As it presently stood—and would proceed, unless a sudden catastrophic event struck London—Cumberbatch would serve tea.
Palms damp with perspiration, she reached for the kettle that had just reached the boil and poured water into the only unchipped teapot in the house. That it didn’t match the only pair of unchipped teacups—which didn’t even match each other—was something she would simply have to live with.
Perhaps Deverill wouldn’t notice.
She snorted.
The man lived like a king.
He would notice.
A loud harrumph came from Cumberbatch’s corner.
Her snort must’ve startled him awake.
She estimated she had fewer than two minutes before the clock struck ten.
“Be sure to serve at a quarter past the hour.” The instruction served as a settling of her own nerves rather than a reminder for Cumberbatch. There was nothing wrong with his memory.
“Aye, aye.” He waved her off in the long-suffering manner he’d adopted these last few years. “A valet serving tea. What’s this grand old world coming to, eh?”
Beatrix let the familiar lament wash over her as she gave the tray another once-over. The tea was brewing up to an almost dark brown—if she squinted hard enough. There was cream, even if it was watered down. No sugar. Bad for the teeth, anyway. Perched atop a pair of small unmatched plates were the prizes of the morning—two precious scones. She’d set out first thing and procured them expressly for this tea. She couldn’t resist a deep inhalation. It had been several months since anything that smelled so delicious had inhabited the four walls of this kitchen.
Sadly, the tray lacked butter, but nestled within a small bowl was a wee dollop of strawberry jam she’d paid an extra tuppence for. London prices were extraordinary these days.
Still, she was strangely proud of this hard-won tea tray. She would be able to serve Deverill a proper, if paltry, tea.
Right.
Dong, came the low thrum of the pendulum clock. The first chime of ten. Improbably, the clock yet remained in the house. Items of value tended to vanish during the night in the House of Lydon.
Ten o’clock.
Her heart a racehorse in her chest, she gave Cumberbatch a parting nod and, somehow, willed her feet to move toward the front of the house, every other step marking the next chime. The tenth chime sounded, and she stopped, the silence deafening asshe anticipated the rap of the door knocker her bones knew was coming. One second loped past…then another…
But not a third.
Breaking the stillness so suddenly as to give her a start, three solid raps of the knocker echoed through her and down the corridor. She swallowed against a dry throat and waited three more seconds. The slowest three seconds of her life, though her racing heart didn’t know it.
It wouldn’t do to appear eager.
At last, with fingers that wobbled, she slid the bolt. Her hand curled around the door handle, she hesitated. Once she opened this door, there would be no turning back.
Except she’d passed that point the instant she opened the door to Deverill’s hotel suite last night.
She’d entered his rooms—and his life.
She saw that now—too late.
Now, she would face the consequences.
She pulled the door open and beheld the man on her doorstep who stood with a decided male power to his stance and a small parcel in his hand.
A confounding thought came to her. She’d encountered this man in any number of ways—sopping wet…clad in impeccable evening attire…undone in a state of near undress. But never likethis—in the full glory of a sunlit morning looking every inch a gentleman with his clothes of the finest quality and latest style, tailored to perfection on a form that, despite all his finery, held an undiminished masculinity.
Lord Devil wouldn’t be ignored. He was too imposing and too handsome and the glint in his eyes said he knew it.
He removed his hat and offered her a shallow bow. It couldn’t come across as anything other than ironic.
