She'd have loved the gigantic Mackenzie house, with its horde of splendid rooms and spread of grounds, all made beautiful for Christmas. Maggie had loved Christmas. These days, the only interest in the holiday Sinclair could muster was to slip a chunk of money to his valet and instruct the man to buy all the toys Andrew and Catriona could want.
'Begging your pardon, Mr. McBride.'
Sinclair turned reluctantly from the window at Nanny Westlock's interruption. He saw the look on her face and held up his hand to forestall her words. 'What have they done now?'
'Started a fire. On a bed. They might have taken down the entire nursery.'
Sinclair smothered a sigh. Andrew, no doubt. Catriona would have watched the mayhem with her usual quiet detachment. Andrew wouldn't have meant to start the fire. He wasn't an evil lad, just mischievous, reckless, and too curious for his own good.
'My apologies, Miss Westlock. I'll speak to Andrew.'
'I have already dealt with the matter, sir.' By the pinching of her lips, Andrew must have fought long and hard against being dealt with. 'But I must recommend that these children be taken in hand.'
Well, of course. And if Sinclair had been capable of taking them in hand, he already would have.
'Again, I apologize for Andrew's behavior,' Sinclair said. 'My wife took care of these things, you see.'
Maggie, with her laughter, the Irish lilt to her voice--every 'T' a precise stop with her lovely tongue behind her teeth, had been able to do anything with her children. She'd been so beautiful, black Irish, she was called, with dark hair and dark lashes framing deep blue eyes. Catriona had her coloring, while Andrew was pure blond Scots, like his father.
'A good nanny can do wonders, sir. I gather your children have no nanny at all?'
'Not at present,' Sinclair answered. 'Each one I hire never lasts more than a day. Perhaps you could recommend someone, as capable as your good self?'
Miss Westlock's lips thinned. 'I will send you a list, sir. I will also suggest that they are growing old enough to need a competent governess, especially your daughter.'
Sinclair acknowledged this with a nod. Andrew would be sent off to school in due time, but Catriona .
. . Sinclair wanted her home.
'Thank you, Miss Westlock.'
Miss Westlock, with the air of a woman having done her duty, closed the door and withdrew.
Sinclair turned to the window. 'Maggie, love,' he said softly. 'You always told me to have faith, but I'm lost.'
Silence met him. The coal fire on the hearth made little noise, and wind blew outside, bringing back the clouds, but the thick panes kept out the sound.
Sinclair sighed, one of his black moods descending and bringing a headache with it. 'Talking to you does make me feel better, Daisy. But I
*** *** *** 'Louisa!' came a delighted cry.
Lady Louisa Scranton looked up the stairs, a smile spreading across her face as her exuberant sister Isabella ran down to her. In a moment, Isabella was folding Louisa into her arms. Louisa returned the embrace, soaking up the warmth and fragrance of her sister. Her
'So good to see you, Izzy.'
'Mama.' Isabella left Louisa to gather up the woman in black bombazine, who'd come in behind Louisa. 'How are you?' Isabella kissed the dowager countess' cheek. 'How was the journey?'
'If you must know, darling, long and somewhat tedious.' Their mother returned the kiss. 'But all the better for seeing you.'
Isabella relinquished her to the care of several servants--the dowager countess loved to be looked after by servants--then Isabella linked arms with Louisa to walk her upstairs to the bedchamber prepared for her.
Isabella chattered breezily about the house, the holiday preparations, about what a wonderful time they would all have. Louisa made the requisite responses, wishing she could let Isabella's joy raise her spirits.
But Louisa recently had assessed her life, her mother's life, and their future, and had made her decision.
As Isabella went on in exuberance, Louisa glanced about at the hanging decorations that went all the way up the marvelous staircase, the greenery and streamers warming the cold marble and paneling. She looked down over the railings to admire the giant vase of yellow mums placed on the table on the ground floor.
A man in black strode into the open hall below. A Mackenzie, Louisa thought, then her chest constricted, and her mouth went dry.
He was a Mackenzie, and he wasn't. Lloyd Fellows, the detective inspector, was very like Hart Mackenzie when viewed from afar, with the same commanding air, tall body, and dark hair brushed with red when the light was right. He also had hazel eyes that missed nothing, a sharp face, and a biting wit.
The last time Louisa had seen Mr. Fellows had been at Hart and Eleanor's wedding, when she'd brazenly kissed him.
Louisa remembered the firmness of his lips, the scent of cigar that clung to his clothes, the taste of whiskey and spice in his mouth. A strong man, capable, unafraid of work and hardship, but his hand had shaken a little as he'd brushed back Louisa's hair.
As though he felt Louisa's gaze on him, Fellows looked up, through the greenery and the railings, and their gazes locked.
Louisa's face flooded with heat, but she would not let herself look away. Yes, she had kissed him.
She'd been filled with the joy of the wedding, even with its complications, and a sadness that she'd likely never have such a wedding herself. She'd found this handsome man, as sad and alone as she was, and she'd wanted his warmth.
Fellows halted, his face still, his only acknowledgment of her a faint nod. Louisa tried to nod back, but her neck was too stiff to bend. She and Isabella reached the landing on the second floor, Isabella pulled her around a corner, and Mr. Fellows was lost to sight.
'Here we are,' Isabella said, ushering Louisa into a large, sumptuous bedchamber. It was a huge room, larger even than her chamber had been when Louisa had lived in the main house on her father's estate. Her bedroom in the dower house was quite small, a corner room under the eaves.
'It's enchanting,' Louisa said. 'Izzy, I need to tell you. I've decided something.'
Isabella turned around, saw Louisa's face, and quietly told the upstairs maid who was unpacking Louisa's cases to leave them and return later. The maid curtseyed and retreated, though she gave Louisa a curious Scots stare before she left.
Isabella took Louisa's hands. 'What is it, darling?'
Louisa took a moment to reflect how beautiful her beloved sister had become. Isabella's hair was a rich red, her eyes the perfect green in contrast, her skin pale but not the chalk white of too delicate a complexion.
Isabella knew how to dress well, her green gown with black piping neither too matronly nor too frivolous, her bustle a manageable size in an age where they all must wear the equivalent of kitchen shelves on the backs of their gowns. Tasteful, elegant, lovely. The stark unhappiness had gone from Isabella's eyes, to be replaced by the contentment of a woman who was well loved.
'I've decided I need to get married,' Louisa said.
Isabella squeezed Louisa's hands and started to smile, then the smile faded. 'I was about to ask who was the lucky gentleman, but suddenly I'm not sure what you mean.'
'I mean that it is time for me to marry. I've been of marriageable age for years now, and am actually already on the shelf. I am regarded with pity, despite the fact that I'm an earl's daughter, because papa died in disgrace and poverty. I'm not much of a prospect, am I? But there are men of fortune willing to seek a pedigree, and I do at least have that.'
'Darling, you don't need a fortune. Mac and I will take care of you and Mama, you know that. You never have to worry.'
'Yes, and you both are very kind.' Louisa withdrew her hands from her sister's grasp. 'But I
