“Thank you,” she said, all cheer and bright eyes. “You won’t regret this!”
“I already do.”
She grinned, all cheek and mischief. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. I plan to follow every rule you’ve set.Precisely.”
Mason narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t sound comforting.”
“Doesn’t it?” she replied sweetly, and before he could speak again, she turned on her heel and skipped out after the Dowager, humming some half-forgotten tune that no doubt contained the spirit of future trouble.
He had meant every word. No kissing. No dramatics. No interference.
And yet, as her voice rang faintly down the corridor and disappeared from earshot, he could not help but wonderwhat it might take to get her to break that third rule.
Chapter Four
The study was, by design, the most orderly room in Mason’s home.
Dark walnut paneling embraced it like a solemn old friend. Books were arranged by subject, language, and height. The fire crackled precisely as it ought to crackle: not too low, not too loud. And Mason sat at his desk precisely as he ought, with his back straight, his brow furrowed, and his quill poised over a ledger that contained far too many numbers and far too little patience.
He paused, feeling overwhelmed by the numbers. Then, he slowly laid the quill aside. What he needed now was a drink.
This was not an unfamiliar impulse. The ledgers had that effect on him sometimes. But this afternoon, the need carried an edge to it, for there was a restless, prickling tension in the back of his neck, as though some thread in the household had been pulled slightly too tight.
Perhaps it was the sound of humming that had been drifting through the corridors for the past two days. Or perhaps, it was the faint smell of lavender and scorched flour from the east wing. Whatever the cause, he had the distinct sensation that his household, once a bastion of cold efficiency, had been compromised.
He rose, crossed to the sideboard, and uncorked the decanter with the ceremonial reverence of a man about to recover his sanity. The scent was familiarly reassuring. He poured two fingers into a cut-glass tumbler and brought it to his lips. Promptly, he spat it back out.
He stared at the glass in horror. “What in God’s name?—”
The taste was something between olive oil and soap with a whisper of… rosemary? He held the glass aloft like an artifact from a cursed tomb.
“Hargrave!” he called out loudly, knowing that his butler was never too far away.
The door opened with spectral promptness, and the butler appeared as unruffled as ever.
“Your Grace?”
Mason held out the glass. “Am I being poisoned?”
“Unlikely, Your Grace.”
“Then explain this.”
Hargrave took the glass, sniffed it with grave attention, and did not even blink. “I believe this is a result of Miss Cordelia’s enthusiastic cleaning regimen, Your Grace.”
Mason blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“She was quite insistent upon expressing her gratitude for your hospitality,” the butler said blandly. “It appears she took it upon herself to clean your decanters.”
There was a long pause.
“She… cleaned them.”
“Yes, Sir. Thoroughly.”
“With… soap?”
“The kitchen maids attempted to intervene, but Lady Cordelia assured them she had developed a superior method. Involved lye, olive oil, and vigorous humming. I believe there was a folk song involved, something regarding harvest goats.”
