then. The sooner she spoke to Mr. Bastin, the sooner she could ask him her favor—and get out of this predicament, hopefully unseen and unscathed.
“I did, but little Miss Favor was waitin’ outside, an’ she desires to speak with you.”
“Who?” Ottilie heard the bewilderment in Mr. Bastin’s tone, and she moved forward and stepped into Mr. Bastin’s study.
He sat at his desk, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up and a host of fresh-inked papers spread out before him. Piles of books, crumpled papers, and an open whiskey decanter littered his desk. Ottilie’s stomach dropped. She’d arrived at an inopportune time and disturbed his writing.
“Miss Hamilton?” Mr. Bastin put his ink pen down and stood up. “Is Hudsyn with you?”
“I’m afraid not.” Ottilie’s gaze fell to the sleek ivory handle of the firearm peeking out of the black leather holster attached to his belt.
“Has something happened to him?”
“Henry rushed off to Kent two days ago.” She could not force her eyes away from the holster on his hip. “Something about his estate.”
Mr. Bastin must have seen her staring because he unclipped the belt and pulled it from his waist. “I don’t know why I wear this thing indoors. Old habit, I suppose.” Ottilie widened her eyes upon seeing a row of bullets that studded the back of his belt. “It doesn’t scare you, does it?” He placed the belt on top of a pile of books on his desk.
“Do all Americans carry guns on their belts?”
Brandt’s laughter sounded behind her, and Mr. Bastin grinned. “Not all, no.”
“Then, why do you?”
“Cause he’s a cowboy, Darlin’,” Brandt said.
Jack cleared his throat. “Cowboys often travel in harsh territories and need guns for self-defense—against venomous snakes, wild animals, and such.”
“Horse thieves, too.” Brandt chuckled.
Mr. Bastin’s brows knitted together in a frown. Then he smiled at Ottilie and shrugged. “The American West is a far cry from Mayfair.”
“Of course, it is,” Ottilie said sheepishly.
Mr. Bastin remained standing and smiled expectantly at her. His unspoken question—what on earth are you doing here alone?—rang clearly in Ottilie’s hot ears and left her feeling even more ridiculous. There’d been no emergency and no urgent need for her to rush over and interrupt Mr. Bastin’s writing—that much would be as blatant to him as it was to her now.
*
Miss Hamilton pushedback the hood of her cape, which landed in gentle folds onto her shoulders. Several strands of buttery blond curls, pinned loosely back, hung in tendrils around her face. She met his gaze, her large blue eyes vibrant with intelligence, and smiled. The dimples that kept him awake at night revealed themselves on her cheeks and something deep inside Jack stirred.God, she’s lovely.
“I reckon she’s come to ask that favor,” Brandt said.
