“When you were living with that man? Feagan was it?”
“Yes, Feagan.” He added the ham and cheese, then whisked the eggs some more, before pouring the batter into the skillet that had been warming on the stove.
“Your punishment for stealing cheese seems a bit harsh,” she told him.
“I thought so as well, and I was determined to never get caught again.”
“What was it like, truly, growing up as you did?”
He studied the eggs cooking in the skillet. She thought he wasn’t going to respond, but then he said, “Crowded, very crowded. We lived and slept in a single room, spooning around each other for warmth. But we weren’t hungry. And we were made to feel welcome. The first time I walked into Feagan’s was a very different experience from the first time I walked into a ballroom.”
“I suspect your age had something to do with the way you were greeted. Children are always more eager for new playmates than adults.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ve been reading Oliver Twist to my father. It’s the story—”
“I’ve read it.”
“Did Dickens have the right of it?”
“He painted a very accurate portrait of life in the rookeries, yes.”
“It wasn’t a very pleasant life.”
“Who would you die for, Catherine?”
It seemed an odd question. He looked at her over his shoulder, as though he were truly expecting an answer.
“I’ve never given it any thought. I suppose…I don’t really know. My father, I think. My brother. I don’t know.”
“The thing about the way I lived as a boy is that it gave me friends for whom I would die. So as awful as some moments were, overall, it was not such a horrible way to live. It bound us together in a way that living an easier life might not have.”
He slid the omelet onto a plate. Joining her at the table, he set the plate between them, handed her a fork and knife before giving her a wry grin. “I only know how to make one at a time. We either let this one get cold while I cook another or share.”
He seemed to be waiting for her to answer. Sharing seemed so intimate, but then she’d shared his bed, in a way.
“I’m perfectly fine sharing,” she said.
He grinned as though he found her answer amusing. “Would you like some milk?”
“Yes, please.”
He removed a bottle from the icebox, poured milk into a glass, and set the glass on the table. He rolled down his sleeves and slipped his jacket back on, before sitting at the table with her.
“Try it,” he ordered.
She sliced off a bit of omelet and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed.
Then she smiled at him. “It’s rather good.”
“Did you think it wouldn’t be?”
“I’ve never known a lord to cook.”
“But then we both know I’m more scoundrel than lord.” He cut off a much larger piece and ate it.
“I was having tea with some ladies the other afternoon,” Catherine began, “and one mentioned that you didn’t think children should obey the law.”
