But first he had to revise the Otis book. And while he had written his fair share of exceedingly bad poetry, he had never taken his hand to prose.

Hamish’s attention was diverted from his problem by the sudden jangle of the bell over the door announcing the arrival of a wide-eyed female clutching a tight-wrapped parcel to her chest.

At a glance, she was exactly the sort of country mouse of a female—all modest, well-made but out-of-fashion togs—who could be expected to offer them a slim volume of poetry to be printed in exactly three copies—one for herself, another for her grandmother, and the third for her cat. She’d be eaten up by Edinburgh’s rats if she didn’t mind herself.

But before he could shoo the female from the premises, she turned wide, lethally innocent eyes upon Prufrock, who seemed to have little natural defense against predators of such a seemingly harmless but deadly sort. “Mr. Prufrock?”

“Indeed, I am he.” Prufrock rose as swiftly as his creaking knees would allow, bowing his rosy, polished head in her direction. “How might I be of service?”

“Good afternoon, sir.” The lass made a graceful wee dip of a curtsey. “I believe you to have been the publisher of—”

“If I may?” Hamish broke in before Prufrock could commit them to another money-sinking endeavor. “I take it you’ve a slim volume of sentimental but uplifting poems you should like to see published?” He waited until she turned those dangerous, clear blue eyes upon him before he let her down gently. “Alas, Prufrock & Company are no longer in the market for poetry.”

The mousie blinked at him, as if he made no sense at all. “But I haven’t, sir. Got poetry, that is.” She gestured with the parcel held across her chest. “I’ve a novel.”

Hamish was not about to be diverted, even by the promise of a novel. Even by a novel offered with a fetchingly shy, fey smile. “A novel in three volumes, with a morally uplifting theme, and a worthy orphan for a protagonist?” The sort of tale meant to frighten young misses to keep quietly to their country mouse holes. “I’m afraid we’re still not interested. Good day.”

“Nay.” The wee mousie bit down on her soft lower lip. “Although I’m not exactly sure what a pro-tagonist is, sir, but—”

Ye gods. Hamish held up his hand to stop her from saying another word. The sooner he got her out of there, the sooner he could return to the business at hand.

“As I was saying—” He stepped toward the door so he could hold it for her—

But she whisked herself away, deeper into the space, to hold her ground. “It is a romantic novel. A very romantic novel.” She spoke quickly, in a rush to get the words out before he might stop her. “A new, very romantic novel by a man”—her voice grew firmer and more animated, lending her surety—“you have published some years ago. Mr. John Otis.”

The mention of such a name—the very name that had been on the tip of Hamish’s tongue for days—brought even arthritic Prufrock around his desk. “New? By John Otis? Why, he’s been dead these twenty years.”

“The same John Otis who was the author of A Memoir of a Game Girl?” Hamish asked. The manuscript he was counting upon to make their fortune?

“Aye.” The wee mousie tipped her chin toward her parcel. “The same. It’s a new manuscript, written some years ago, but only just come to light.”

Prufrock leaned on the large, two-sided desk for support. “Well, I’ll be.”

They’d be rich is what they’d be, if the lass’ claim were true.

“A romantic story, you said?” Hamish asked. “How romantic?” John Otis’ work had been, at best, characterized as amatory, but never romantic.

“Highly romantic,” was her interesting answer.

Hamish pushed politeness aside to come straight to the point. “Erotic?”

The lass’ boldness went up in a flush of color so hot, Hamish was afraid her tatty straw hat might catch fire. “Somewhat less than…that.” She swallowed and tried to stand tall—well, as tall as a willowy sort of lass who looked as if a stiff wind might blow her down could. “I can only assume that with this particular manuscript, Mr. Otis sought to avoid the scandal and trouble that the last book occasioned. One can’t sell a banned book, can one?”

It was so insightful an understatement, Hamish took a closer look at the wee mousie. Under a country bonnet so old Edinburgh society would judge fit only for shading a plow horse, were bright, clear blue eyes in a pointed, oval face. An intelligent face. A pretty face.

If one liked that curious country mouse sort. Which he didn’t. Because he had a business to run, a fortune to make, and a wedding to avoid.

But she brought a potential fortune in business. “Do come in.” He swept her a more credible bow. “I take it you have this manuscript with you?”

“I have the first half of the volume,” the lass confirmed. “I was leery of…letting the whole of it out of my hands without a firm contract. I thought to…gauge the level of interest before I did so.”

“Very prudent,” Prufrock assured her.

“Give it here,” was Hamish’s more mercenary demand. “And we’ll see if there is anything worth giving a contract for. Have a seat.” Hamish was already cutting open the wrapping before he thought to kick a chair in her direction.

She did not sit—her glance flitted from the chair to the door, and then back at him, as if gauging how long she could bear to stay. Clearly, he made her nervous. “How long will you need to contemplate the pages?”

“No time a’tall.” The pages looked well prepared, written in a clean, clear hand. “If it really is by John Otis, as you say.”

“It is,” she assured him, all quiet, mousie confidence.

A confidence he was not quite ready to share. “And how did you come by this remarkable find?”

“And you are?” She looked away from him, toward his partner. “I had thought I would be dealing with Mr. Prufrock, as the prior publisher of John Otis’ book.”

Prufrock made the belated introductions. “Mr. Cathcart is my business partner. The newest partner of Prufrock & Company.”

“Michty me!” The lass drew back as if she’d been scalded. “The earl’s son? I beg your pardon, sir.”

Hamish took notice of her careful re-appraisal of him, and reckoned she was just like everyone else—wondering if, because he was in trade, he was the illegitimate one.

He let her wonder. “And you are?”

“Miss Elspeth Otis,” she finally supplied. “I’m John Otis’ daughter.”

Hamish sat before he could fall.

Because, it seemed there was at least one illegitimate person in the room after all.

Chapter 8

Elspeth arrived back at the house on St. Andrew Square in good time for afternoon tea. Aunt Augusta awaited her in the sunny, comfortable salon at the back of the house, overlooking a blooming walled garden.

“There you are, my dear. Come in, come in and take some refreshment after your adventure.” She held out a welcoming hand to gather Elspeth to her side. “How did you find Mr. Prufrock? Did you conclude your business satisfactorily?”

“I found Mr. Prufrock amiable and quiet—it was his partner, a Mr. Cathcart, who conducted the greater share of the business.”

“Ah.” Aunt Augusta’s pleased smile widened ever so slightly. “And how did you find Mr. Cathcart?”

“Less amiable.” Her first impression of Mr. Cathcart had not been entirely favorable—handsome was as handsome does, but Mr. Cathcart seemed to be just the sort of man her Aunts Murray had warned her about—far too sure of himself. “Though it was dim, and I did not get a good look at him. But it is Mr. Cathcart who is reading the manuscript pages now.”

“Ah.” A slow smile spread upwards to the corners of Aunt Augusta’s eyes. “This I am pleased to hear. Mr. Cathcart has a reputation as an acute reader as well as an astute gentleman. I should think it will not be long before he has an answer—”

She was interrupted by the rap of the doorknocker below, which brought one of her pleased, cat-in-cream smiles curving across her cheeks. “Just as I was saying—it won’t be long at all. Your Mr. Cathcart is a pleasingly decisive young man.”

“How can you know it is he at the door?” No name had been announced. “And he’s certainly not my Mr. Cathcart.”

“All in good time.” Aunt Augusta favored her with a kindly, critical eye. “You do look marvelous in that rich blue. Sit here”—she gestured to a watered silk-upholstered chair—“with your back to the window. It will put you in just the right light.”

“The right light for what?”

But her aunt did not answer because the butler, Reeves, was at the door, announcing Mr. Cathcart, who came into the room like a gust of fresh spring air, all bracing bonhomie. “My dear Lady Ivers.” He bowed low over Aunt Augusta’s hand. “How good of you to see me.”

In the brighter light of the salon, Elspeth could see more clearly what she had only guessed at in the dimmer confines of Fowl’s Close—Mr. Cathcart was a tall, extraordinarily well-formed, exceptionally handsome fellow. Even if he did smile a bit too easily.

He turned the force of that smile upon her, and Elspeth felt her insides slip sideways. And upside down. Something about him made her as nervous as a guinea fowl in a fox’s den. “And Miss Otis. A pleasure to see you again.”

His smile and his very presence felt more like a challenge than a proper greeting.

“Ah.” Aunt Augusta said for the third time, investing that single word with a wealth of meaning—little of which Elspeth could readily understand. “You’ve already met my niece, I understand, but a short while ago. And here you are. How fascinating. I was just asking my niece how she found you.”

“By coming up the High Street and down Fowl’s Close, I should think,” was his answer.