God knew once his father abandoned something, he never looked back.
He’d have forgotten all about the place the moment he returned to London, and by now the old pile would be collapsing into rubble. With only a handful of servants left to tend to it, it would be dark and freezing, and likely damp as well, with cobwebs thick enough to smother Ethan in his sleep, and servants who hadn’t the faintest notion how to look after an earl.
What if they led him to some godforsaken room with damp walls, uncarpeted floors and mice-infested sheets? What if they didn’t evenhavesheets, or proper lamps or candles? Or, dear God, what if he should run out of whiskey while he was trapped in that old tomb, and was forced into tedious sobriety?
Damn it, perhaps he should have dragged Fenton with him to Cornwall, after all. He’d considered it, but Cleves Court was barely civilized. His fussy London valet would be in fits of horror over the savagery of it all, and Ethan didn’t want another useless servant about, wringing his hands and making things difficult. This visit was bound to be unpleasant enough without Fenton’s hysterics to contend with.
No, it was best to keep things simple. Wrestle his way through the wilds of Cornwall to Cleves Court, issue orders for the house to be closed at once, stay long enough to see those orders carried out, then get back to London before his supply of whiskey was depleted.
But he’d have to see to it he had a proper bedchamber. He was an earl, after all, and accustomed to his comforts. He’d need something with sheets and without mice, and he’d prefer better music, as well, instead of that incessant picking on the pianoforte keys, but he supposed it was too much to ask if anyone at Cleves Court would know how to play the pianoforte—
Music? What the devil?
Ethan brought his horse to a halt and stared down at the flask in his hand. Good Lord, how much whiskey had he drank? He was so far in his cups he must be hallucinating, because there wasn’t a blessed thing for miles around here aside from Cleves Court, and the music couldn’t be coming fromthere.
Could it?
It was damned odd, but it seemed as if someone at Cleves Court was playing the pianoforte. If you could call it playing, that is.Pick, pick, pick. He couldn’t quite decipher the song, but it was something irritatingly festive. Without realizing he did it, he began to hum along under his breath, trying to place it.
Four calling birds, three French hens…
Oh, Christ. It was the Twelve bloody Days of bloody Christmas. Christmas music in general was intolerable, but he loathed this song in particular. A man might be partial to milkmaids, and eight of them at once could prove amusing, but what the devil was he to do with French hens and a partridge? They’d only get in the way.
Ah, well. It was nothing more whiskey couldn’t cure.
Ethan drained his flask and urged his horse forward, but once he crested the hill he stopped a second time, his gaze frozen on his ancestral estate nestled at the notch in the hill just below him.
Light spilled from every downstairs window and cast a cheerful glow onto the drive in front of the house, which was crowded with wagons and carriages. Even from this distance he could see people passing to and fro in front of the windows, and hear voices and an occasional shriek of muffled laughter. The delectable scent of sugared apples and roasted meat drifted through the air, and Ethan’s stomach let out an insistent growl.
Laughter, music, and sugared sweets? He might be in his cups, but he wasn’t so foxed he couldn’t see what was right in front of his eyes. Some presumptuous devil was running amok at his estate, without his knowledge or permission.
Ethan tucked his flask into his pocket, kicked his horse into a run, and shot down the hill toward the house.Damnation. He’d only just arrived, and already he was being thrown headlong into sobriety.
A few coachmen were loitering in the drive, but they were distracted by cups of ale, so he dismounted and tied his horse himself, grumbling at the neglect. What bloody good was it being the earl if he didn’t get to shout orders, and then stand back like a proper aristocrat while the servants rushed about in a panic to do his bidding?
He strolled through the front door, squinting at the sudden light. It appeared they did have candles and lamps at Cleves Court, because the place was brighter than a London ballroom. A dozen or so people hung about, and the entire entryway was smothered in kissing balls and evergreens.It looked as if Christmas had gotten foxed, and then cast up its accounts all over Cleves Court.
But there was a rather nice-looking Christmas punch on a table at his elbow, so Ethan snatched up a glass. Whiskey was preferable, but he’d drunk it all, so the punch would have to do.
He raised the glass to his lips, took a healthy swallow, spluttered, and then stared down at the glass, aghast. For God’s sake, who made a punch without brandy? It was a disgraceful waste of perfectly good fruit—
“Who d’ye think ye are? That’s my punch ye just drunk.”
Ethan dropped the glass onto the table and turned to find a thin, dark-haired boy at his elbow. “Who thedevilare you?”
Instead of disappearing as a figment of one’s imagination should, the boy jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Why, I’m Henry Munro.” He announced this as if everyone in their right mind should know who Henry Munro was. “Who’reyou?”
“The Earl of Devon.” Everyone in his right mindshouldknow who that was, but if Ethan expected the boy to blanch with terror to find the master of the house had suddenly appeared in his midst, he was disappointed.
“What, yer a lordship? I’ve not got much use fer lordships, meself.” Henry took in his depleted glass of punch, and gave Ethan a disgusted look. “’Specially those what drink my punch.”
“That’smypunch. Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m Lord Devon.” Ethan waved a hand around the room. “Lord Devon. This ismyhouse. Every glass of punch in the bloody place belongs to me.”
He sounded like a two-year old whining over a toy, but for God’s sake, who was this demonic imp, and what was he doing here? And didn’t anyone in this house recognize the name Devon?
“Aw right then, guv. No need to take on like that.”
The boy grabbed what was left of his punch and tried to dart away, but Ethan snatched him up by the collar and hauled him back. “Who’s in charge here?”
