Eleanor pressed a kiss to Robert’s head and patted the sofa next to her. “Never mind your uncle Hart. Sit here, Aimee, and tell me all about what you and your mama and papa have been doing in London. And when my papa gets here, he’ll tell us all about the mummies at the museum.”
“I cannae believe you,” Mac shouted, his Scots blazing out with his anger.
Hart shut the cabinet that held the portrait he couldn’t seem to get rid of and looked around in irritation. Mac was in a fair rage, his clothes and fingers paint-streaked, the gypsy kerchief still on his head. Hart had known this would be coming, but still it irritated him.
“I gave her a nominal post with a salary and a place to live,” Hart said. “This is me being kind.”
“Kind? I heard you at Ascot, Hart—you said you were prepared to hang out your shingle for a wife. Is this how you’re going about it?”
Hart moved back to his desk. “This is my personal life, Mac. Stay out of it.”
“Personal, is it? When did that keep you out of my life? When Isabella left me, you shouted at me something fierce. You all shouted at me—you and Cameron and Ian—”
Mac stopped. “Ian,” he said. A grin spread across his face. So like Mac, jumping from emotion to emotion without a pause in between.
“I don’t have to shout at you, do I?” Mac asked. “All I have to do is explain things to Ian. And then God have mercy on your soul.”
Hart said nothing, but he felt a qualm of disquiet. Ian, the youngest Mackenzie brother, did not understand subtlety. He could spell the word subtlety and give a dictionary meaning for it, but Ian couldn’t assimilate it, or practice it, or recognize it in others. Once Ian decided on a course of action, not all the devils in hell nor the angels in heaven could sway him from it.
Mac laughed at him. “Poor Hart. I look forward to watching that.” He pulled the kerchief from his head, smearing paint through his unruly hair. “I’m glad Eleanor’s come to torment you. But she can’t tonight. I’m taking her and her father home with me for tea, and Isabella will keep her long after that. You know women when they get to talking. They don’t stop for anything but unconsciousness.”
Hart hadn’t planned to be home that night, but he suddenly disliked the thought of Eleanor leaving the house. If he let her out of his sight, she might vanish, back to Glenarden, her refuge. A place that, despite its crumbling walls, always seemed to shut Hart out.
“I thought you had the decorators in,” he growled.
“I do, but we’ll squeeze. I only mind them banging while I’m trying to paint. I’ll give your best to Isabella.” Mac looked pointedly at Hart. “You’re not invited.”
“I’m going out anyway. See that Eleanor gets home safely, will you? London is a dangerous place.”
“Of course I will. I’ll escort her and her father myself.”
Hart relaxed a little—Mac would do it—but then Mac’s smile died. He walked to Hart and stood toe-to-toe with him, looking up the half-inch difference at his older brother.
“Don’t break her heart again,” Mac said. “If you do, I’ll pummel you so hard you’ll have to make your speeches to Parliament in a Bath chair.”
Hart tried to take the edge from his voice but couldn’t quite. “Just see that she gets home.”
“We’re Mackenzies,” Mac said, his gaze steady. “Remember that we break what we touch.” He jabbed a finger at Hart. “Don’t break this one.”
Hart didn’t answer, and finally, Mac went away.
Hart took a key from his desk drawer, returned to the cabinet that held his father’s picture, and locked it tightly closed.
Living in Hart’s house proved to be less distressing than Eleanor had feared, mostly because Hart was rarely in it.
Hart explained Eleanor’s presence to London at large by putting about the fiction that Earl Ramsay had come to London to conduct research at the British Museum for his next book. Hart had offered the impoverished Ramsay a room in his house, and naturally, the earl had been accompanied by his daughter-cum-assistant, Lady Eleanor. Mac and Isabella helped keep tongues from wagging by moving in themselves, children and all, a day after Eleanor’s arrival, their decorators having started on the bedchambers.
Hart told Wilfred that Eleanor was to type letters on the Remington typing machine he’d bought for Wilfred from America. She would also open and sort Hart’s social correspondence, help Wilfred arrange Hart’s social calendar, and assist Isabella in setting up Hart’s lavish entertainments. Wilfred nodded without much change of expression—he was used to Hart’s arbitrary and sometimes bizarre orders.
Lord Ramsay took living in Hart’s Grosvenor Square mansion in stride, but Eleanor found it difficult to get used to all the splendor. In Glenarden, the Ramsay house near Aberdeen, one never knew when a brick would tumble from a wall or rainwater would flood a passage. Here, no bricks were allowed to fall, no water to drip. Quiet, well-trained maids hovered at Eleanor’s beck and call, and footmen jumped to open every door Eleanor walked toward.
Lord Ramsay, on the other hand, enjoyed himself hugely. Ignoring the household’s usual hours, Lord Ramsay rose whenever he wanted to, invaded the kitchen for repast when he was hungry, then packed his notebooks and pencils in a little knapsack and strode off alone into London. The majordomo tried to explain that Hart kept the carriage standing by to take Lord Ramsay wherever he wished, but Lord Ramsay ignored him and walked to the museum every day or took an omnibus. He discovered that he loved the omnibus.