“There is nothing quite like the sight of a lovely lady in the morning to brighten one’s day,” he declared, a slight nasality to his accent betraying his country of origin.
I blushed at his outrageous flattery, and he swept around the table to take my hand, bowing before it.
“Gentlemen . . .” he urged the two men sitting across from me “. . . please introduce us.”
“Oh, er, Lady Darby, may I present Mr. Stuart,” Mr. Young stammered.
“Lady Darby.” Mr. Stuart rolled my name over his tongue like it was a savory treat. “I have heard of you.” His silver eyes twinkled. “And, I must say, the pleasure is all mine.”
I arched my eyebrows at the old roué, but couldn’t suppress an answering smile. “Thank you, Mr. Stuart.” Then I glanced down at where his hand still held mine. “But perhaps you might let go of my fingers now. I would like to finish eating.”
He chuckled. “Of course.” He nodded to the footman standing by the sideboard, who moved forward to pour him a cup of coffee, and settled into the seat beside me.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he inhaled and then took his first sip of the beverage, preferring it black and bitter. He sighed contentedly.
I grinned at his obvious enjoyment. “Have you been in Scotland long?”
“A few months only. A lovely country. And such fascinating customs! The singing, the bonfire, the first-footer. I have never been here before to celebrate what you call Hogmanay in your country.”
“But you’ve visited Scotland before?”
He nodded briskly as he took another sip of his coffee. “My first visit was in 1812.” He paused, a strange expression tightening his features. “So long ago now, it seems,” he murmured, almost wistfully. But before I could ask him about it, he hurried on to say, “But I’m afraid I did not stay long. I soon set sail for Philadelphia.”
Mr. Young perked up at this bit of news. “You’ve been to America?”
A smile returned to Mr. Stuart’s lips. “I have. And quite the adventure it was. I saw the city of Washington burned by the British. Even visited the frontier.”
Mr. Young leaned forward eagerly. “Did you see any Indians?”
“I did. I was even able to speak to a few of them.” He paused dramatically, a knowing twinkle in his eyes telling us he had more to share. “Davy Crockett introduced us.”
This finally caught Lord Shellingham’s interest, as he lifted his eyes to the man, still carefully cradling his head in his hands. “The frontiersman?”
Mr. Stuart relaxed back in his chair, clearly enjoying the attention. “Fascinating man. I even witnessed him dispensing what he liked to call ‘justice’ by shooting a man who was attempting to steal his horse in the b—” His gaze strayed to mine, as he seemed to recall the presence of a lady at the last moment. “Er . . . an uncomfortable place.”
I hid a smile, knowing Mr. Stuart was eager to share more, but had halted out of respect for me. Taking the cue that none of these gentlemen would be so impolite as to actually express, I excused myself from the table. It was unlikely I would be able to glean any useful information about the night before from them anyway.
I couldn’t help but chuckle as I exited the breakfast room, wondering if I should believe a word Mr. Stuart said. He simply did not seem the type who would go off on these sorts of adventures. He might have visited America. He might have seen the city of Washington burn—from a safe distance. But the rest seemed more like embellishment.
“I see you’ve made Mr. Stuart’s acquaintance,” Aunt Sarah remarked, correctly interpreting my amusement when she intercepted me at the doorway. Dark circles rung her eyes, but they twinkled with good humor as she peered over my shoulder at the Frenchman. I suspected she had only managed to snatch a few hours of sleep, but being hostess, she would feel it was her duty to be up early to see to her guests.
“Yes,” I replied. “He’s quite a colorful character.”
“Telling tales of his exploits, is he?”
“Davy Crockett.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly, and then slipped her arm through mine, striding with me a few steps away from the door into the hall. “Well, he is charming. And perhaps a bit . . .” she wrinkled her nose as if searching for the right word “. . . eccentric.”
I smiled. That word could encompass any number of odd behaviors. I myself was called eccentric, but I was nothing like Mr. Stuart. However, I knew what my aunt was trying to say as tactfully as possible.
“I’m glad you found me,” I admitted.
She arched her brows in query.
“I wanted to ask you whether anyone mentioned if they’d seen anything strange last night—before, during, or after the ball.”
Her face tightened. “You mean, other than when that poor young man stumbled in during our first-footing?”
“That upset quite a few people, didn’t it?” I asked, thinking of how superstitious some Scots could be.
She sighed. “You saw how quickly everyone left.” She lifted a hand to her forehead wearily. “It was not exactly an auspicious ending to the evening.”