Twelfth Night with the Earl

by Anna Bradley

  “In the rookeries, yes. I’m accustomed to more refined company than that. Still, perhaps Cleves isn’t so different from London, after all. Servants stealing from their masters is quite common in the grand houses there, as well.”

  Thea’s cheeks heated with anger. No matter how long it had been since they’d seen each other, he should know better than to suggest such a thing. “Do you truly believe I stole from you?”

  She searched his face, looking for any sign of that tender-hearted boy he’d once been in the man standing before her now. For the briefest moment he looked uncertain, but then his face hardened. “You were having a Christmas Eve party at my house, at my expense, without my permission. What do you call that, if not stealing?”

  Thea kept her voice calm, even as she imagined beating him about the head with her boughs of holly. “I did have permission.”

  “From bloody who? Not me. I thought the damn place had been shut down two years ago, after—” He broke off, cleared his throat. “And it damn well should have been shut down, the very second the family abandoned it for London. Imagine my surprise, Miss Sheridan, when I found out from a friend who’d recently been to Cornwall that my father hadn’t closed the house, after all.”

  Thea hesitated. The old earl had his own reasons for his actions, but Ethan wasn’t ready to hear them. “Your father decided to keep it open. Two years ago, before he left for London he set aside a sum of money for the management of Cleves Court, and gave me leave to do as I saw fit with it.”

  “Ah. But you see, Miss Sheridan, my dear father is dead, so we’ll have to excuse him on the same grounds we’ve excused poor Mrs. Hastings, or Mrs. Hopkins, or whatever the devil her name was. The question is, why is the house still open now, a year after his death?”

  Thea gave him a thin smile. “As to that, I expected every day to receive a letter from you with orders to close the house, but the funds arrived just as always this year. No letter ever came, and of course it’s not my place to question the Earl of Devon.”

  “Not your place?” His laugh was incredulous. “Forgive me, Miss Sheridan, but I’ve never known that to stop you before.”

  A sharp retort hovered on Thea’s lips, but she hesitated and forced herself to draw a calming breath. It was difficult for Ethan to be here at Cleves Court—she knew that better than anyone—and he looked weary, the lines around his mouth drawn tight with tension. “Let’s not argue, my lord. I’ll see if I can explain it more clearly. Mrs. Hopkins passed away not two months after . . . after Andrew’s accident—”

  Before she could say another word he was around the desk, his hands grasping her shoulders. “I will not speak of him, and neither will you. Do you understand me?”

  His face was mere inches from hers, and Thea shrank back, away from the pain in his eyes. “Yes, I—I won’t do so again.”

  He stared down at her, his blue eyes wild, but after a moment he squeezed them closed and dropped his hands. “I—I beg your pardon. It’s this damn house. I hate the very sight of the cursed place.” He moved to the window and gazed outside for a long time without speaking, his back to her, his shoulders rigid. “I don’t want . . . I shouldn’t be here.”

  Thea’s heart sank. This was the only place he should be, but nothing had changed. He still didn’t understand the house wasn’t the trouble.

  It never had been.

  “Cleves Court is lovely at Christmastime,” she said, to break the silence. “Perhaps while you’re here you’ll remember—”

  “No. I didn’t come for Christmas.” He turned to face her. “The moment I found out the house was open I left for Cornwall at once, the holidays be damned. I came only to see to it the place is shut down for good.”

  Thea gripped the side of the desk to stay upright as all the blood drained from her head at once. Oh, God. She’d known this day would come. She’d told herself she was prepared for it, but the moment he said those words aloud, she went dizzy with shock. “No. Please. You—you can’t do that, Ethan.”

  “I’m not Ethan to you anymore. I’m the earl, Miss Sheridan, and I can, and will, shut down this house. I never come here. It’s too far from London, and it costs a bloody fortune to keep the place up.”

  “This has nothing to do with the money.” Thea’s hand searched out the thin gold chain at her throat, and she traced her fingertips over it to calm herself. “You know it doesn’t—”

  “You’ll need to inform the other servants at once,” he interrupted, not looking at her. “I plan to return to London within the week, so we’ll begin tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! But tomorrow is Christmas Day!”

  “What of it?” He waved a hand toward the drawing-room. “You’ve had one celebration that nearly sent the house up in flames. I grant you it would be a neat way to get rid of the old pile, but not safe, for all that.”

  “You expect me to tell your servants, on Christmas Day, that each and every one of them is going to lose their place?” Thea’s voice was shaking. “When shall I do it, Lord Devon? Before we leave for church in the morning, or shall I wait until Christmas dinner to let them all know we’re to be turned out of the only place many of us consider our home?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ll see that they’re taken care of, of course. They’ll all get references, and a generous gift.”

  “References to where? Cleves is a tiny village, my lord. This is the only estate for miles. It’s not just the servants who will suffer. The town won’t survive if you close down the house.”

  “I’m sorry for it, but that’s not my concern.”

  Thea stared at him, her fists clenched against the wave of sadness that washed over her. He’d looked like an angel as a boy, with his thickly-lashed blue eyes and that mass of unruly golden hair, and he was still so unbearably handsome it hurt to look at him, but if Ethan ever had been an angel, he wasn’t one anymore.

  Dear God, what had happened to him? She wanted to believe he didn’t mean what he said, but his mouth was rigid, and his blue eyes were ice cold.

  He did mean it. Every word.

  She fought down a wave of panic. If she couldn’t find a way to convince him to keep Cleves Court open, the town would die a quick death. What would become of the orphanage, the children? Henry and George, and little Martha . . .

  The orphanage! Of course. How could she have forgotten? “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my lord.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be. This is—”

  “Yes, yes. This is your house. You’ve made that clear enough, but you’ve arrived here at Christmastime with no warning at all. If you’d told me to expect you I’d have known not to enter into any obligations, but as it is—”

  “Obligations?” He folded his arms across his chest and looked down his aristocratic nose at her. “What obligations would those be?”

  Thea drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t going to care for what she had to say, but there was no help for it, and it would give her some time to figure out how to change his mind about Cleves Court. “To take charge of a few of the orphans until the orphanage roof can be repaired.”

  “Orphans? What, you mean those two little brawling devils, and that wild-looking chit who tossed blazing raisins around my drawing room?”

  “Henry, George, and their sister Martha, yes. They’re really very sweet children. A little high-spirited, perhaps, but lovely in their own ways—”

  “Undo it.”

  She blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Undo it. Un-promise it. Find another place for them.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my lord.”

  “You keep saying that, Miss Sheridan. I don’t much care for it.”

  “My apologies, but there is no other place for them. A tree came down on the orphanage roof during a severe storm last month.
All the children had to be moved out. A few of them are staying with other families in Cleves, but we have the most room by far.”

  “Take them to an inn, then. I’ll pay for it.”

  Thea’s mouth fell open. “You want to leave three orphan children alone at a public house? At Christmas?”

  He hesitated as if he were actually considering it, but then he threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, bloody hell. No, I suppose it won’t do.”

  He had the grace to look somewhat ashamed of himself for making the suggestion, and Thea took the opportunity to press her advantage. “Even if we did put them up at the inn, I’m afraid it’s not that—”

  “Don’t say you’re afraid it’s not that simple, Miss Sheridan. I beg you.”

  “Very well, then I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that. Part of the building flooded when the roof collapsed. Many of the children lost all their belongings, and they had precious little to begin with. The entire village has been generous with funds to repair the roof, and with donations of food and clothing for the children, and we’re to host a few holiday events here at Cleves Court to thank them. It’s all arranged.”

  “Orphans.” Ethan blew out a disgusted breath. “It had to be bloody orphans.”

  “Yes, well, I do apologize for the homeless orphans, your lordship. Their plight truly is most inconvenient for you. But I’m certain the repairs will be completed by the end of January, or perhaps a bit later than that—”

  “You have twelve days.”

  “Twelve days! But what if the roof isn’t finished by then?”

  “If the repairs aren’t done, you’ll have to take the children to the inn, after all.”

  “You’re mad! I can’t take three young children—”

  “Twelve days, and not a day more. And another thing, Miss Sheridan. During those twelve days, I will not be subjected to that bloody song, the “Twelve Days of Christmas”. I forbid anyone to play it in this house.”

  “But that’s absurd! It’s a perfectly charming song, and so festive. What rational objection can you possibly have to the Twelve—”

  “Charming, festive things irritate me.”

  “Everything irritates you, Lord Devon.”

  “I am the earl, Miss Sheridan, and I’ve forbidden it. Now, I have business in London in mid-January. I will leave Cleves Court the day after Twelfth Night, and I promise you.” He fixed her with a cold, blue-eyed stare. “I will leave this house dark and empty behind me, and never look back.”

  It won’t help, Ethan.

  An empty house, a locked door—neither would allow him to escape his past. His ghosts would follow him, but he’d have to find that out for himself, just as his father had. All she could do was pray it wasn’t too late when he did.

  Ethan wandered back over to his desk and dropped into the chair. His eyes narrowed on her. “One would almost think you’d arranged this whole thing to test my temper.”

  Thea snorted. “You give yourself far too much credit if you imagine you didn’t fail that test the moment you walked through the door and began cursing in front of the children.”

  “Bloody orphan children. Perhaps I’ll go stay at the inn myself.”

  Thea hurried across the room after him. “What, the Duke’s Head? No, no, you can’t possibly stay there, my lord. They’ve been overrun with mice, and I’ve heard the sheets are damp. No self-respecting duke would ever be seen there, and it won’t do for an earl, either.”

  She hadn’t heard any such thing about the sheets, but if she was going to remind Ethan of everything he used to love about Cleves Court, she needed him to stay here. “We have a comfortable bedchamber here for you. Becky is making it up right now.”

  Whether she could convince him was another matter altogether.

  She studied him from the corner of her eye as she built up the fire. Goodness, he looked grim, rather like a bad-tempered bear, but surely that playful, affectionate boy he’d been couldn’t have disappeared entirely. He’d been happy here once, long ago. This house had been his home before Ethan’s brother Andrew became ill, and before the old lord left and Lady Isabel died of a broken heart.

  If she could help Ethan remember what it had been like back then, when they’d been loud and merry, their lives full of friendship and love and family, then he’d see why he couldn’t abandon Cleves Court forever. If he ever was able to see it, it would be now, at Christmastime, when the house was at its most magical.

  She turned away from the fire to give him a bright smile. “Until Twelfth Night, then. Once the holidays are over and the children are settled, we’ll prepare to—to close down the house.” She had to force the words past the lump in her throat.

  He didn’t reply right away, but after a moment he reached into his greatcoat, pulled out a silver flask, and set it on the desk before him. “Is there whiskey in the house?”

  “Yes, of course.” Whiskey, and brandy for punch, and evergreens for decorations, and anything else one might need for a memorable holiday. “Plenty of it.”

  Ethan tipped the flask upside down, and a single drop fell onto the polished wood of the desk. “Bloody good thing.”

  Thea let out a heavy sigh as the frown on his face stretched into a fierce scowl. “I couldn’t agree more, your lordship.”

  Chapter Three

  Christmas Day, 8:00 a.m.

  Slam!

  Ethan cracked open one bloodshot eye and squinted into the darkness. Where the devil was he? Not in his London townhouse, that much was certain. Fenton was far too fond of his own neck to risk it by waking his lordship before noon.

  Slam!

  Hell and damnation. Someone was pounding a fist against his skull. He raised his head from the pillow, but it was too dark to see who it was. It was too dark to find his pistol, as well, and too damn much effort to maim the intruder without one.

  Christ. Couldn’t a man get some peace in his own bloody bedchamber?

  Slam!

  Ethan let out a low growl, dragged a pillow out from under his cheek and hurled it into the darkness. With any luck it would hit the culprit, and they’d go away.

  It didn’t work.

  “Lord Devon? Your lordship?” The door creaked open, then something rattled on the table next to the bed. Ethan pulled the blankets over his head, but the voice moved closer until it was whispering right in his ear. “Miss Sheridan sent me up to—”

  Of course she had.

  Ethan let out another growl, then reached out with one hand toward the table and searched until his fingers closed around something hard. He snatched it up, and without opening his eyes, hurled it across the room.

  Whatever it was smashed against the floor. Or perhaps it was the door—he didn’t bother to look. The noise made him wince, but it served the purpose. Footsteps scurried away from the bed, and the door slammed closed.

  And then . . . blessed silence. Ah, yes. That was much better.

  He drifted off again, and he must have slept for hours, because when he opened his eyes the sunlight peeking around the edges of the heavy window curtains earlier had faded to dusk.

  What had woken him? His stomach was growling with hunger, but there’d been a noise, too—

  “Ye’re a wicked, wicked man.”

  Ethan buried his face in the pillow with a groan. It was true enough, but couldn’t he repent after he’d had his tea? “I know it, love, but that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” After all, it wasn’t as if they chased him because they wanted a perfect gentleman in their beds.

  “No. I’m ’ere fer the jam.”

  Jam? How odd. He’d never heard it called that before.

  Well, whatever she was here for, she would be disappointed, because his head ached, and she was making it worse with her chatter. Time for Fenton to escort the lady out.

  Ethan rolled over, fumbled for th
e bell, and came face to face with a pair of unblinking dark eyes. He scrambled upright in his bed, yanking the blankets to his chin.

  Christ. He wasn’t in London—he was at bloody Cleves Court, and that little chit with the black curls who’d run into Thea’s arms last night was standing by his bed, her fingers stuck in a pot of jam.

  “What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?” He made a quick inventory of the room, but he didn’t see any flames. “Get out.”

  He pointed toward the door, but the child didn’t move. She stood there studying him as if he were some kind of curious—and not very impressive—insect. “Henry says it’s because ye’re a lord. He says all gentlemen are wicked, but ’specially the earls and such.”

  Henry was smarter than he looked, then. “I am wicked, even for an earl. I’m even wickeder than a duke, so you’d best leave at once before you annoy me, hadn’t you, ah . . .” What the devil was the child’s name again? Something like Mary, or Marjorie. “Ah, Maria?” It was as good a guess as any.

  Maria, who looked unimpressed by this speech, pulled two sticky, jam-smeared fingers from the pot and shoved them into her mouth. “Ye shouted and cursed last night, and ye look like ye’re about to do it again.”

  Well, the child was observant, at least. “Yes, well, as I said, I’m wickeder than most, and there’s no telling what I might do to a naughty child who’s stolen my breakfast. Aren’t you frightened to find out?”

  Ethan frowned, lowered his brows and did his best to look terrifying, but the child only gave a calm shrug. “No. I’m not frightened of ye. Everyone else is, though.”

  Not everyone else, he’d wager. “Does Miss Sheridan know you’re up here bothering me and pawing into my jam with your filthy little fingers?”

  She ignored the scold, scooped another large helping of jam from the pot and licked it off her thumb. “Ye threw a teapot at Peter.”

  Who the devil was Peter? “I did no such thing—”

  Oh. Had that been a teapot? He leaned over the edge of the bed and saw a pile of broken porcelain on the floor. “Well, so I did. What of it?” If he had another teapot to hand, he’d throw that one, too. Maybe that would frighten this nosy little beast away.