Free To Beguile a Beast by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

don’t you go to the kitchen and see if one of the maids can make you tea?”
    Abigail looked at her. “But what will you do, Mama?”
    Helen straightened her fresh apron. “Fetch Sir Alistair from his den.”
    T HE KNOCK ON the tower door came just as Alistair lit the candles. The light was fading, and he was in the midst of trying to record his observations on badgers. This was for his next great work: a comprehensive listing of the flora and fauna of Scotland, England, and Wales. It was a huge undertaking, one that he felt without vanity would place him in the ranks of the great scientists of his age. And today he’d been able to write for the first time in weeks—months, if he was honest with himself. He’d eagerly begun the work over three years ago, but for the last year or more, his work had slowed and faltered. He’d been beset by a sort of lethargy that made writing extremely difficult. Indeed, for the last few weeks he’d made barely any progress at all.
    Today, however, he’d risen knowing exactly what to put down in his manuscript. It was as if a breath of reviving wind had been blown into his lungs by some unseen god. He’d spent the day in intense writing and sketching, accomplishing more than he had in months.
    So when the knock interrupted his labors, he was not pleased.
    “What?” he growled at the door. It was bolted so a certain female couldn’t just swan in at will.
    “Your supper is ready,” she called back.
    “Bring it here, then,” he replied absently. Sketching a badger’s nose could be quite difficult.
    There was a short silence, and he thought for a moment that she’d gone away.
    Then she rattled the doorknob. “Sir Alistair, your supper is laid upon the table downstairs in the dining room.”
    “Nonsense,” he shot back. “I’ve seen my dining room. It hasn’t been used in near a decade, and it’s filthy. It’s not fit for man or beast to eat in.”
    “I’ve spent all this day cleaning it.”
    That gave him pause, and he stared suspiciously at the tower door. Had she really spent the day scrubbing out his dining room? It’d be a Herculean task if so. For a moment, he felt a flicker of guilt.
    Then he regained his good sense. “If what you say is true, Mrs. Halifax, and I really have a newly cleaned dining room, I thank you. I’m sure at some point I may even use it. But not tonight. Go away.”
    The silence this time stretched for so long that he was convinced she’d gone away. He’d returned to sketching the badger and was working on the difficult bit around the eyes when a great thump! shook the door. Alistair’s hand jerked and the pencil tore through the paper.
    He scowled at the ruined sketch.
    “Sir Alistair.” Mrs. Halifax’s voice came through the door, sounding very much as if she might be gritting her teeth. “Either you come out at once and eat the delicious supper that Mrs. McCleod spent all day cooking in the dining room that I and the other servants spent all day cleaning, or I shall instruct the footmen to break down this door.”
    Alistair raised his eyebrows.
    “I have scrubbed and polished, beaten and swept all the day long,” Mrs. Halifax continued.
    He set his pencil down, rose from his chair, and approached the door.
    “And I think it only common courtesy to—” she was saying as he opened the door. She stopped, mouth agape, and looked up at him.
    Alistair smiled and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Good evening, Mrs. Halifax.”
    She started to back up a step but then caught herself, although her wide blue eyes were wary. “Good evening, Sir Alistair.”
    He loomed over her to see if she would flee. “I understand you have supper waiting downstairs for me.”
    She clutched her hands but stood firm. “Yes.”
    “Then I shall be pleased to dine with you.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t dine with me. I’m your housekeeper.”
    He shrugged and slapped his thigh for Lady Grey. “I dined with you