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it. MacLachlan was going to give Sorcha a real home. The very thought of it astonished her, and Esmée realized that in truth she had traveled all the way to London never expecting her bluff to work.
    Oh, MacLachlan would not give Sorcha love, she thought, pulling her nightdress over her head. He would not nurture the child’s soul. He would not be a father in any meaningful sense of the word. But he was not going to throw her out again, and Esmée had learned to keep her expectations low and rejoice at even the slightest victory.
    Just then, Sorcha began to flail about with her left leg, tossing off her blankets. Esmée went to the makeshift cradle and bent down to tuck her blankets back around her. To her surprise, Sorcha was awake. At Esmée’s appearance, she widened her startling blue eyes, laughed one of her gurgling, bubbling laughs, and clapped her hands together.
    Esmée took the child’s tiny hands in her own and felt Sorcha’s fingers wrap round her index fingers, her grip warm and strong. “Are you happy now, my bonnie wee lassie?” asked Esmée, lifting one little fist to her lips for a kiss. “D’ye fancy this might be your home after all?”
    “Be mo,” agreed Sorcha, her gaze growing drowsy again. “Mo, mo, mo.”

Chapter Two

In which Mr. Hawes lets the Cat out of the Bag
    “Good God. You did what?” Merrick MacLachlan leaned across the breakfast table to stare at his brother.
    “I told her she could stay,” Alasdair repeated. “It was one in the morning, and there was the very devil of a thunderstorm on. What else was I to do?”
    “Send her packing,” advised Quin around a mouthful of kidney. “That’s the oldest trick in the world, Alasdair. Can’t believe you fell for it.”
    Merrick pushed back his chair in disgust. “That must have been one hell of a blow to the head yesterday,” he said, going to the sideboard to refill his coffee. “Some tart shows up on your doorstep with a bairn in tow, tells you it is yours, and you just believe her?”
    “She’s no tart, Merrick. She’s just a little wren of a girl.” But Alasdair was suddenly very glad he had not mentioned the three hundred pounds Miss Hamilton had extorted. He let his gaze drift round his well-appointed dining room, and wondered if his brother had a point. Or perhaps he was going a little mad. Somehow, he had believed that in the light of day, all of this would vanish like a bad dream. But it had not.
    “Are you going to eat those?” asked Quin, pointing at the pile of kippers Alasdair had mechanically piled on his plate.
    “Have them, by all means,” offered Alasdair, too late, as it happened, since Quin had already forked half of them up. “Though how you can eat all that after the day we had yesterday, I cannot fathom.”
    “Cast-iron stomach,” said Quin, finishing his eggs. “You’re getting soft, Alasdair. Any more coffee, Merrick?”
    Merrick filled Quin’s cup, then returned to his chair. “What have you told the servants, Alasdair?” he demanded. “The house must be abuzz.”
    “The staff round here is beyond being shocked,” he answered evenly. “I told Wellings the child was my ward, and he actually believed it. Especially since Miss Hamilton is so obviously Scottish and looks more like my daughter than my usual sort of lightskirt.”
    “But Alasdair,” said Quin, “someone is bound to remember your trip to Scotland and put two and two together. You go so rarely.”
    Alasdair turned to face him. “Very rarely,” he agreed. “I’ve been home but once in the last three years. But that particular year, if you’ll recall, you and I spent the shooting season in Northumbria at Lord Devellyn’s hunting box.”
    “Yes, I recall it,” said Quin.
    “And we’d meant to spend the holidays, too,” Alasdair continued. “But then you and Dev found those two French girls in Newcastle, and I was odd man out, so to speak.”
    “We did offer to share,” Quin grumbled.
    Alasdair shook his head.