Twelfth Night with the Earl

by Anna Bradley

  They two boys climbed off each other, but Henry couldn’t quite hold in his ire. “Aw, but Miss Sheridan, he called me a—”

  “At once, Henry, or no raisins for either of you.”

  Ethan might have laughed at the chastened expression on the boys’ faces, but he wasn’t looking at them anymore.

  He was looking at her.

  Miss Sheridan.

  He went still, his mind reeling with shock. There had only ever been one Miss Sheridan, and there’d never be another—not for Cleves Court, and not for him.

  Thea was here.

  Theodosia Sheridan, his childhood playmate, then his dearest friend, and then, when he was fourteen, the year Ethan was sent away from Cleves Court for good, his first love.

  His only love, though he couldn’t have known it at the time.

  He never thought about her—he wouldn’t let himself think of her, because thinking about Thea was like floating to the surface and sucking in great gulps of air when you hadn’t even realized you were underwater. Once you got that air, once it filled your lungs you realized again how much you needed it, how you couldn’t live without it.

  It was so much easier just to drown.

  He stiffened as she drew closer, so close he could reach out and catch a handful of her silk skirts in his fist, but he forced his arms to his sides, and she passed by without noticing him.

  “Here we are!” She set the large bowl carefully on a wide table that looked as if it had been brought in for that purpose. She touched a cloth to the candle on the table and lit the brandy, then raised her beaming face to the crowd gathered around her. “There are plenty of raisins for everyone this year—too many to count!”

  Ethan sucked in a breath as blue flames rose from the bowl and shown full on her face. He could see every graceful line of her features, every curve of her smile . . .

  And those eyes.

  Wide and green, long-lashed, and still with that touch of cheekiness that drove him mad as a boy, before he was even old enough to understand what it meant to be driven mad by a woman.

  Theodosia Sheridan. A termagant, a sharp-tongued hellion, a scapegrace—yes, she was all of those things. Bold and fearless, too, and if her eyes were any indication, she hadn’t changed.

  What was she doing here? As far as he knew she’d left Cleves Court two years ago. When had she come back, and why—

  Ethan froze as all the pieces snapped into place.

  Of course.

  Thea was at the bottom of this madness. This was her fault. The music, the guests, the games, and those two fiendish boys—she was responsible for it all. It made such perfect sense he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t realized it at once. Who else but Thea would dare to take over his house as if she were mistress of it?

  She’d brought Cleves Court back from the dead. Instead of the cold, empty house he’d expected, the old place was warm and alive again.

  As long as it’s alive, I can’t bury it.

  He’d come here to shove Cleves Court as deep into the ground as it would go, to cover it with dirt and bury it forever, and his memories right along with it. It should have been a simple enough thing to do, but now . . .

  Now she was here, and nothing was simple anymore.

  Thea was a complication waiting to happen—chaos in silk skirts, with a tempting smile and devastating green eyes. No sooner would he have everything in its proper place than she’d sweep in like a hurricane and send it all into disarray with a snap of her pretty fingers.

  Simple things had a way of becoming complicated around Thea.

  An adolescent flirtation, a single kiss . . . they were simple things, and yet somehow, without him knowing when or how it happened, Thea had become the woman against which every other woman was measured.

  All at once, Ethan was furious.

  He didn’t stop to think. If he had, perhaps he wouldn’t have done it, but he’d drunk an entire flask of whiskey, and his heart was pounding, and the blue flames were dancing in front of his eyes, and damn it, the geese and the French hens made no sense at all, and what was he supposed to do with eight bloody milkmaids?

  Before he’d even made up his mind to move, he was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, bellowing and frothing like an inmate at Bedlam. “What the devil do you think you’re doing with my house, Theodosia Sheridan?”

  There was a moment of shocked silence, and then everything happened at once.

  Henry and George were in the midst of snatching raisins from the bowl and licking their fingers, but the minute Ethan’s voice rang across the drawing-room, they came to a dead stop.

  “He cursed!” Henry nudged his brother. “He said a curse, right ’ere in the drawing-room!”

  “He did.” George looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or offended by such a thing. “And ’e did it loud, too.”

  “Look at ’im, George. A right swell, in’t he? He’s a lordship, ye know.”

  “Don’t care if ’e’s a swell, or even a lordship. He shouted at Miss Sheridan.” George took a step toward Ethan, his hands balled into fists. “No one’s s’posed to shout at Miss Sheridan.”

  “That swell right there did!” Henry pointed at Ethan, appealing to the rest of the party, all of whom were standing around watching the scene unfold, still mute with shock. “That’s not right, it’s not, but then ’e’s a lordship, and in his cups. That’s what lordships do when they’re in their cups.”

  Ethan’s ignored them, his gaze never leaving Thea’s face. “I asked you a question, Miss Sheridan, and I’ll have an answer at once.”

  “Ethan? My goodness, is that you?” One shaking hand came up to cover her mouth, but when she lowered it again her lips were curved in the same smile that still haunted him, the one that made his heart leap in his chest. The smile that said she couldn’t imagine it being anyone but him, as if he were the only person in the world she wanted to see.

  But he didn’t deserve that smile. Not anymore.

  “Ethan, what are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s—”

  “Not Ethan, Miss Sheridan. I’m Lord Devon now, and I’m here because this is my house. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten that?”

  She stared at him in silence for a moment, then, “No. I haven’t forgotten . . . your lordship.” She paused before she added his title— not for long enough to be accused of outright insolence, but just shy of it.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Given you do recall I’m the master of this house, perhaps you’d favor me with an answer to my question. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Having a Christmas Eve party, my lord.” Her voice was calm, but Ethan didn’t miss the flicker of temper in her eyes.

  “Did you get my permission to have a party at my house, Miss Sheridan?”

  “No.”

  Ethan’s temper rose at this blithe dismissal. She didn’t sound the least bit repentant, damn her. “Well, why not? I believe it’s customary for servants to ask the earl’s permission for such things.”

  “My apologies, your lordship. I’ve never done so in my tenure as housekeeper here, but I should have realized this time you meant for me to write to London for permission to have guests at Cleves Court.”

  Christ, the sting of that tongue. Only Thea could make an apology sound like an accusation. “You’ve stolen from me, Miss Sheridan. I could bloody well have you taken up by the law if I chose.”

  Henry sucked in a gasp. “Oh, ’e did it again, George! He said . . .” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “He said bloody.”

  Thea held up a hand to quiet the boys, but her gaze remained fixed on Ethan. “Very well, my lord. I believe our magistrate, Mr. Williamson is in the entryway even now, helping himself to a glass of punch. Becky, if you wouldn’t mind fetching Mr. Williamson? His lordship wishes to have me taken up for theft.”
>
  “Do you suppose I won’t?” Of course he wouldn’t—Thea could march out the front door with every silver teaspoon in the house secreted away in her bodice and he wouldn’t move a muscle to stop her—but devil take her, her stubbornness could drive a saint to the flask, and he was no bloody saint. “I warn you, Miss Sheridan—”

  “No!” A high-pitched wail pierced the room, and a tiny child with wild black curls tossed all the raisins clenched in her chubby fists to the floor, rushed forward, and threw her arms around Thea’s knees. “No! George, that lordship there said ’e’s going to have Miss Sheridan taken up, and then she’ll have to go to jail, and we won’t ever see ’er again!”

  “Hush, Martha. I won’t be taken to jail.” Thea gathered the girl into her arms and glared at Ethan over the child’s head. “I’ve done nothing illegal, no matter what that lordship says.”

  “Um, Miss Sheridan? There’s a—”

  “I hope you aren’t teaching these children stealing isn’t illegal.” Ethan pointed to Henry and George. “Those two in particular need a lesson on proper morals and behavior.”

  “Miss Sheridan!” George tugged at the sleeve of her dress. “Martha’s raisins are still—”

  She waved him off. “I’m not teaching them anything of the sort. I’m simply telling them I’m not a thief. But thank goodness your lordship is here, because I can’t think of anyone more suited to give a lesson on morality to young boys than a man who wagers on a marchioness’s virtue!”

  Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. Well, it seemed rumors of his London exploits had reached Cleves Court. Not so bloody remote after all, was it?

  “Sir? That is . . . lordship?” Henry was starting to look panicked. “Hadn’t we better—”

  “As it happens, the gossips had it wrong. That wager didn’t have anything to do with the marchioness’s virtue at all. It was about a West End whorehouse.”

  There was a shocked gasp, but Martha’s excited voice drowned it out. “Miss Sheridan, look!” She tugged at Thea’s skirts, her face filled with glee. “The carpet’s on fire!”

  Chapter Two

  Christmas Eve, 9:00 p.m.

  It wasn’t as if the entire house had gone up in flames.

  It’d hardly been a fire at all, for pity’s sake. The flames certainly hadn’t gotten as far as the drawing-room door, no matter what Ethan Fortescue said. Such a fuss, and over nothing more than a few scorched raisins! Well, that and a singed carpet, but it was only the tiniest of holes. No one would even know it was there once the footmen moved the settee over it, and the smell of burnt wool would dissipate eventually.

  It had every other time.

  Thea jabbed at a log in the fireplace in Ethan’s study. Cursing, in the middle of a Christmas Eve party, in front of children! It would take her ages to persuade George and Henry not to repeat the words devil and bloody, and Martha was bound to be up all night for the next week, fretting about Thea being taken up by the magistrate.

  Taken up, indeed. What nonsense—

  “Children messing about with lit spirits, Miss Sheridan? Ah, well. It’s hardly like Christmas at all without painful burns, I suppose.”

  The low drawl came from the doorway behind her. Thea gave the log a vicious poke, but she didn’t turn around, because if she had to look at Ethan’s slow, mocking smile just now, there was no telling what she might do—

  “It’s a mercy the entire bloody house didn’t go up in flames.”

  Thea hefted the heavy poker in her hand, considering. Perhaps she did know what she’d do, after all.

  He sauntered into the room, dropped into the chair behind the massive oak desk, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Not to worry, Miss Sheridan. Despite your recklessness, we won’t be homeless for Christmas, after all. I’ve managed to douse the flames.”

  “Indeed?” Goodness, what a relief that was. She’d been certain a handful of unruly raisins would be the end them all. “I’m delighted to hear it, my lord.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound delighted. You sound cross. Don’t tell me the fire has blackened your holiday spirits?”

  Thea warned herself to hold her tongue, but as usual it didn’t listen. “No. I only wonder how you managed to put out such terrible flames. Did you smother them with the toe of your boot? Or did you beat them back with one of the tasseled silk pillows?”

  “Such a saucy tongue.” He made a tsking sound, his voice heavy with mock regret. “Even when you were a small child that tongue could flay the skin off the toughest hide, but we’re not children anymore, Miss Sheridan. I’m the earl, you’re my servant, and you forget yourself. Now, I’ll have the explanation I demanded earlier at once, if you please. What the devil are you up to?”

  Thea stabbed the log and watched it disintegrate in a shower of red sparks. Well, he was every inch the proper earl now, wasn’t he? “Up to? Why, just a jolly game of Snapdragon. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Children have played it on Christmas Eve for centuries. We’ve played it here at Cleves Court for years now, with no harm done.”

  He snorted. “No harm? There are at least six burn holes in my great-great-grandfather’s Aubusson carpet, and if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect someone was trying to hide them under the furniture.”

  Thea winced. Dash it all, why had the footmen moved those settees while Ethan was in the room? “Well, as to that, there’s a perfectly innocent explanation—”

  He held up his hand. “Never mind. I always hated that carpet. But perhaps you’d be so good as to answer a few other questions. We’ll start with a simple one, shall we? A serving maid called Becky told me the housekeeper was responsible for this party. I assume she meant you. What the devil happened to Mrs. Hastings? I hope those demonic children haven’t bound and gagged her, and locked her in a cupboard somewhere.”

  Thea blinked. “Mrs. Hastings?” A better question would be, who the devil was Mrs. Hastings? Unless . . . “Oh. You must mean Mrs. Hopkins.”

  “Hopkins?” Ethan frowned, then waved an impatient hand at her. “Yes, very well. Hopkins. Where the devil is Mrs. Hopkins? Why hasn’t she presented herself to me?”

  “Allow me to apologize on Mrs. Hopkins’ behalf, Lord Devon. I’m certain she would have presented herself to you at once, aside from one small difficulty. She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” He gave her a blank look. “How unfortunate.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Nearly two years ago now.”

  He pondered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I suppose she’s excused, then.”

  “Are you quite certain? Because I could send a footman to fetch her, if your lordship insists.”

  His eyes narrowed at her sarcasm, but Thea only raised an eyebrow at him, her chin in the air. For pity’s sake, was this how aristocrats behaved in London? She wouldn’t overlook such rude arrogance even if he were a duke.

  Blast it, this wasn’t at all how she’d imagined this moment unfolding. She’d had more than one girlish fantasy about the day Ethan would return to Cleves Court, but never once had she dreamed he’d appear in the middle of the night, half-sotted and shouting obscenities. Now he’d gone and ruined all her lovely daydreams.

  “What the devil are you doing at Cleves Court, Miss Sheridan? Did my father appoint you the new housekeeper? That’s just the kind of foolishness I’d expect of him.”

  Thea’s chin rose another notch. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to put on airs, but there wasn’t anything foolish about her position here. She’d accomplished a great deal for an orphan of uncertain birth. Lady Isabel, Ethan’s mother had taken a fancy to Thea when she was six, and brought her from the local orphanage to live at Cleves Court. Her ladyship had been practical enough to have Mrs. Hopkins train Thea as an upper housemaid, and later as housekeeper. The countess had looked upon her as a daughter, so Thea hadn’t been a servant back then, but she knew ho
w to manage a great house.

  “Your father offered me the position after Mrs. Hopkins passed, yes. As to whether it was foolish or not, that’s a matter of opinion. I love this house. He knew it, and I believe he thought I’d take good care of it. I have, after all, been here since I was a girl.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that, Miss Sheridan. How could I forget? You were a regular little hoyden then, and if what I witnessed tonight is any indication, you haven’t changed.”

  Thea smiled over her clenched teeth. “Just what is it you suppose you witnessed that was so shocking? That is, if I may be so bold as to ask a question of your lordship.”

  “Let me see. First, there’s the matter of smashed crystal, and the punch spilled all over my boots. They’re ruined, and that’s to say nothing of my breeches.” He stood up and waved a hand in front of his lower body. “Look at me, for God’s sake.”

  For one moment Thea let herself linger on the sight of Ethan’s long, muscular thighs in his tight, buff-colored breeches, but then she tore her gaze away. No, it was best for all concerned if she didn’t look at him. He might be as infuriating as every other arrogant earl now, but Ethan had always been the most tempting man she’d ever seen, and that hadn’t changed. Looking into his bright blue eyes was risky enough, and no woman could gaze upon that silky golden hair without itching to run her fingers through it, but as tempting as they were, it was safer than ogling his pelvic region.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s a lot of fuss over a pair of boots, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you, but allow me to enlighten you, Miss Sheridan. It’s not possible to make too much of a fuss over a pair of Hoby boots. But let’s move on, shall we? There’s the matter of those two young villains engaged in fisticuffs in the middle of my drawing-room, and then that other one—that tiny chit who nearly set the house aflame with a handful of bloody raisins.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake. There’d hardly been a spark, much less a flame. “Fires and fisticuffs, my lord? One would think you’d be used to it by now. Surely such things must happen every day in London.”