Stephen wedged himself into the closet-sized room with his kit. He was glad Edgar had insisted on packing a nightshirt for him. Stephen didn’t usually bother with the long—and in his mind, effeminate—garment. After his years in the army, he’d become accustomed to sleeping bare-chested or in an untucked shirt and clean pair of breeches—ready to leap up and throw on his uniform coat at a moment’s notice. But considering he would be sharing the room with little girls, he would have to remember to thank the overeager footman who served as his valet.
The moments alone in the tiny room were a welcome respite. He was relieved to be out of the evil stepmother’s company. Poor Sophie. No wonder she went with her father to remote Devonshire whenever she could. Mrs. Dupont’s cold dark eyes and blunt features had put him in mind of her nephew, Maurice. The dozens of spiral curls circling her head? Of Medusa herself.
Perhaps he was being unkind. Weariness and hunger made him irritable. He was tired from the night before and still hungry after that skimpy meal. Seeing the dismissive, patronizing way that woman treated Sophie irritated him as well.
Her father seemed a mild man. Slender and handsome with fair thinning hair and a long aristocratic face, not unlike his daughter’s. He dressed well and wore a ring on his small finger. That affectation irritated Stephen too. He really should try to get some sleep. But he doubted he would manage it, in such close quarters with Sophie and her stepsisters. Three snoring officers? Not a problem. Three giggling females? Heaven help him.
He had just returned to the bedchamber when the little girls bounded inside, the eldest bouncing on her knees on the bed, and little Martha sitting atop the makeshift pallet on the floor.
“Where will you sleep, Captain?” Lyddie asked.
“Excellent question,” he replied.
“We always sleep with Sophie when she’s home. She tells the best stories. Don’t you, Sophie?”
He looked at her, brow quirked. “I should like to hear one of her stories.”
“Oh! Tell the one about the wolf and the sheep, Sophie. No! I know. The one where we are little lambs hiding in a cave.”
Martha jumped into the bed next to Sophie and nodded vigorously, smiling up at her in anticipation.
“Very well. Though the captain will think us very silly, no doubt.” Sophie tucked her feet under the bedclothes, a girl on either side. “Three little lambs were lost in the wood,” she began. “Suddenly they heard someone, or something, coming. ‘Quick. Let’s hide!’ the eldest lamb cried, and all three ducked into a nearby cave.”
Martha pulled the blanket over their heads.
Now Sophie’s voice came slightly muffled by wool. “Heavy paw treads approached. Oh no! Is it a wolf? Have we hidden in a wolf’s den?”
Stephen interrupted, “There hasn’t been a wolf in southern England for two hundred years...”
“A bear, then.”
Martha poked her head out. “You’re the bear. A big, hungry bear.”
“Don’t forget grumpy,” Lyddie added.
“A big, hungry, grumpy bear,” Sophie repeated.
He crossed his arms again. “Bears have been extinct here even longer.”
“You’re no fun.”
“So I have been told.”
“Shh... Don’t make a sound. Maybe he’ll pass by.”
“Now what sort of tactic is that to elude attack by a larger, stronger enemy?” Stephen asked, mock serious. “Hiding in silence or making little frightened peeps will not do. I say the three lambs must roar like lions, or French cavalrymen. And scare the hungry predator away.”
Lyddie and Martha obliged with their best roars.
“That’s better. Now I promise not to eat you.”
The door opened and Mrs. Dupont’s disapproving face appeared. “What, pray, is going on in here?”
Sophie lowered the blanket, looking—appropriately enough—sheepish.
“Sophie was just telling us a story,” Lyddie said. “The captain was a grumpy bear and tried to eat us, but we roared like French lions and chased him away.”
Mrs. Dupont frowned. “Well, do keep it down. Baby John is sleeping. And don’t keep the girls up all night, Sophie. Or I shall be the one left with grumpy children to contend with come morning.”
