Page 8 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“I do hope this is acceptable, Lord Glengask.”
Ignoring the thin man dogging his heels, Ranulf continued his tour of the hallways and rooms of the small house on Adams Row. The building was old, but well made, with twelve rooms and half a dozen windows looking out over the quiet avenue. It stood three stories tall, which he imagined was the origin of its name—Tall House. “It’ll do,” he finally said, realizing that the bony fellow wouldn’t stop nagging at him until he gave an answer. “Though I’d like it better if it had more than two doors to the outside.”
“I’m glad you approve, my lord. You gave me such little notice—only an hour, if you’ll recall—but I believe Tall House is the finest establishment currently available to let. With the Season beginning in earnest, you know, simply everyone flocks to London.”
Everyone plus one damned stubborn younger sister. “You’ll have yer fee by the end of the day,” Ranulf returned, wondering if it was permissible to call Tall House by a different name while he stayed there. Frivolous House with Nae Enough Escape Routes, perhaps.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to press—of course you’re not well known here, but your uncle is, and I’ve no worry that you would keep me waiting.”
Ranulf angled his chin toward the front door. Immediately Owen, who’d spent the previous twenty minutes shadowing the solicitor, stepped forward. “Let’s get ye on yer way, Mr. Black,” he said, blocking the fellow when he would have followed Ranulf into yet another room.
“Certainly, certainly. With you being new to London, Lord Glengask, if you require the services of a solicitor I would be honored to—”
“The laird has yer wee card, Mr. Black, as ye nearly shoved it into ’is pocket. The door is this way.”
Mr. Black blinked. “I say, that’s quite forward of you. Lord Glengask, your servants need more schooling in proper behavior.”
Drawing in a breath, Ranulf faced the red-cheeked solicitor. “I think it’s ye who needs schooling, if it takes a man three tries to get ye to leave when ye’re no longer needed. Good mornin’, and if that’s not clear enough fer ye, good-bye.”
The solicitor opened his mouth. Ranulf continued to gaze at him levelly, and then Una began a low, rumbling growl from where she stood at the window. A heartbeat later, still wordlessly, Mr. Black turned around and left the hallway, Owen grinning behind him.
“Amadan,”Ranulf muttered, though Mr. Black seemed more a bootlicker than a fool. Or, more likely,hewas the fool in all this.
After all, he’d agreed to allow Rowena to remain in London, in an English household, of all damned things, for a fortnight. Where he couldn’t hear what nonsense she was being told. And worse, where he couldn’t be assured of her safety.
“M’laird, the Sasannach has departed,” Owen said, returning to the doorway. “I doubt he’ll darken these halls again, at least while we’re in residence.”
“Good. Thank ye, Owen.”
The footman nodded. Shifting, he scowled. “I need t’say someaught to ye, Laird Glengask.”
“Then do so.”
“Peter and I are pleased and proud to be here with ye. Very proud. And so is Debny. But… we are nae enough. With ye staying on in London, ye’ll have need of a cook and a valet, and more eyes ye can trust t’keep ye and Lady Winnie safe.”
Ranulf nodded. He’d intended to retrieve Rowena, spend the night at an inn, and be on the way north by sunrise. Nothing his sister said would have changed his mind or his plans. No, for that he could thankthat woman. Lady Charlotte Hanover. She hadn’t so much as raised her voice, and yet now he’d rented a house in Mayfair and given his sister over to an English aristocrat’s family.
“My uncle’s in Town,” he said slowly, wondering what Myles Wilkie would have to say about all this—and not liking the answer he came up with. “I’ll send Peter over with a note, asking if he knows of any likely lads we can trust.”
“But Lord Swansley’s English,” Owen said, making the word a curse.
“Aye, but he’s also family. And he spent ten years at Glengask, raising the likes of my brothers and sister. He’ll know what we require, whatever he is.”
“As ye say, m’laird.”
After he scrawled out the note and sent Peter off to deliver it, Ranulf made his way back to the bedchamber he’d chosen for himself. It looked over the street on the north, and the stable yard on the east, and gave him a good view over a fair part of the lane. He’d left for London with almost no luggage and no wardrobe at all fit for so-called proper Society. At least the bed looked more comfortable than the one at the inn where he and the lads and the hounds had spent the night.
He’d worn buckskin trousers, riding boots, and an old coat to call on Hanover House. He supposed he could do the same today, and then find a tailor’s shop to see him in something better suited to Mayfair. While he didn’t give a damn about what the English thought of him or his attire, Rowena would. Embarrassing her would not be the way to convince her that Scotland and Glengask held more promise for her than did London. A damp nose pushed at his hand, and he absently scratched Fergus behind his rough gray ears. “What in God’s name are we doing here, boy?” he murmured, answered only by a tail wag.
Owen rapped at his door and leaned in. “Shall I valet ye then, m’laird?”
“I can put on my own boots, but thank ye, Owen. And valet isnae someaught ye do; it’s what ye are. See that Debny saddles Stirling, will ye?”
“A ’course.”
When he arrived back downstairs ten minutes later, the dogs on his heels, the silence of the place finally struck him. Back home the grand house was occupied not only by his siblings and himself, but by myriad servants, friends, and on numerous occasions, various clan subchiefs and their families, in addition to the pair of pipers who sounded off every morning and evening from the rooftop. If it was anything, it wasn’t quiet or solitary. This was, and while at the moment it felt peaceful, he was fairly certain that wouldn’t last. Trouble had a way of finding the MacLawrys.
Touching a hand to the pistol in his left coat pocket, he opened the front door himself, stepping to one side of the wide entry as he did so. No sense in making himself an easy target. Three horses waited in the drive, with Debny and Owen already mounted. “Are ye ready for this?” he asked, taking Stirling’s reins from the head groom and swinging up into the bay’s saddle.
