Page 14

M rs. Chapman, Ollie’s housekeeper, greeted them in the entryway of his townhome. Though her perpetually heavy-lidded, dour expression remained in place, he knew she was likely surprised to see him home at this hour, as he never was. And then there was Evelyn beside him to boot.

“’Tis a bit early in the day, don’t you think?” Mrs. Chapman said with a judgmental tone as she looked over Evelyn. Her light-brown hair was pulled back in its usual severe knot, which only made her sunken-cheeked face even more sinister-looking.

Ollie shot her a glare. “Could you please bring tea into the parlor for Miss Sparrow?”

“Oh, that does sound lovely after all of that,” Evelyn said as she looked around. “This is your home?”

“Yes, it is.” Ollie had been carrying Evelyn’s pile of borrowed garments, topped by her wedding dress, and handed them to the housekeeper. While Evelyn was distracted by studying her surroundings, Ollie spoke directly to Mrs. Chapman. “Bring these up to one of the spare bedrooms.”

“Not yours?” Mrs. Chapman asked with a cool expression.

“No.” He paused as he considered what to say next. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to be here for a bit.”

Mrs. Chapman’s eyebrows lifted high. “Since when do you keep one of your women under your roof?”

Ollie gave Mrs. Chapman a meaningful look. “You know it’s been a while since I’ve done any of that.”

With dramatic flair, Mrs. Chapman cocked her head, as if searching her memory.

“Look, it isn’t like that.” Ollie had to make sure his housekeeper understood nothing was going on between him and Evelyn. He wouldn’t hear the end of it otherwise. “She needed help. I’m able to offer it.”

Mrs. Chapman gave Evelyn a long study before releasing a small chuckle. “Mr. McNab, do you truly expect me to believe that?” But she let out a sigh. “How long do you expect to keep her here?”

Ollie rubbed his hands over his face at her continued use of the word keep .

“Could you please just make a room up for her?” Mrs. Chapman often struggled with the fact that Ollie wasn’t her child to boss around, that he in fact was the owner of the house and she was his housekeeper.

She had come to him on recommendation from Victor when she had filled in for Victor’s housekeeper during a prolonged absence.

It didn’t occur to him that the age difference between him and his older brother would color Mrs. Chapman’s view of him.

“I’ll explain everything later. All right?

” Ollie said, making sure the frustration in his voice was apparent.

Mrs. Chapman gave him that cool expression again but turned away and left. Ollie led Evelyn into the parlor.

“You mentioned a cat earlier?” Evelyn asked, and even Ollie could tell she was trying not to sound too eager.

He couldn’t help but grin. “Yes, but I have no idea where she is at the moment.”

“Oh.” Evelyn looked down to the ground.

“How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Ollie asked, sounding concerned.

He took a few cautious steps toward Evelyn.

This turn of events had been completely unexpected.

What a disaster this whole situation was!

But he couldn’t leave her back there. And though it was rather uncouth to have her stay here, it didn’t seem to be much of a choice, either.

He could only imagine what her family was going to do to track her down now.

Evelyn crossed her arms and forced a small smile. “I’m fine.”

“Well, here, why don’t you come rest.” Ollie led her over to a sofa and directed her to put her feet up. Then he fluffed several pillows and placed them behind her. “How’s that?”

“Actually, this is rather nice,” she replied while running her hand over the sofa’s brocade fabric.

He took a seat in a nearby chair. “I’m sorry for hitting your—I mean, the earl.”

“That’s quite all right, Ollie. You’ll get no complaint from me.”

“I’m not the type to do that, though.”

“Not the type to, what, fight back?”

Ollie wanted to respond with a retort. But Evelyn was right, wasn’t she? He never fought back. Whether it was a physical fight with a drunk or Victor kicking him out of their place of business, Ollie never fought back.

Even on the rare occasion there was a fight at The Harp & Thistle, it was always Dantes and Victor breaking the men up, not Ollie. The only time Ollie ever raised his fists was when he was forced to spar with Dantes for practice before his brother had a boxing match. Or like today with the earl.

That was it.

Eager to not respond to her question, Ollie clasped his hands together, feeling pitiful. “Again, you’re not going back to your house. You do realize that.”

Evelyn’s throat moved on a swallow, and she nodded.

“Unless you have a better idea, you’ll have to stay here until you figure out what you’re going to do.”

Evelyn pushed herself with her elbows. “Ollie, you know I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because I would basically be living with you!”

“Not forever,” he said, turning his palms up to the ceiling. “But as long as you need.”

“But—”

“Who would find out?”

Evelyn frowned. “What about your housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Chapman? No, the most she would do is tut-tut at me. The cook, Mrs. Bradley, she could care less about anything as long as you compliment her cooking.”

Evelyn seemed to relax a bit.

“You’ll have your own room of course, plus free rein of the house. You can eat and drink whatever you wish. I know it’s not as grand as your home, so I hope it suits.”

“Ollie, your townhouse is lovely.”

“You seem surprised by that,” he said, teasing her a bit.

Evelyn’s eyes briefly widened.

“Everyone looks rather comfortable here.” Mrs. Chapman sidled in with tea and biscuits. “Is there anything else I can get you? Pajamas, perhaps?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Chapman.” Ollie hastened the words out. “But we’re fine.”

She gave him a pointed expression before disappearing out into the hallway. A moment later, her voice echoed from down the hall. “Hammie! Din-din, Hammie!”

“Who is Hammie?” Evelyn sat up fully to take a sip of her tea.

“My cat.”

“You named your cat Hammie?”

“Sort of.” As he said this, a tiny, dainty mew came from the parlor door. Ollie found his fluffy, gray cat sitting there with big, round, gray eyes.

Evelyn gasped and placed a hand over her heart. “Oh, my goodness, what a precious little kitty!”

The cat mewed again and began walking toward them, evidently curious about the new face. She stopped a few feet away from Evelyn and stared up at her.

“Oh, and she has a precious little bow around her neck!” Evelyn’s eyes seemed to glitter with the cuteness. “Hammie, is that your name, little kitty?” Evelyn leaned forward and held her hand out, hoping to tempt the cat toward her.

But the cat suddenly arched her back and hissed at Evelyn before running out of the room.

Poor Evelyn looked crestfallen.

Ollie had to choke back a laugh to keep his face and voice serious. “She doesn’t like being called ‘Hammie’ by anyone except Mrs. Chapman. She only ever tolerates it from me half the time.”

Evelyn tilted her head. “Is that not her name? What is her name, then? She looks to me like a Duchess or a Princess.”

Ollie shifted, feeling embarrassed. “It’s, um, Hambone.”

Evelyn blinked. “Hambone?”

Blast, she better not ask how he’d acquired the cat. “Yes, that’s correct.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“May I ask where the name came from?”

Perhaps he could lie. Tell her a cute story about seeing Hambone in the window of a pet store. Or that he had rescued her from the river. Something far more admirable than the true story. But only the true story could explain the cat’s name. Plus, lying was never good. “I was drunk,” he said.

“You were drunk when you bought her?” Evelyn pulled her head back slightly.

“No. I got her from a rubbish bin.”

Evelyn bit her bottom lip. “I sense there’s a story here you’re not sharing for some reason.”

Ollie let out a nervous laugh. Evelyn was the daughter of a baron.

He was so used to her in an academic setting, surrounded by books and art, in her utilitarian gray dresses, that he had never seen her amongst her roots: the aristocracy.

Discounting the soaking-wet wedding dress, he’d never seen her dressed like an aristocrat, but he could imagine her flaming hair and tall form in a lush, silk ballgown. She would be as regal as a queen.

He recalled her father, her would-be husband, and her family’s home.

Evelyn was far more elegant than he was.

It didn’t matter that his grandparents were noble Scots—he’d been born in the slums to a poor Irish mother and lived there for a time as an orphan.

His roots would always follow him, just as Evelyn’s roots would always follow her.

She was proper. He was a ragged street orphan from Whitechapel.

She worked during the day at a museum—he worked at night at a pub.

It didn’t matter what his house looked like, or how many commas his bank account had.

Evelyn clasped her hands together. “Oh, do tell me the story, Ollie!”

He pulled at his collar. “It’s rather embarrassing.”

“Don’t be silly! Please, I beg you to tell me. I have a feeling it is great fun.”

He sighed. There was no escaping it. “All right. But I did warn you.”

She nodded eagerly.

“It was Christmas Eve a few years ago,” Ollie began. “A work night for me.”

She furrowed her brow. “You all work on Christmas Eve?”

“I do.” As he said this, he realized he was always the only one working Christmas Eve, as only a few people would come in on that day.

Even he could handle the lack of business on that day, so Victor and Dantes were never there.

“Anyway, it was pretty empty in the pub, not much going on, and I accidentally got a bit drunk with the lads there. You know, as one does on Christmas Eve.”

“Right, especially while working…” Evelyn replied, clearly unsure.