“But Jeremy assumed I knew.”
“Jeremy is usually away at school where he should be.”
She tilted her head to study him as he crushed the garlic clove, minced the shallots, and washed, trimmed, and quartered the mushrooms, forgoing for the moment the interesting bit of information that he didn’t share his cooking abilities with others and yet was fully doing so with her.
“You never attended school, did you? You speak as if you did. You carry yourself as a graduate of the finest when you want to. But Alcroft said something about wanting you to go to Eton.”
“I had the best teacher possible. But no, I didn’t attend Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse. Nor Oxford or Cambridge.”
“But Jeremy has.”
“Yes. And that is why he will finish.”
“Because you never had a chance to go?”
“Because he will have opportunities I never had.”
She looked around the kitchen and at his fine clothes, sleeves rolled up and baring his forearms. “You haven’t done so poorly.”
He owned a house in one of the finest addresses in the city, and if her assumption was correct, an entire street here. She hadn’t seen a single person enter or leave any of the other properties surrounding them. She had a feeling Noble owned them all. In a city where land was considered king, he had a kingdom.
He didn’t respond.
She picked up a knife and quartered the carrots, trying to make herself useful. The challenge was completely moot. If he was the one making the soups and stews—and bread—that she had been devouring every day, there was no competition. The Rockwoods’ celebrated chef wasn’t half as good.
“What do you do with the ten thousand pounds you collect from the paid cases?” she asked as she sliced another carrot.
“Slightly personal, don’t you think?” He dropped his ingredients into the pot and then picked up her carrots and dropped them in as well.
“I could go back to asking you about schooling.”
“I could ask you why you’ve never married.”
“You could,” she said as lightly as she could manage.
“Good. Why have you never married?”
“The mart was dry during my years. Not much to choose from.” She kept her voice light. “And neither was I much of a prize.”
“Mmmm.”
“My tongue does have a rather funny way of saying things that are not particularly docile and genteel. My parents weren’t as concerned with the graces while we were growing up. When they died, we went into mourning. Things were…different when it was time to come back out.”
“Your parents spent too much time at the races.”
Her hand tightened around the knife. “And at the tables and in the gentlemanly sports wagers. How did you know?”
“I know much about you, Marietta. And your recalcitrant brothers.” He was nonchalant as he stirred the pot.
“I must make sure to delve into your past as well.”
“You can try. You might even succeed. If I’ve ever met someone as industrious as you, I’m not sure I know of it.”
She stopped fiddling with the garlic nub. “That sounds quite close to a compliment.”
“My old aunt Tilly wasn’t half as industrious, though she never found herself in dire straits.” He stirred the pot and looked at her slyly from the corner of his eye. “We called her the old battle-axe.”
Her jaw dropped. “You—You—”
