It had been formally laid for one. That was Sarah’s doing—she had determined that a man of his stature must dine in luxury, regardless of how many dined with him. Payton thought it a tremendous waste of time and effort, but he had allowed her this custom, and now it seemed that Beckwith would continue it.
A fire burned at the hearth, undoubtedly refreshed every half hour until he dined. The table was set with cloth and a seven-pronged candelabrum in the middle of the table. Two crystal goblets—one for water, one for wine—accompanied a setting of bone china, silver flatware, and a small crystal tot for a bit of port or whiskey after his meal. Payton strode to the sideboard, pulled the bellpull, poured a tot of whiskey, and tossed it down. He closed his eyes, relishing the burn of it down his throat.
He had scarcely taken his seat before Jamie appeared, carrying a tray laden with three silver-domed platters which he laid on the sideboard. He moved to light the candelabrum, then stepped back and bowed. “Shall I serve ye, milord?”
“Please,” Payton said idly, and Jamie removed his plate from the table, took it to the sideboard, and began to fill it with food. Beckwith entered, a crystal decanter of wine in one hand, a pitcher of well water in the other. He filled Payton’s glasses as Payton glanced through the post.
One in particular caught his eye. The Right Honorable Laird Douglas, Master and Despot of Eilean Ros.
He stared at the missive as Jamie put the plate before him.
“Will ye require ought else, milord?” Beckwith asked.
“Ah…no,” he said, distracted. Beckwith nodded, stepped back, and quietly quit the room. Jamie stepped back, too, but stood still and silent beside the sideboard, should Payton require anything.
Yet Payton hardly noticed him, for he was far too interested in the letter. He unfolded the paper and read:
To the Right Honorable Laird Douglas:
Greetings and salutations from Miss Lockhart, your indentured housekeeper. I thought you should know that I have taken the liberty of closing several rooms in the north wing.
Please know that I have indeed considered the possibility that you believe, for the sake of appearances, it is important for a powerful and rather self-impressed laird such as yourself to keep all the rooms of his enormous house open for Scots far and wide to admire with awe. Yet I must point out that at Talla Dileas, where we have no such grand perceptions of our importance, we find that rooms gone unused for long periods of time require peat or coal that we can ill afford, as well as the use of chambermaids who might be employed in something infinitely more useful than the tidying of big, empty rooms.
I have, however, noted a few rooms which should be kept open because they clearly reflect your tastes and sensibilities; chiefly, the billiard room, for it is very stark and plain, and the north drawing room, which appears to have been used for torture during an earlier period of Douglas history.
ML
Payton bit back a reluctant smile of surprise at receiving such a bold missive from his housekeeper and read it twice more. Aye, he’d long since known the lass had the grit of the gods. She was not, it would appear, the least bit disheartened by her situation.
When he had finished his meal, he rang a bell for Beckwith. “I’ll have a port in my chambers.” He quit the dining room, walking purposefully down the corridor and taking the stairs two at a time.
He entered his suite through the dressing room and stood in the doorway for a moment, peering closely at his surroundings. His dressing room was, much to his disappointment, perfectly put together—his clothing had been put away and his toiletries had been cleaned and placed neatly on the basin. Even the wardrobe was closed and polished.
His housekeeper, it seemed, was doing more than shutting down half of his house.
Payton continued on to the master bedchamber, shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat, which he carelessly and uncharacteristically tossed onto the floor in his wake.
The master bedroom was also insufferably neat. He sighed as he untied his neckcloth and opened the collar of his lawn shirt and looked around him. There was a fire burning in the hearth and the thick woven rug had the look of being recently swept. The curtains had been drawn and his books stacked in an orderly fashion on the bookshelves. The bed had been neatly made after his thrashing about last night…. Ah, but it was the bed that brought a small smile of satisfaction to his face.
When Beckwith arrived with his port, he was sitting in one of two leather wingback chairs before his hearth. Beckwith put the tray on a small table between the chairs, then looked to Payton for further instruction.
“Send Miss Lockhart to me,” he said simply.
“The housekeeper, milord?” Beckwith asked uncertainly. “Is there something amiss?”
“Ye must be blind if ye canna see it, Beckwith. Look around ye, then.”
Beckwith glanced around the room again and shook his head. “I beg yer pardon, milord, but everything seems in perfect order.”