Twelfth Night with the Earl

by Anna Bradley

  “Now Peter says ’e won’t serve ye, and Becky says the same, and do ye know what Miss Sheridan said?”

  Oh, he could just imagine what Thea had said to that. Ethan stacked a pile of pillows against the headboard and leaned back against them. This conversation might prove amusing, after all. “I assume she reminded them I’m the earl, and told them they would bloody serve me, or else they’d lose their places.”

  “No. She said they didn’t have to serve ye, and then she said it would do ye a world of good to serve yerself.”

  “Serve myself? What bloody nonsense. What’s the use of being an earl if I have to serve myself?”

  “Don’t know.” Maria shrugged, and a dollop of jam slid from the end of her thumb and plopped onto the white bedsheets.

  “Mind the jam!” For God’s sake. Why was this child still in his bedchamber?

  “Then Miss Sheridan said it would be amusing to see ye try an’ serve yerself, since most earls can’t even fasten their own breeches without help.”

  “She said that, did she?” Yes, that sounded like Thea.

  “Is it true?” The child swept a disdainful look over him. “Ye really don’t know how to fasten yer own breeches?”

  “I manage.”

  Another dollop of jam disappeared into her mouth. “Then Miss Sheridan said earls know how to unfasten their breeches well enough.” She frowned. “I don’t know what she meant by that, but she and Becky laughed and laughed.”

  Despite himself, a corner of Ethan’s mouth twitched. Thea might play at being the respectable housekeeper, but that green-eyed hellion still lurked beneath the surface.

  The child dropped the empty pot of jam back on the tray. “Ye have a nice smile, but I still don’t like ye.”

  “I don’t like you, either. You’ve eaten all my jam.”

  She lifted a small pitcher of milk from the tray. “Maybe ye’d like some milk, then?”

  A sweet smile crossed her jam-smeared mouth, but Ethan caught the unholy gleam in her black eyes, and with a quick flash of horrified prescience he saw what she was going to do, right before it happened. “Maria, don’t you dare—”

  But Maria did dare. She let out a little squeal of glee, then dumped the entire pitcher of milk onto his lap.

  “Bloody hell!” Ethan leapt from the bed, covered in soggy muslin.

  Maria ran across the room to the door, but before she disappeared into the hallway, she turned around, stuck her tongue out at him and yelled, “My name is Martha, ye arse!”

  Arse? “Martha, is it?” he yelled back, though the door had already slammed shut behind her. “Good! When I speak to Miss Sheridan, I’ll be sure to say it’s Martha who’s due for a thrashing!”

  He gave the bell a violent yank, tore his nightshirt over his head, and crossed to the basin in the corner of the room. “Foul-mouthed little fiend.” He dipped a cloth into the basin, wincing as he ran the wet end over his bare shoulders and chest. The water was freezing, and his fire had gone out, as well.

  Where were the damn servants?

  He tugged on the bell again, and then again a few minutes later, but no one came. He’d rung for a fourth time before it dawned on him what the trouble was.

  It would do ye a world of good to serve yerself.

  No. Surely even Thea wouldn’t go as far as that.

  He gave the bell one more experimental pull, and waited.

  Nothing. Resounding silence.

  Devil take her. She would go that far. He might stand here all night and ring this bell, but no one would come.

  Ethan threw a fresh shirt over his head, tugged on a clean pair of breeches, and stomped across the bedchamber and out the door. He ran down two flights of stairs, muttering crossly to himself as he went, but he crashed to a halt when he reached the entryway.

  It was empty, and he didn’t hear a sound.

  “Where the bloody hell is everyone?” His voice echoed off the marble floors, but no one appeared. His boots rang across the polished stone as he strode down the hall toward the drawing-room and pushed open the half-closed door.

  “I ’spose it’s aw right if ye play, but ye didn’t find me, ye know. I came out on my own, and that don’t count as finding.”

  Ethan whirled around just as one of the Munro boys slid out from the behind the drapes. Good Lord, one or the other of these urchins seemed to be always appearing out of nowhere. They were the slipperiest children Ethan had ever come across.

  “Play what, ah . . . George?” If he did play, perhaps he could be rid of the little scoundrel as quickly as he’d found him.

  “I’m Henry. Hide and seek, of course.” Henry spoke slowly, as if Ethan were simple. “So, are ye going to play, then? ’Cause there’s rules—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure there are,” Ethan agreed, though he hadn’t seen any evidence of rules in this house thus far. “Where might I find Miss Sheridan, Henry?”

  “I can’t tell ye that.” Henry gave him an offended look. “That’s cheating. It’s hide an’ seek. You’ll have to find ’er yerself.”

  Find her? That could take all bloody night. Cleves Court was massive. “Earls don’t play hide and seek. Tell me where she is at once.”

  “Can’t.” Henry shrugged. “Don’t know where she is. She’s hiding, innit she? Ye’ll have to wait till she comes out.”

  Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to keep his temper in check. “I’m going to ask you once again, Henry—”

  “There you are, Henry. It’s time for your—” Becky came bustling into the room, but as soon as she saw Ethan, she skidded to a halt. “Oh! I beg your pardon, your lordship.”

  Ethan breathed a sigh of relief. At last, a rational adult.

  Becky, however, seemed far less pleased to see him than he was to see her. She shrank back, away from him, and began sidling toward the door. “I—I didn’t realize you were awake, Lord Devon. I’ll just . . . that is, I have to—”

  “What? Ye just woke up?” Henry smothered a derisive snort. “Ye’re a fine one, aren’t ye, lordship?”

  “Hush, Henry!” Becky scolded him, then cast a nervous glance at Ethan.

  “I need to speak to Miss Sheridan at once, Becky. Can you tell me where she is?”

  “Don’t tell ’im!” Henry crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Ethan. “He’s a cheat, he is!”

  “Do be quiet, Henry! Miss Sheridan is . . . oh, dear. Where is she? Oh! She’s hiding in that narrow cupboard under the stairs.”

  Of course she bloody was. “Thank you, Becky.”

  Becky darted out the door, and Henry followed on her heels, still muttering about “lordships what cheat” under his breath.

  Ethan marched from the drawing-room toward the hallway, but in spite of his irritation, he couldn’t quite smother the grin twitching at his lips. He and Thea and Andrew used to play hide and seek when they were young, and even then the cupboard under the stairs was Thea’s favorite hiding place. They’d teased her about it, because she was always the first to be found, but she insisted she didn’t care—that it was peaceful under there.

  An unexpected hollow sensation settled in Ethan’s chest as he opened the cupboard door. He had the strangest urge to run, before he could see Thea’s face, or she could see his . . .

  But then her muffled voice came from inside the cupboard, and it was too late. “That took ages! I was beginning to think I’d have to spend the night in here.”

  He didn’t say a word, but reached into the cupboard and held out his hand.

  Her warm fingers wrapped around his as she climbed out. “Who’s found me?”

  “I have.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve found you.”

  “Oh, Ethan!” She smiled up at him, the way she used to do when they were children, and all at once everything inside him wished he was still the boy he’d been
then, before everything had fallen apart and he became the man he was now.

  But then her smile faded, and she snatched her hand away. “That is . . . I meant to say, Lord Devon. Awake at last, are you? I do hope you slept well.”

  Her tone snapped him back to himself. “I’ve been ringing the bell for an hour, Miss Sheridan. I hate to interrupt something as important as a game of hide and seek, but I’ll have my tea at once, if you please.”

  She shrugged, but her green eyes narrowed. “Of course, my lord. If you’ll just come along to the kitchens with me, I’d be happy to find you something.”

  “The kitchens!” She expected the earl to come to the kitchens? Good Lord. His servants in London were uppity, and even they served him in his bedchamber. “I’ll have my tea upstairs.”

  “Very well.” She gave him a smile that sent a chill up his spine, then added, “I’m certain I’ll find time to bring it up . . . eventually.”

  Devil take her. Ethan could see easily enough eventually meant never. He was too bloody hungry to argue with her, so he followed her to the kitchens, found a stool, and dragged it close to her work table.

  “I’ll have you know, Miss Sheridan, one of those savage children you’ve installed in my house assaulted me in my bed this morning.”

  “A child assaulted you?” She was preparing the tea, but she stopped to give him an incredulous look. “My goodness, how shocking. Perhaps we should have them taken up by Mr. Williamson. Tell me, which child committed this unspeakable crime?”

  He squirmed a little at the look on her face. It did sound a bit ridiculous when she put it like that, but it was true enough. “Martha.”

  Thea stared at him for a moment, then bit her lip to stifle a laugh. “Martha? You were assaulted by a tiny six-year-old girl? Oh, dear. That must have been . . . terrifying.”

  Ethan scowled at her. “You may smirk all you like, Miss Sheridan, but that child is a menace. She dumped a pitcher of milk over me while I lay innocently in my bed!”

  “Oh, come now. I’m sure it was an accident—”

  “It was no bloody accident. I woke up to find her looming over my bed—”

  “Looming? Martha? I find it rather difficult to believe she loomed over your bed, since she doesn’t even come as high as my hip.”

  “I’m telling you she loomed over me, like a regular little black-eyed devil. She told me I was wicked, said she didn’t like me, ate all my jam, and then poured milk in my lap.”

  Thea’s gaze swept over him from his head down to his toes, lingering on his lap before it skittered away.

  Ethan stared at her, surprised at the sudden heat in her gaze, and at the swift and embarrassingly visible response it triggered in him.

  He wanted her eyes on him. He always had.

  A blush flooded her cheeks, and Ethan cleared his throat. “You’d do well to teach some manners to those three little satanic imps left in your charge, and while you’re at it, perhaps you should train the servants to come when they’re called. I nearly expired from cold and hunger.”

  Her face darkened. “If you had expired, it would hardly be the servants’ fault, my lord. You were served tea, and you chose to toss it across the room.”

  For God’s sake, was that what all the fuss was about? You’d think the servants here had never seen a broken teapot before. “I’m an earl. We do that.”

  “Yes, well, now you have, Peter has refused to serve you. Becky, too.”

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “Not a very brave lot, are they? It’s not as if I threw Peter out the window, for God’s sake. It was just a teapot, and it didn’t even hit him.”

  “Were you trying to hit him?”

  “No, but I wasn’t trying to miss him, either. What did he expect? He sneaked into my bedchamber and woke me up in the middle of the night.”

  “I sent him up at 8:00 a.m., my lord. It was hardly the middle of the night.”

  “Bloody close enough,” Ethan muttered. “Why the devil would you send him up at all? I warn you, Miss Sheridan. I won’t be dragged from my bed at first light every morning.”

  Thea jabbed her hands onto her hips. “Well, I do beg your pardon, Lord Devon, for assuming you’d attend church today, along with the rest of England. It is Christmas Day, after all.”

  Church? Good Lord. Why would he want to go there? “I don’t care if it’s the bloody end of the world. I don’t wish to be disturbed in my bedchamber. That is, not by footmen and fiendish children. I do, on occasion, welcome other visitors.”

  He smirked when another blush rose in her cheeks, and she began to slam items onto the tea tray with a vengeance. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “Oh? What have you heard about me? Something wicked, I imagine. London does like its gossip. Have some of the choicest bits reached Cornwall, then?”

  “The truly wicked bits have got much farther than Cornwall, I daresay.”

  “There is no place farther than bloody Cornwall.”

  She snorted. “Not in England, perhaps, but tales of wicked Lord Devon have likely reached the Scottish highlands by now. I’d wager even the sheep know your name.”

  A grin drifted over his lips. God, he’d missed her sharp tongue. He used to tease her like this when they were young, just for the pleasure of seeing her eyes flash and her cheeks redden with anger. She’d always been at her most irresistible when she was in a temper, and no one could send her into one faster than he could.

  Was that still true? All at once, nothing seemed more important than finding out.

  Unable to resist, he leaned over her work table and took her chin between his fingers to tilt her face up to his. “My, that is a charming blush. You must have heard some scandalous rumors, indeed. Tell me.”

  “No.” She jerked her chin away. “I won’t repeat it.”

  “Come now.” He fingered a lock of her hair that had come loose from her pins. “It can’t be as wicked as all that.”

  “Certainly it can, and it is. Or do you profess to be a saint, my lord?”

  “I don’t profess to be anything other than a wicked earl, Miss Sheridan.” He gave her hair a gentle tug. “But come, I’ll have it at once, if you please.”

  “All right, then.” Her tone was defiant, but her face had gone scarlet. “I told you before, it was something about a marchioness, and a wager, and . . .”

  She trailed off, and he laughed. “And what? Go on, say it. A marchioness, a wager and a whorehouse.”

  “Fine,” she hissed. “A whorehouse. Are you satisfied?”

  “You’d think I would be, wouldn’t you? But as it happened, my desires were not satisfied by either the whorehouse, or the marchioness.”

  “No?” She’d gone a bit breathless. “Perhaps church would succeed where the brothel failed, my lord.”

  “Perhaps it would.” He gave a husky laugh as anticipation curled low in his belly. “But who will play the part of the marchioness, Miss Sheridan?”

  What would she do if he kissed her? He shouldn’t, of course. It would only complicate things, and yet he found himself hoping she’d take up the question of his unsatisfied desires, so he’d have an excuse to nip at her sharp tongue, but his hunger must have shown in his face, because Thea’s green eyes went huge, and she remained silent.

  “I’d like more tea, if you please, and something to eat. I fancy something sweet.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “When I do allow interruptions in my bedchamber, it’s always because I crave something sweet. Do you suppose you can satisfy my craving, Miss Sheridan?”

  He held his breath, hoping for another blush, but she pulled away from him and crossed to another work table, where something was cooling on a rack. She lifted the cloth up, and the most mouthwatering aroma filled the room. Sugar and cinnamon, and freshly baked apples. “Will these do?”

  He drew in a long, slow breath. “Are those . . .
are those your apple tarts?”

  They were her tarts—they had to be, because no other sweet could make him drool like a bloodhound. Ethan swallowed. Good Lord, who needed church? He could worship right here in Thea’s kitchen.

  She’d always loved to bake. From the moment she first arrived at Cleves Court as a child she’d been drawn to the kitchens, and the cook at the time, who’d been a kindly woman, had shown Thea how to make bread and cakes and all manner of sweets.

  Like most boys, he and Andrew each had a voracious sweet tooth. They gobbled up all her treats, but her apple tarts in particular had rendered them her willing slaves.

  “They are.” Thea fetched the kettle and poured him a cup of tea. “Do try not to throw it across the room this time, won’t you?”

  He brought the sweet to his lips. “Dear God,” he moaned with the first bite. “I hope you have dozens more of these. I’ll have them every morning for breakfast from now on. Fresh ones only. I don’t fancy stale tarts.”

  “There are no stale tarts at Cleves Court, Lord Devon,” she snapped, looking offended.

  “No? How odd. We’ve plenty of stale tarts in London.” He grinned at her irritated expression. “Not in the kitchens, however.”

  “Well, my lord, if you want tarts, you’ll have to come down and get them yourself. The servants are terrified of you, and for good reason. I won’t force them to serve you.”

  “But you’re not afraid of me. Are you?”

  She snorted. “No, but I don’t have the time to run up and down the stairs all day on your every whim.”

  “Quite enough time to play hide and seek though, I think?” He placed his tart on his plate with loving fingers, and wiped away the crumbs with a sigh. “Pity. I’ll miss those tarts. I doubt they have such nice ones at the Duke’s Head.”

  She’d begun to pile the cooled tarts on a plate, but now she froze. “The Duke’s Head? Why should you care what they have there?”

  “Well, if the servants here won’t tend to me, then I’m off to the Duke’s Head, after all.” He let out a mournful sigh. “I don’t fancy mice in my bedchamber, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”