Chapter 2

No doubt his orders had been obeyed without question. And now it was George’s turn to follow where he led—but he was damned if he’d be blinded by good looks and charm. No, he’d reserve judgement on the man until he had an idea what lay behind that gilded exterior.

They went up the rather creaky wooden stairs to a small but cheerfully furnished room that overlooked the street at the front. It held a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and, George was pleased to see, a writing desk and chair.

“Well? What do you think? Does it meet your requirements?” Connaught asked eagerly. He might have been a small boy impatiently—and confidently—awaiting his father’s approval of his latest model ship or school report. The thought was bitter. Any confidence a young George might have had in similar situations had inevitably been dashed the minute his father had grudgingly deigned to extend his notice to his younger son. Paternal fondness had been in limited supply, and all of it bestowed upon the elder son and heir.

His chest tightening with all-too-familiar emotions of shame and loss, George turned away and pretended to examine the room more closely, as though he were short-sighted and had omitted to bring his spectacles. “It seems very suitable,” he said, turning around slowly.

There were a couple of cloyingly sentimental paintings of large-eyed children on the walls, but George supposed he could learn to live with them. Connaught intercepted his gaze. “Ghastly things, those, aren’t they? I have to confess, when I moved in, they were in my room, but as this room was empty at the time, I transplanted them here. So in all fairness, if you really can’t stand them, I’ll take them back.”

His expression was such a perfect mix of determination and thinly veiled horror that despite himself, George had to smile. “I was just thinking I could probably get used to them, but I’d honestly rather not have to. Tell you what,” he added in a spirit of fairness. “If I take the place, why don’t we split them between us, so we’ll each have only the one wall we’ll have to avoid looking at?”

“Excellent plan—and far better than I deserve,” Connaught said cheerfully. “My room’s right next door, by the way, so if I snore too loudly just bang on the wall. Now, you must have some questions—and quite possibly ones you’d sooner ask me than Mrs. Mac—so fire away.”

George was sure there must be all sorts of things one should ask about upon moving into new digs, but with Connaught’s merry blue eyes upon him, he couldn’t for the life of him think what they might be. “Er, are there any house rules I should know about?”

“Oh, only the usual. Clean up after yourself, no hanky-panky with the maid—not that you’re likely to be tempted; she’s older than Mrs. Mac—and no overnight guests. Unless they’re feline, of course. Marmaduke gets special dispensation, on account of being rather a good mouser. Although I do have to remind Mrs. Mac of that on frequent occasions, such as when she finds cat hair all over her best white shawl.”

“Well, I suppose one can understand that. Er, is there a Mr. MacPherson?” George imagined some dour Scot conversing, on those rare occasions when he unbent far enough to notice his fellow men, in gruff, unintelligible monosyllables.

“Sadly, no longer with us. Although in fact he never was—with us, I mean. He was a redheaded, full-bearded, kilt-wearing Highlander, by all accounts, and Mrs. Mac lived with him in wedded bliss in some frightful place up in the wilds of Scotland, but when he died just before the war, she upped sticks and moved back down here. She’s got a sister who lives three streets away—you’ll want to avoid the kitchen when Mrs. Evans comes round for a cuppa. The gossip would make your hair curl, believe me!”

George found himself wondering drily if Connaught’s hair had been straight when he came to live here, and reprimanded himself for the frivolity. The fellow’s good mood was annoyingly infectious, damn it. “Have you lived here long?”

“Me? Oh Lord, let me see…Nearly six months now. I came to town for work, of course. I write advertising copy—all those newspaper advertisements for ladies’ corsetry and Scientific Reducing Belts for men, that sort of thing.”

“Do you only deal with underpinnings?” George couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, this is what I keep asking my lord and master, but every time something comes in for unmentionables, old Carpenter says ‘Give it to Matthew, it’ll be right up his alley!’ You must call me Matthew, by the way, if we’re going to be living together. No need to be all formal.”

Must he? That wouldn’t make his task any easier. Then again, perhaps it would. “Matthew. Thank you—and I’m George, of course.” George looked into Matthew’s open, cheerful face and struggled to think of another sensible question. “Are there any other members of the household?”

“Mrs. Mac has a daughter who lives here—she’s Miss Lewis, not Miss MacPherson, by the way, to save confusion later. The Highlander was Mrs. Mac’s second husband. Between you and me,” Matthew said, leaning disconcertingly close with a conspiratorial grin, “I think she’s on the lookout for number three. That’s why she advertised for a single gentleman. But don’t worry, she’s not the predatory sort. At least, I’ve never been made to feel uncomfortable.”

“If she’s left you alone, I very much doubt I’ll be in danger,” George said wryly.