“Come in,” I called, and sat up in bed, pulling up the pillows to lean against.
The door opened very slowly, and after quite a long pause, a head poked its way through the opening, much in the manner of a snail emerging from its shell after a hailstorm.
It was topped with an ill-cut shag of dark brown hair so thick that the cropped edges stuck out like a shelf above a pair of large ears. The face beneath was long and bony; rather pleasantly homely, save for a pair of beautiful brown eyes, soft and huge as a deer’s, that rested on me with a mingled expression of interest and hesitancy.
The head and I regarded each other for a moment.
“Are you Mr. Malcolm’s…woman?” it asked.
“I suppose you could say so,” I replied cautiously. This was obviously not the chambermaid with my breakfast. Neither was it likely to be one of the other employees of the establishment, being evidently male, though very young. He seemed vaguely familiar, though I was sure I hadn’t seen him before. I pulled the sheet a bit higher over my breasts. “And who are you?” I inquired.
The head thought this over for some time, and finally answered, with equal caution, “Ian Murray.”
“Ian Murray?” I shot up straight, rescuing the sheet at the last moment. “Come in here,” I said peremptorily. “If you’re who I think you are, why aren’t you where you’re supposed to be, and what are you doing here?” The face looked rather alarmed, and showed signs of withdrawal.
“Stop!” I called, and put a leg out of bed to pursue him. The big brown eyes widened at the sight of my bare limb, and he froze. “Come in, I said.”
Slowly, I withdrew the leg beneath the quilts, and equally slowly, he followed it into the room.
He was tall and gangly as a fledgling stork, with perhaps nine stone spread sparsely over a six-foot frame. Now that I knew who he was, the resemblance to his father was clear. He had his mother’s pale skin, though, which blushed furiously red as it occurred to him suddenly that he was standing next to a bed containing a naked woman.
“I…er…was looking for my…for Mr. Malcolm, I mean,” he murmured, staring fixedly at the floorboards by his feet.
“If you mean your uncle Jamie, he’s not here,” I said.
“No. No, I suppose not.” He seemed unable to think of anything to add to this, but remained staring at the floor, one foot twisted awkwardly to the side, as though he were about to draw it up under him, like the wading bird he so much resembled.
“Do ye ken where…” he began, lifting his eyes, then, as he caught a glimpse of me, lowered them, blushed again and fell silent.
“He’s looking for you,” I said. “With your father,” I added. “They left here not half an hour ago.”
His head snapped up on its skinny neck, goggling.
“My father?” he gasped. “My father was here? Ye know him?”
“Why, yes,” I said, without thinking. “I’ve known Ian for quite a long time.”
He might be Jamie’s nephew, but he hadn’t Jamie’s trick of inscrutability. Everything he thought showed on his face, and I could easily trace the progression of his expressions. Raw shock at learning of his father’s presence in Edinburgh, then a sort of awestruck horror at the revelation of his father’s long-standing acquaintance with what appeared to be a woman of a certain occupation, and finally the beginnings of angry absorption, as the young man began an immediate revision of his opinions of his father’s character.
“Er—” I said, mildly alarmed. “It isn’t what you think. I mean, your father and I—it’s really your uncle and I, I mean—” I was trying to figure out how to explain the situation to him without getting into even deeper waters, when he whirled on his heel and started for the door.
“Wait a minute,” I said. He stopped, but didn’t turn around. His well-scrubbed ears stood out like tiny wings, the morning light illuminating their delicate pinkness. “How old are you?” I asked.
He turned around to face me, with a certain painful dignity. “I’ll be fifteen in three weeks,” he said. The red was creeping up his cheeks again. “Dinna worry, I’m old enough to know—what sort of place this is, I mean.” He jerked his head toward me in an attempt at a courtly bow.
“Meaning no offense to ye, mistress. If Uncle Jamie—I mean, I—” he groped for suitable words, failed to find any, and finally blurted, “verra pleased to meet ye, mum!” turned and bolted through the door, which shut hard enough to rattle in its frame.
I fell back against the pillows, torn between amusement and alarm. I did wonder what the elder Ian was going to say to his son when they met—and vice versa. As long as I was wondering, I wondered what had brought the younger Ian here in search of Jamie. Evidently, he knew where his uncle was likely to be found; yet judging from his diffident attitude, he had never before ventured into the brothel.
Had he extracted the information from Geordie at the printshop? That seemed unlikely. And yet, if he hadn’t— then that meant he had learned of his uncle’s connection with this place from some other source. And the most likely source was Jamie himself.
But in that case, I reasoned, Jamie likely already knew that his nephew was in Edinburgh, so why pretend he hadn’t seen the boy? Ian was Jamie’s oldest friend; they had grown up together. If whatever Jamie was up to was worth the cost of deceiving his brother-in-law, it was something serious.
I had got no further with my musings, when there came another knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said, smoothing out the quilts in anticipation of the breakfast tray to be placed thereon.
When the door opened, I had directed my attention at a spot about five feet above the floor, where I expected the chambermaid’s head to materialize. Upon the last opening of the door, I had had to adjust my vision upward a foot, to accommodate the appearance of Young Ian. This time, I was obliged to drop it.
“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” I demanded as the diminutive figure of Mr. Willoughby entered on hands and knees. I sat up and hastily tucked my feet underneath me, pulling not only sheet but quilts well up
