His mouth still tingling, he waited out the worst of the exodus behind the stairs, then pushed his way through the room to retrieve his coat. Duncan was lying on a table, tapping his toes and laughing at Ross, who turned out to be the fellow who had lost his dinner all over the floor. Ross leaned weakly against a table leg, his arms thrown around it for support and his face white. Monteith was arguing with the landlord, who had fought his way downstairs and was scowling at the spray of sick all over his floor.
With a lurch Duncan rolled off the table. “Let’s go,” he said. “Monteith! Bring what’s left of Ross.” He tossed a pair of guineas toward the landlord, whose aggrieved expression didn’t change even as he snatched the coins from the air.
Out in the street, they heaved Ross between them, Drew and Monteith both trying to make sure the man’s face was angled away from them. Chairmen in Highland garb trotted past carrying sedan chairs, their boots thumping on the cobblestones. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Lopsided, winded, and more than a little drunk, they staggered through the streets, Duncan singing something bawdy in Scots and Ross moaning at him to be quiet.
“Monteith,” Drew said over Ross’s head lolling on his shoulder. “Who was the woman in blue?”
“Eh?” Monteith squinted at him. “Which one? Half the females there wore blue, St. James.” The last words came out slurred.
He gave up. Monteith was even drunker than Duncan, who was frightening away the stray cats that prowled the streets. Someone flung open a window and yelled at him to be silent, which made him begin another verse, louder than ever.
Tomorrow. Once Duncan sobered up, Drew would find out who she was. He could still taste her mouth on his, and he yearned to taste it again.
Chapter Three
It took forever to get the easel in just the right position. The morning light was excellent, but the windows were narrow and admitted little of it. Opening the sashes helped, but the drapes still obscured the view, until she took them down.
And after all that effort, Ilsa Ramsay noted with chagrin, she was out of green paint.
Well. Perhaps the hills ought to be more violet than green, now that she thought about it.
Aunt Jean came into the room and stopped short. Ilsa preferred to think it was in appreciation of her painting skill, which had improved tremendously in the last few months. She daubed another burst of heather onto her painting of the distant Calton Hill, replicating the vista out the drawing room windows.
“Are the draperies in need of cleaning?” asked her aunt after a moment.
“No,” said Ilsa. “They were blocking the view.”
Jean picked up one corner of a drapery, lying in a heap on the sofa, and clucked over the loose threads where a ring had torn away. “And did they offend you, as well?”
“I didn’t tear them down, that ring was already loose.” Carefully she added tiny highlights of light blue to the heather. Yes; the hillside did look much better with some heather. Pity the real one couldn’t be so easily improved.
Jean dropped the drapery. “I suppose I’ll have to sew it back on.”
“You needn’t put yourself out. I didn’t mean to create work for you.” She tilted her head critically to survey her work. “I like the room brighter. Perhaps I’ll never rehang the draperies.”
“What? Anyone will be able to see right in!” Jean sounded appalled.
“Only if they climb a ladder propped against the front of the house, which would be notable even in Edinburgh.” Ilsa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The building across the street was a small concert hall, with blank windows on this level.
Jean threw up her hands. “Ach! What goes through your head, child? Of course we need draperies!”
“We don’t, actually. They’ve been down for an hour and the house is still standing.”
Her aunt’s face puckered in frustration. “That’s not what I meant!”
“But isn’t it the important question? We don’t need draperies. We like them. They demonstrate how stylish we are to anyone who calls. But the panes are well-fitted and there are no draughts, and right now draperies only impede the fresh, clean breeze.” She carefully placed another tiny dot of blue on her painting. “I think it may be far more beneficial to our health not to have them.”
“There’s no arguing with you,” muttered her aunt.
Ilsa smiled in relief. “Thank you, Aunt, I am so pleased we are in agreement.”
“Hmph.” Jean folded her arms. “I never said that.”
“As long as we don’t argue about it, you are quite entitled to disagree with my every word.” She ran the brush around the bottom of the paint pot, then peered inside as if more green paint might spontaneously appear.
“You know, Ilsa, not everyone would be so tolerant of your whims,” warned her aunt, reopening a line of contention that had plagued them many times before. “No gentleman would put up with—”
“Yes!” Ilsa got to her feet and began unbuttoning her smock. “No gentlemen. That is a most excellent rule.”
Jean puffed up in offense. “Such a broad condemnation! ’Tis unfair of you.”
Ilsa laughed. “I’ve not condemned men! Only gentlemen. I adore my papa and Robert.”
Jean put one hand to her brow wearily. “Robert is not a man.”
“Nor is he a gentleman, which makes him perfect.” Ilsa hung her smock on the sconce by the fireplace.
The drawing room door opened. “Oh my, you’ve got rid of the drapes,” exclaimed Agnes St. James.
“No,” said Jean firmly, taking down the smock.
“Yes! What do you think?” asked Ilsa.
Her friend surveyed the bare windows, which appeared much larger without the heavy damask draperies surrounding them. There was a fine view, off to the left, of the distant hill over the rooftops. “It’s much brighter without them.”
“It is. I like it.”
Agnes’s approval soothed the faint rumble in Ilsa’s conscience. Agnes would say something if it were entirely disreputable not to have draperies at her windows. Ilsa didn’t see how it could be, but she’d come to distrust Jean’s opinion on anything regarding propriety. Agnes was at least a neutral judge.
“Robert is pestering the butler,” her friend told her. “He sent me to inform you.”
Ilsa grinned. “You mean, he sent you to scold me about neglecting Robert. He must be fretting for his ramble in the park, poor dear.”
“Poor,” said Jean disapprovingly under her breath.
“I would have taken him myself if Mr. MacLeod had not told me you were up,” Agnes went on. “I didn’t expect to see you so early. You came in rather late.”
She smiled in memory of last evening’s fun. “I wish you could have come with me.”
Agnes laughed. “My mother would never approve of me going to Mr. Hunter’s! I would be marched right home to a blistering scold.”
“We can’t have that,” said Ilsa in sympathy. “I hated to leave you alone, but I’d given my word to Miss White.”
Agnes waved it off. “I’m glad you went. Was it wonderful?”