Death of a Charming Man | Chapter 8 of 21 - Part: 1 of 8

Author: M.C. Beaton | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 4883 Views | Add a Review

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Chapter Three

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

– Francis Bacon

Had Hamish been a Lowland Scot, he would have confronted Priscilla and Peter, or, at least, have phoned her later to tell her what he thought of her. But he was Highland, and his vanity was deeply wounded. So, maliciously hell-bent on mischief, he drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.

The first welcome sight that met his eyes was a new receptionist, a small, pretty girl with a cheeky face and a mop of auburn curls.

He had seen her before. She had, he judged, started work at the hotel about a fortnight ago. He smiled at her and said, ‘Where’s Priscilla?’

‘She’s gone out,’ said the receptionist. ‘Can I help? Och, I’m being silly. You’re Hamish.’

‘You’re Scottish,’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘I thought only the English took jobs as receptionists in Highland hotels. Are you from these parts?’

‘No, from Perth.’ She held out a small hand. ‘Sophy Bisset.’

‘Well, Sophy Bisset, are you on duty for long tonight?’

She glanced at the clock. ‘Harry, the night porter, should be here any moment to relieve me.’

‘Fancy a bite of dinner?’

Her bright grey eyes twinkled at him. ‘I thought you lot had your dinner in the middle of the day and your tea by five.’

‘I’ve been working hard.’

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve only had a sandwich since lunch-time. Oh, here’s Harry.’

‘Come along and I’ll stand ye dinner at that Italian place.’

She looked amused, as if at some private joke, but she picked up her handbag and said cheerfully, ‘All right. Let’s go.’

Seated in the Land Rover, she said, ‘This is very kind of you, Hamish. Safe in the arms of the law.’

‘Chust so,’ said Hamish, throwing her a slanting look. Had there been a mocking edge to her voice?

Wishing he were not wearing his uniform, Hamish ushered her into the restaurant. ‘Oh, there’s Priscilla. Surprise, surprise,’ said Sophy, and Hamish at once knew that Sophy had been perfectly aware that they would meet Priscilla and her date. Willie Lamont, Hamish’s ex-policeman, came bustling up in his waiter’s uniform of striped sweater and indecently tight trousers. ‘Tch, Willie,’ admonished Hamish. ‘If you go around in breeks like that, someone will be pinching your bum.’

‘Lucia made me wear them,’ said Willie sulkily. Lucia was his Italian wife. ‘Are you going to join Priscilla?’

‘We’ll chust sit at this wee table in the corner.’

Willie handed them menus and sailed off.

Hamish looked at Sophy over the top of his menu. ‘You knew Priscilla was here,’ he accused.

Sophy nodded, her eyes dancing. ‘The only reason a man like you would ask me out, Hamish Macbeth, would be to get revenge on Priscilla. I mean, just look at her. She could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue.’

There was simple admiration in her voice. Hamish reluctantly lowered the menu and looked at his beloved. She was wearing a white frilly blouse with a plunging neckline and a short, tight black skirt. The bell of her golden hair shone in the candle-light. She threw back her head and laughed at something Peter was saying.

‘Look at me instead,’ ordered Sophy. ‘She’s not enjoying herself one bit.’

‘Could’ve have fooled me,’ grumbled Hamish. Willie came back and took their orders.


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Great book, nicely written and thank you BooksVooks for uploading

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