“I can hang up my own damn cloak.” Hell, the frail, white-haired man would probably sink under the weight of it.
“Of course, sir.”
As he hung the cloak in the cupboard by the door, he saw the local lad who delivered the newspaper each morning walk through the foyer, executing an odd bow without breaking stride.
What the devil? He followed the lad through the dining room and into the kitchens. Chaos. Unbelievable chaos.
Half the damn village was in the room wiping pots, cutting food, or sweeping the floor. At the head of it all, using a wooden spoon as a directing stick, was Mrs. Duggan from the bakery, barking orders as if she were a military general.
She hustled over when she saw him, swatting her younger daughter out of the way as she did. “You shouldn’t be in here, Mr. Asterly. It’s not your place, and you’ll just get in the way.”
She’d been calling him Benny since he was in knee breeches, and he didn’t appreciate her newfound formality. “Mrs. Duggan, what are you doing in my kitchen?”
“It’s my kitchen now. Off with you.” She hesitated. “Respectfully, sir.”
He slammed the kitchen door shut as he left. “Amelia!” he bellowed. “Amelia!”
He was about to take the stairs when he noticed the door to the east wing was open for the first time since his mother had left. Two children sat on the floor in her old sitting room, polishing candlesticks. They looked at him with wide eyes.
“Have you seen Lady Amelia?”
The children shook their heads. “Not this way, m’lord,” one answered.
“I’m not a lord.” And he sure as hell wasn’t going to become one to satisfy the whims of his wife.
He took the stairs two at a time. “Amelia!”
This was insanity. What right did she have to bring people into his home? He didn’t bother knocking. He just marched straight into her room.
Three heads swiveled in his direction as he entered. Two wide-eyed with alarm, the third with that damnable cold smile.
“Cassandra. Daisy,” he said. Of course Amelia had surrounded herself with a human bloody shield.
Daisy paused, her hands wrapped in Amelia’s hair, pins between her teeth. She bobbed. “Mwah Ward.”
“I amnota lord.”
“Daisy is going to start doing my hair,” Cassandra said, smiling.
“You wear your hair in braids. How hard is that to do?”
His sister flinched, and he cursed his wife for putting him in such a mood.
“Amelia thinks it’s time I start wearing my hair up,” she said hesitantly. “Like a young lady. And she says we’re to go shopping as soon as the weather turns. I’m old enough to wear more delicate fabrics.”
This. This was exactly what he’d spent Cassandra’s lifetime trying to avoid. He had good bloody reasons for raising his sister like he had, and no upper crust chit was going to change that.
He took a deep breath. “She says that, does she? Lady Amelia seems to have a great many ideas at the moment.”
Amelia sat silent through the exchange—more than happy to have his sister wade into musket fire for her.
“She found you these fashion plates.” Cassandra stood and collected a handful of periodicals from Amelia’s dresser. Several pages had been marked with ribbon. Cassandra smiled up at him. “I like this one the most.”
It was hideous. Blue breeches, purple shirt, green waistcoat. The paisley cravat was tied up in such an intricate knot that no man would have full range of motion in his neck.
He wanted to toss the plates into the fire, but his sister was looking at him with such joy. He was going to wring Amelia’s neck for getting Cassandra’s hopes up. “Thank you both for your consideration, but I’m happy with my wardrobe as it is. Amelia, a word?”
She sighed and shooed Daisy away from her curls. “Spoilsport.”
