Page 34 of The Tartan Trap

“Surprised to see you here this morning,” Lord Nelson said.

Callum arched his eyebrow in a silent demand for the man to explain himself. “I breakfast here often.”

“Yes, but you’re usually leaving by the time I arrive.”

“One might call you a lay-about.” Callum made himself smile, to give Nelson a way to believe he was joking. It was amazing what you could say directly to people’s faces if you said it with a smile.

Lord Nelson and his friends guffawed and devolved into ribbing each other.

Callum waited until the little furor had died down, then added, “I overslept this morning because of the festivities last night.”

“It’s a wonder you went at all if you weren’t going to dance much,” one gentleman said. “You just stood there.”

“I danced with several young ladies.” He shrugged. “You forget it was my very first ball.”

“That didn’t stop all the young ladies who’d just been presented.”

Lord Nelson gave a smarmy smile. “I love the desperation of a fresh batch of misses just presented. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in the gardens with one this time.”

“I thought you might,” his friend said. “I saw you speaking with Miss Pennington.”

“Unfortunately, her chaperone had quite a sharp eye. I thought her mother might overlook it out of gratitude that I’d deigned to dance with her at all. The nose on her…”

Callum cleared his throat and restrained himself from reaching over and choking the man with his own cravat.

“What of you, Ettrick? See anything you like?”

He shrugged. He knew better than to be honest with these men. It would be like pointing out his favorite puppy to a pack of hyenas.

“Not particularly.” He sipped his tea. “Besides, I don’t know enough about the ladies to decide if I like any of them.”

“Goodness’ sakes, just look at them. They’re all mostly the same once you loosen their stays, anyway.”

Callum deeply regretted sitting down. He wasn’t going to be able to enjoy the excellent sausages if he kept imagining creative ways to put Lord Nelson down. His eyes flickered to the silver service on table. He wondered which would dent first—the teapot or Nelson’s head.

“Are none of you looking for a wife, then?” he asked.

“In due time. Is that your purpose in coming to London?”

Callum’s teacup paused on the way to his lips; he arched his dark eyebrow. “Why else would I be here?”

“For the parties, the fun of it. For all the ways to enjoy a woman without making her a wife.”

“Careful, Nelson.” His voice was deceptively light. “The men around you all have sisters. Including myself.”

“I beg your pardon most ardently, but I would never be foolish enough to dally with your sister. Besides, judging by the size of you, she’d be far too large for my liking.”

A two-pronged serving fork to the throat would do nicely, Callum decided. Insert and twist—it would be over so quickly. Granted, there would be a spectacular spray of blood, and all over the white linen, too.

The other gentlemen at the table cleared their throats and looked elsewhere; they seemed to be reading the taut lines of Callum’s frame correctly. Nelson blathered on, completely unaware of Callum mentally trying out every item within reach as a weapon.

“No—I prefer women with lighter hair and lighter forms.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Like the Stevens sisters. Or the Preston ladies.”

Callum left off visualizing how he’d kill the man with the spoon—truly awful, that—to pay attention once more.

“I know nothing of either family,” he lied, making his shoulders relax so the other men would speak freely. “Who are they?”

“Milly and Rebecca Stevens—light brown hair. Twins, by the looks of them, though they were born a year apart. Not that anyone can blame their father for it—have you seen their mother? Those ladies will age well, mark my words.”