Lord Hugh wasn’t subtle as he pulled the teapot against his chest. “I am afraid I poured the last drop.”
“Oh, what a shame.” Hannah pretended to pout but then instantly brightened. “Well, I’m famished as well. It’s a wonderful spread you have. I’ve never seen the like.”
Which was true. She typically ate a simple breakfast of bread and cheese. And if she was going to live in a grand home as a fake mistress, she might as well take advantage of the luxuries. Jumping to her feet, she flounced over to the sideboard and found it heaping with sausages, tongue, omelets, and kippers. Picking up a bone china plate painted with delicate roses andrimmed in gold, she piled on the food until the pattern was no longer visible. She plopped back into her seat without ceremony and dug into the victuals as if she were seated at her own table.
Her mother, who had at least tried to instill proper table manners, would be aghast at how she shoveled meat and eggs into her mouth. But Hannah wasn’t here to impress but to disgust.
Her ploy worked. Within minutes, each Aucourte sibling excused themselves. As soon as the last one had left the room, Hannah reached for the pot of coffee. Lord Hugh hadn’t been fibbing. There were only a few drops left.
Curious, Hannah sniffed at the shallow brown liquid now lying on the bottom of her cup. She smelled the familiar, warm scent of coffee, but there was definitely something else: a pungent alcoholic note mixed with a strong floral bouquet. Gin? But it had never been a favored drink of the rich, and even the lower classes were eschewing it after the rise in grain prices.
Hannah took an experimental sip. Although she preferred ale, she’d drunk gin once or twice before. Even among the nutty bitterness from the roasted coffee beans, it wasn’t hard to recognize the burst of juniper on her tongue.
Curious, Hannah glanced toward the sideboard again. Sure enough, there was a decanter situated there. She got up and poured herself just enough to take a sip or two. Amber liquid splashed out. Lifting it to her lips, Hannah tasted the sweet liquor. She’d never tasted brandy this smooth and complex, and she would wager that it came from France. If the brothers had access to this, why would they swill poor man’s rotgut?
Was it akin to how some nobs toured Bedlam or the Foundling Hospital for a lark? Or had Lord Hugh and Lord Francis acquired the taste for the spirit after their father virtuallycut off their allowance? Whatever the reason, Hannah found it deuced peculiar.
She wished, suddenly and very strongly, that Sophia were here with her. Hannah knew she had the habit of obsessing over matters, while her cousin sliced straight through insubstantial fluff to arrive at the solid core of an issue.
With a sigh, Hannah returned to her seat. Alone now in the massive room, she slowly ate her breakfast as she contemplated what she’d learned. Once she had her thoughts straight, she’d pay a visit to Foxglen’s study. As she pictured bursting in upon the staid man, the right side of her mouth cocked up. Flustering Foxglen was going to be fun.
Chapter Six
Eoin sat in his grandfather’s study surrounded by the late duke’s possessions. Despite building a home in popular and modern Mayfair, His Grace had preferred the older, heavier Jacobean furnishings of a century before. The massive oak desk sprawled like a dark, foreboding ancient altar in front of airy sash windows. The bookshelves were enormous with thick carved columns, which served only to make the furniture feel more foreboding. The dark wood contrasted sharply with the delicate white molding and the cheery, sky blue walls. Yet this room perfectly embodied the old Foxglen, a man determined to drag musty traditions into a new, changing era.
Eoin had spent many an hour between these walls, scribbling away at a small desk tucked into the far-right corner. His grandfather had wanted to keep an eye on him while Eoin had read account books instead of fairy tales.
He’d hated this place, where the only sounds were his grandfather’s raspy breathing and the scratch of his quill against vellum. Yet this had been Eoin’s nursery, then his schoolroom, and finally his apprenticeship. And now it was allegedly his own study.
But it still felt like the former duke’s. Even the title restedunevenly on Eoin’s shoulders. He’d spent most of his life preparing for this role, but now that it was upon him, he didn’t know what to do with it.
A sudden loud rap at his door caused Eoin to start. On the floor beside him, the gosling stirred in the nest of blankets that Eoin had laid down, but the fowl did not fully awaken.
The servants, even his steward, would scratch quietly. But this. This was a bang to summon an entire Roman legion—a long dead one at that.
The insistent sound was the only warning Eoin had before Hannah popped inside. She still wore a workingwoman’s drab linsey-woolsey, and her floppy mobcap hid most of her red curls. Yet she still managed to appear like a whirl of color. Perhaps it was the pink on her lightly freckled cheeks or the twinkling of her green eyes. Or maybe it was simply that she always seemed to burst with life as if stone walls or perhaps even the sky itself could not contain her exuberance.
Hannah shut the door behind her and winked. And just like the first time she’d made that gesture in his direction, his heart clenched and then began to ricochet madly in his chest. Why did the mere sight of her make him feel like an adventure was about to unfold?
Hannah did not appear at all intimidated by the looming pieces of furniture. With nary a sidelong glance at her surroundings, she walked boldly to the high-backed chair on the other side of the old duke’s desk. Before Eoin could offer her a seat, she’d already plunked down. During the few occasions that Eoin had been instructed to sit rather than stand at attention while listening to his grandfather, he had found the dratted contraption exceedingly uncomfortable. Yet somehow Hannah not only managed to sprawl against the unforgiving oak frame but also appeared relaxed.
The former duke would have been horrified. But Eoin was impressed.
“I’ve already learned several things about your mother.” Hannah clearly did not abide by any form of ceremony as she immediately charged ahead without a single nicety. “First, I do not look like her. Rather, you do.”
To Eoin’s surprise, he felt his lips twitch, and a rare amusement bubbled up inside him. “Which is a relief since I am her son.”
“So bowing to Pan wasn’t an aberration.”
“Pardon?” Eoin asked in utter confusion.
“When we met on the road to London, you acted like a courtier greeting the king when I introduced you to my parrot,” Hannah breezily explained her non sequitur. “I thought you must be a man of humor, but you’ve otherwise proved to be exceedingly stiff. Clearly, though, you are capable of a quick rejoinder.”
Was he a man of humor? Eoin really didn’t know, but the idea suddenly appealed to him. Although he enjoyed reading the ribald satires by Willoughby Wright, he’d never considered that he, himself, could possess even a modicum of wit.
“Upon a more serious note, I learned that you share your coloring and size with your mother, and that she was Irish.” Hannah ticked off each attribute on her fingers.
“Thank you,” Eoin said, even though he’d either known or surmised all that.
