The cake hit Lady Longwood right on the end of her nose, splattering frosting, crumbs, and jam across her cheeks. “You horrid girl,” she sputtered.
Malcolm and Drew laughed like a pair of maniacal demons. Drew tossed cakes and biscuits at Lady Longwood’s two prim little daughters, who shrieked louder than their mother. Mal, with a wild roar, tackled Percival, upending the tea tray, spilling the still steaming liquid all over Lord Longwood, who woke up screaming.
Aurora stood amid the fray, picked up a discarded piece of sponge cake, and threw it, with amazing aim for such a child, directly at Bentley. “I amnota sin.”
Bentley made to swat Aurora’s bottom, but was stopped by Jordan. “Touch her and I’ll break your wrist.”
Mother stiffened and dabbed at her eyes. Looking about the room, she stood, a bit unsteadily, taking in the chaos her children inflicted.
“Let us be off, Jordan. Excuse us, won’t you, Bentley? I don’t believe we’ll stay for tea.”
Chapter One
Dunnings, Northumberland
11 Years Later
“Lord Emerson.”
Jordan stirred, but didn’t bother to open his eyes. Lord Emerson, better known as his older brother, Boring Bentley, would never lower his priggish arse to be found at The Hen, though the tavern was the finest in all of Spittal. A dubious distinction. Bentley had never once, in the eleven years since banishing Jordan to the far reaches of Northumberland, visited to check on the welfare of his half-siblings. And why would he? There was nothing in Spittal except for a lovely beach and the history of once having been the site of a hospital for lepers several hundred years ago to recommend the small village.
The Earl of Emerson lived a lavish, extravagant lifestyle, one befitting an overindulged dandy. Only London was a place worthy of Bentley’s presence.
Opening an eye, the one thatwasn’tswollen shut, Jordan surveyed his surroundings. Most of the tavern remained blurry except for an enormous pair of breasts, swaying gently mere inches from his nose. Peg, The Hen’s only barmaid, had an ample bosom, which she displayed to great advantage in a low-cut bodice. Modesty wasn’t Peg’s strong suit.
Wincing at the twinge of pain, Jordan moved his jaw, relieved to find he still could. A sticky wetness engulfed his cheek, and he caught a whiff of meat gravy. How had he come to be lying face down in a meat pie?
Ah. Yes.Sisco.
Thrilled to have sold several of his pigs, Jordan had taken a few coins and decided to treat himself to a bottle of whiskey at The Hen and enjoy the view of Peg’s bosom. But Sisco had arrived with murder in his eye, all of it directed at Jordan.
A pea was congealed in the gravy right in front of his nose, and Jordan shut his eye in disgust.
Sisco had caught him unawares and half-foxed, which is how the sailor managed to get the better of Jordan with his fists. Elizabeth Warring was the subject of the beating who, unbeknownst to Jordan, had decided to betroth herself to Sisco. Jordan had a reputation with the female population of Spittal, though he was far from being the sort of rake he might have been in London. It wasn’t as if he’d taken Elizabeth’s virtue for goodness sake. She’d been free with her favors for years.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have reminded Sisco of that small fact.
“Jordan Sinclair,” the starched accent announced loudly above the hum of the tavern.
Not a single soul in Spittal spoke as if they had just stepped out of a gentleman’s club in London. Most everyone sounded like the Scots who were a few hours’ ride north of here, including Jordan. He hadn’t heard such a clipped tone in nearly a dozen years.
Jordan struggled to open his good eye once more. The whiskey he’d indulged in both before and after Sisco nearly beat him half to death helped deaden some of the pain. At some point, he’d eaten the meat pie beneath his cheek. How long had he been at The Hen? Impossible to tell the time of day because there were no windows in the small tavern. Squinting into the dim interior, Jordan could just make out a lean gentleman dressed far too fine to be from Spittal. Did he owe him money?
The great Lord Emerson was a stingy bastard, especially when it came to the needs of Jordan and his family. Pig farming didn’t pay nearly as much as one might think.
Pale cheeks. Hair neatly trimmed. Gloves. Whoever the man was, he hadn’t come into The Hen looking for a meat pie or a tankard of ale.
“Jordan Sinclair.”
No, the idiot was busy bandying about Jordan’s name as if he had a right to.
Cheek throbbing, Jordan lifted his head, disgusted to see gravy dripping off the ends of his hair, which was a mite longer than it should be. He did a poor job of cutting hair, but it was better than allowing his sister to wield the shears. Tamsin left him half-bald a few years ago.
Jerking a large thumb in Jordan’s direction, Edmonds, the barkeep, said, “There. The one with meat pie on his cheek. Waste of good pie, if you ask me.”
A crisp, expensive coat lined with silver buttons came into Jordan’s line of sight. The scent of clean linen hovered in his nostrils for a moment before being drowned out by congealed meat pie and ale. A small portfolio was clasped in one gloved hand.
“My lord.” The gentleman cleared his throat.
