“Is he sane?” Joachim’s stomach had lurched at the idea of spending a week with a madman. He’d spent countless hours working at the asylum near his university, but those were patients and Joachim wasn’t alone with any of the truly dangerous ones.

Stuart had flushed with what may have been relief, or perhaps his third gin, nodding. “Er, yes. Let’s say he’s an eccentric. Ainsley’s a certified genius with no sense of self-preservation, whatsoever.” He excused it with the comment that Ainsley was the result of a second marriage to a flighty woman who’d indulged her own three children to the point of criminality. And if Ainsley Graham was a bit of a crank, that was all her doing.

And now, Joachim was in Scotland with a gorgeous—and he must remember, potential—madman, utterly unsure of how to proceed.

Stuart’s brother resumed his position with his foot on the log and dug into the fire once more. “Research.” He tossed Joachim another grin over his shoulder. A perfectly squared shoulder for all its slenderness. It matched the proportions of the rest of his shape—long, lean muscles that would likely not thicken as he aged.

The man Nelson wheeled in a trolley laden with covered salvers and spread a crisp tablecloth over a small table he dragged in front of the sofa. He arranged plates and silverware with an almost magical speed, and had all the dishes uncovered in under a minute. Violet circled it once, her nostrils flaring appreciatively.

“Sir?” He repeated it twice more before Ainsley revived from an almost trancelike state and faced Joachim.

“Lovely. Please, tuck in Cockburn.” He snickered and so did bloody Nelson. At Ainsley’s prompting, Joachim filled his plate with cold chicken and spring peas. He slathered butter on his bread, still warm in the middle.

“And will you need me for anything else, Sir?” Nelson asked, pouring dark red wine into two goblets.

“You’ve readied his room?” Ainsley tossed a piece of chicken to the dog, who caught it with a snap of her jaws.

“Indeed.” The servant nodded at Joachim. “I’ve unpacked his valise upstairs.”

Joachim murmured his thanks.

Twirling the stem of the glassware in his fingers, Ainsley gestured for Nelson to leave. “I won’t need you back until eleven tomorrow morning. I plan on keeping Cockburn up until dawn.” He waggled his groomed eyebrows.

Mind out of the gutter, Cockburn. The Scotsman must have meant that he had some amazing stories to tell. Just last week, Joachim had stayed up all night reading one of Ainsley’s books, Historical Roots of Scottish Fey. The small bookshelf in his bedroom also boasted the other five books the dishonored academic had written. Prolific for one who couldn’t be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven.