One Little Sin (3 page)

Alasdair was appalled. “Achanalt has disowned the child, then?”

“He has not publicly proclaimed that she is
yours,
no,” retorted Miss Hamilton. “He has too much pride for that. But his actions speak louder than words, do they not? Sorcha is at your mercy. You are her last resort.”

“But—but what of your father’s people? Can’t they take you?”

She shook her head. “My father had no family and little money,” said Miss Hamilton. “Another pretty wastrel, I fear. As was Mamma’s second husband. And her third. Mamma had a penchant for them.”

“This Achanalt does not sound like a wastrel.”

“No, just deceptively pretty. A dreadful misjudgment on her part.”

“And you have…no one else?”

The girl gave a pathetic little laugh. “Mamma had an elder sister, but she went out to Australia over two years ago,” she said. “I do not know if she means ever to return, or if she is even alive. I have written, but…I have no real hope.”

“I see,” said Alasdair, very much afraid he did.

Suddenly, the girl bent down to kiss the sleeping child. “I really must be away now,” she said, coming to her feet and blinking rapidly. “I am so sorry, but I must.”

Alasdair felt as if the earth just shifted beneath his feet. “Away?” he said. “Away to where—?”

The young woman was blinking back tears now. “I’m to leave on the first mail coach this morning.” She rummaged in her pocket and brought out a small brown bottle. “Now, Sorcha is teething,” she hastily added. “’Tis her last upper molar. If she cries and you cannot soothe her, just rub a little of this on the affected gum.”

Alasdair’s eyes widened.
“Rub—?”

Miss Hamilton gave him a watery smile. “’Tis a camphorated tincture,” she said. “Just poke your wee finger about in the back of her mouth until you find a hard spot. ’Twill be the tooth, trying to break through the skin. Trust me, if I can manage, you can. And then tomorrow, why, you can hire a nurse, aye? You will hire one, won’t you? A very experienced nurse, mind. Sorcha is a good, quiet child. She’ll be not a drop of trouble to you, I swear it.”

Alasdair stared at the brown bottle she had pressed into his hand. “Oh, no, Miss Hamilton,” he said, jerking unsteadily to his feet. “No, no, no. I am not doing this. I do not want this little brown bottle. I am not poking my finger anywhere. I am not feeling
gums.”

“Oh, I imagine your fingers have been worse places,” she said.

But Alasdair was so horrified, the insult barely registered.
She really was going to leave him.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The mantle of responsibility—the inescapable horror of it all—was settling over him now, and he could not seem to push it off.

His wet house wren was pulling on her gloves now and blinking back tears.

“But wait!” he protested. “This cannot be happening! What—who—where—do you mean to go?”

“To Bournemouth,” she answered, giving her last glove a little tug. “I have been engaged as a governess there. Indeed, I am fortunate to have found a place at all. I have no experience. But Dr. Campbell knew the gentleman—a retired colonel—and made inquiries on my behalf. I have no other choice.”

“No choice?” The concept was foreign to him.

Miss Hamilton looked at him rather solemnly. “I am, you see, quite destitute right now,” she admitted. “But Sorcha is not, is she? She has
you.
Please, MacLachlan. You mustn’t fail the child.”

“By God, I’m not failing her!” he retorted. “I am not even
taking
her.”

Miss Hamilton took two steps backward.

Alasdair was gaping at her. “But the—the child! Wait, Miss Hamilton! Surely you can keep her? She is—why, just look how small she is! Indeed, she must scarcely eat a thing!”

“Why must you make this so hard for me?” cried Miss Hamilton. “No family will take on a governess with a small child. And they will think, of course, that she is mine, and turn me off at once.”

Alasdair looked at her warily. “That’s a very good point,” he said. “How do I know she
isn’t
yours?”

Suddenly, Miss Hamilton’s eyes lit with ire. “Why, you selfish scoundrel!” she said. “Do you actually mean to continue to deny having had—had—
conjugal relations
with my mother?”

“Having what?” he echoed incredulously. “I deny even knowing how to spell
conjugal relations!
But if you’re asking me if I gave the old girl a quick pump-’n’-tickle behind the draperies at some drunken New Year’s celebration, then yes, I’d have to say that…well, that I might—perhaps—
possibly
have done. I cannot quite recall.”

“My God,” she whispered, horrified. “You really are a scoundrel, aren’t you?”

“Guilty!” he cried, reaching heavenward with both hands. “Guilty as charged! And happy, madam, to be so!”

Miss Hamilton’s lip curled scornfully. “I regret, sir, that I must do this to a child I love so dear,” she said. “But being the illegitimate daughter of a scoundrel is better than anything the orphanage can offer her—and better than anything
I
can offer her, much as it pains me.” She dashed away a tear, snuffled deeply, and snatched her soggy reticule from the sofa.

Alasdair caught her somewhere between the sofa and the door. “Miss Hamilton! Really! You cannot get me into this mess, then just waltz back out the door!”

Miss Hamilton spun round, and drew herself up a good three inches. “What got you into this mess, sir, was your…your
talleywhacker!
That, and a wee nip or two or twenty! So don’t even think of casting the blame on me!”

But Alasdair had burst into laughter. “My
talleywhacker,
Miss Hamilton? Really!”

She drew back a hand as if she might slap him. “Do not you dare, sir, to make fun of me!”

Somehow, he stopped laughing, snatched the hand, and drew it swiftly to his lips. “There,” he said. “I’m sorry. Let that be a kiss of peace. Now, surely, Miss Hamilton, we can work this out to both our advantages? Indeed, I see no problem at all.”

She glanced at his bruised forehead. “Someone’s conked you on the naper,” she muttered. “And it has disordered your brain.”

“Listen to me, Miss Hamilton,” he protested. “You clearly do not wish to abandon your sister. And I am a very wealthy man.”

“Aye?” There was a hint of hope and wariness in her eyes. “Well, say away, MacLachlan. What is this fine notion?”

Alasdair shrugged innocently, and feigned his most angelic expression—the one which had never worked on Granny MacGregor. Miss Hamilton, however, was less hardened, or perhaps just desperate, for her eyes softened a bit. Good God, he was such a sham! And she looked dashed pretty when that quartzlike gaze melted.

“What if I bought you a cottage?” he lightly proposed. “A seaside cottage, perhaps? With, of course, a nice, er, annuity. You are very young, it is true. But with a little effort, I daresay you could pass for a young widow…?”

Miss Hamilton shook her head very firmly. “Young widows—if they are respectable—are taken in by their husband’s family,” she said, rolling the
r
in respectable into a near growl. “Or by their own family. No one will believe that old widow-and-cottage nonsense, MacLachlan, and well you know it.” Her voice was growing scornful again. “I’ll be thought a common lightskirt, and Sorcha will be ruined.”

“Now, now, Miss Hamilton. Surely you overstate the matter.”

“You know I do not,” she insisted. “Besides, Sorcha deserves a father, even a less-than-ideal one. And if she is to be thought a bastard, she might as well be the bastard of a
‘very wealthy gentleman.’
You can afford to give her everything. You can clothe her and educate her. And then she will at least have a chance at a respectable life.” Her eyes still leaking tears, she tore her hand from his, and turned away. Then, on a quiet sob, she started for the door again.

“Really, Miss Hamilton, you cannot leave me!” he said, following her. “Think of—why, think of the child! Think of the things she’ll be exposed to under my roof! Why, I might let her play with pen-knives! I might put paregoric in her porridge! Why, I might even teach her how to count cards or—or load dice! Remember, I am a very wicked man!”

Miss Hamilton gave him a look that would have made his cock shrivel—if it hadn’t already drawn up into a petrified nub at the beginning of this awful conversation. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare!” she hissed. “Not loaded dice! That’s a sad, sairie trick, MacLachlan.”

Alasdair felt ashamed of the notion, for he’d never cheated in his life—well, only with other men’s wives. Which was just what had landed him in this god-awful predicament. And as much as he wished to deny the child, Miss Hamilton had a convincing air of righteous indignation. Worse still, he had the vaguest recollection of having done something very, very wicked at that ball Angus had taken him to. There was a lingering sense of guilt.

He had always had a penchant for older, amply proportioned women—brunettes if he could get them. And apparently, he’d got himself one that Hogmanay. Christ Jesus, what had he said to that poor woman to get her to fuck him? And that’s what it had been, too, he’d no doubt. Just a quick, raw fuck. No emotion. No thought for the consequences. Oh, God! Snatches of it seemed to dance in his head. He vaguely remembered the part about the draperies. Heavy velvet ones, soft on his backside. And the musty smell of old leather. Or was that some scrap of a memory from another sin, in another time and place?

No, the library, most likely. He’d always found empty libraries dashed tempting during balls and parties. He had probably enticed this Lady Achanalt person behind the curtains, murmured sweet lies in her ear, and promptly dropped her drawers round her ankles—probably even taken her standing up, too. It would not have been the first time for
that,
either.

“MacLachlan?” Miss Hamilton’s sharp voice cut into his consciousness. “MacLachlan? Faith, man, you’re crushing my fingers.”

He looked down to see that he’d grabbed both her hands in his again. Suddenly, it struck him. “Miss Hamilton, why must you go to Bournemouth?”

“Because I must work!” Her tone was unflinching. “I’m destitute, MacLachlan, d’ye not comprehend?”

“But…but why can you not simply stay here?”

She drew back a good six inches. “Stay
here?
With
you?”

Alasdair cut her a scathing glance. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Miss Hamilton!” he said. “As—as my governess!”

Miss Hamilton arched one brow. “Well, I’ve no doubt your first one failed you miserably,” she answered. “But you look rather too old and entrenched in wickedness now.”

Alasdair scowled. “Oh, for pity’s sake! For the child! The child! If—
if
—I’m to let her stay on, why can I not hire
you
to look after the little weanling? Who would know the difference? And who would be better qualified?”

That took her aback. “I—I—” Miss Hamilton blinked uncertainly. “But that’s foolishness. Sorcha is not yet two years old. She needs a nurse, not a governess.”

But Alasdair was determined to find a way through this quagmire of moral obligation. “Who says so, Miss Hamilton?” he demanded. “Who makes up these rules? Is there some governess’s handbook I know nothing of?” He shot a quick glance at the sleeping infant. “Why, just look at her! Sharp as a tack, I’ve no doubt. All the MacLachlans are—well, most, anyway. Why, my brother Merrick could read by the age of three and do all manner of sums and such.”

“So you admit, then, that the bairn is yours?” asked Miss Hamilton.

Alasdair hesitated. “I admit that it is remotely possible,” he hedged. “I must write to Edinburgh and make some inquiries before I accept the full res-res—the full
resp-p-p—”
For some reason, his tongue could not quite shape the word.

“The
responsibility?”
supplied Miss Hamilton with mocking sweetness. “’Tis a simple word, MacLachlan. Just six syllables. I’m sure you’ll get the knack of it.”

Alasdair was afraid she was right. “You seem to have all the qualities of a governess, Miss Hamilton,” he returned. “A shrewish tongue and a condescending attitude.”

“Aye, and I thank you,” she answered.

He studied her silently for a moment, cursing his own desperation. “So, what of my offer, then? How much does a governess earn, anyway? Just what is all this newfound
responsibility
going to cost me, even temporarily?”

She hesitated but a moment. “A hundred fifty pounds per annum would be fair.”

“Bloody hell!” He tried to scowl. “Miss Hamilton, you are a dreadful liar.”

She blinked innocently. “Then perhaps you could give me some helpful hints regarding that particular talent?” she suggested. “I’m told one ought to learn at the feet of a master.”

Alasdair narrowed his eyes. “Look, Miss Hamilton, blackmail me over your salary if you must, but are you staying or not?”

She bit her lip and cast another glance at the sleeping child. “Three hundred pounds for the first year, payable in advance,” she answered. “Nonrefundable, even if you change your mind. Even if you change your mind
next week.”

Good God, he’d be a fool to agree to such a thing! All totaled, the salaries of every servant in the house would barely equal
that.
Alasdair was about to tell her to go to the devil, but just as he opened his mouth, the bairn let out a god-awful wail. The money forgotten, Miss Hamilton rushed to the sofa and threw back the blankets. Hastily, she lifted the child from her basket, settling her over her shoulder. Wild, red-blond curls spurted from beneath the child’s snug wool cap.

“Whisht, whisht, wee trootie,” Miss Hamilton cooed, rhythmically patting her back.

In response, the child made some happy, babbling racket. Then, just when Alasdair had begun to breathe easily again, the child lifted her head, and looked him squarely in the face. In that moment, he suffered another of those crushing, breath-seizing blows to the gut. He reached out and grabbed hold of a chair, wondering if his knees might give.

Miss Hamilton had turned around. “Faith, MacLachlan, are you ill?” she asked, hastening toward him.