Chapter Three
The house on Saint Anne’s Lane in Cheapside did not appear large, but London houses could surprise you. Some of them, though narrow, rambled back almost an entire block. Eric assumed this one did not. It had been let by an M.P. after all, and not a wealthy one at that.
It probably proved convenient enough to Angus Hume’s attendance at sessions, however. Also to those meetings of radicals that he no doubt attended too. Hopefully that was where Hume was right now. Eric mounted the few steps to find out.
He presented his card to the servant who opened the door. “I am calling on Miss MacCallum.”
She paused over the card. Her freckled face flushed beneath the brim of her white cap. Flustered, she invited him to sit in a little room beside the entry before she hurried away.
The chamber served as a small library. Nice windows looked out on the street and good furniture offered comfort. He perused the books, wondering if they belonged to Hume or had come with the house.
“Your Grace, we are honored.”
Not a woman’s voice. Damnation.
He turned to see Hume right inside the doorway. The man affected an artistic look in his shoulder-length hair and mustache, made more dramatic by its deep copper color. On the other hand he favored fashionable clothes, so Eric at least did not find himself treated to some exotic turban and robe.
He did not like Hume, and not because the man was a Jacobite who flirted with sedition in condemning the Union of Scotland and England. There were radicals, and then there were radicals. This radical was of the type that wanted to turn everything upside down tomorrow. He had once suggested that the only way to have the necessary change was to exile all the nobles. Privately he was known to have spoken fondly of how the guillotine handled the problem in France.
“Hume. Good to see you. You appear hale and fit.” And happy. Smugly happy. Like most wiry men, Hume always gave the impression that he held in a burgeoning energy. Right now he looked fit to burst with it.
He knew. The damned Jacobite was aware of Miss MacCallum’s claim. Haversham would have apoplexy if he found out.
“I am healthy as an ox, I am glad to say. The housekeeper said you want to see Davin—Miss MacCallum.”
The familiarity was not truly a slip. It had been a deliberate declaration of—what?
“That is correct. Is she at home?”
“She is in the schoolroom with my daughter. She normally holds lessons until two o’clock.”
“It is one thirty. Perhaps this once you will allow her to end them early. Although if you require it, I will wait.”
“No, no, we can’t have that. When a duke condescends to call, he must be accommodated. I have already told the housekeeper to inform Miss MacCallum of your arrival.”
“How good of you.”
Hume strolled around aimlessly, looking at the furnishings as if he were the guest. “Can I ask why you called?”
As if you don’t know, you annoying rogue. “No.”
“I am of course responsible for Miss MacCallum. May I at least ask if this is a social call?”
“It is a private matter.”
“Ah.”
Ah, indeed.
“You met her, I think,” Hume said. “No doubt your perception of her matches my own. She is a most determined woman. Strong-willed too. She is not cowed easily.”
“How unfortunate for you to have a servant with those qualities.”
“Oh, she is more than a servant. We have taken her into our family. She is one of us.” He sent a direct gaze with that, to be sure that last sentence carried all kinds of meaning, which left Eric to wonder which one applied in reality.
“I am sure she appreciates her good fortune.”
“Well, there is good fortune, and then there is truly good fortune, isn’t there?”
