“I thought ye said this wasyerhouse.”
“It is, but—”
“Ye don’t know who’s in charge of yer own house?” Henry eyed him, looking less impressed with every passing second.
Damnation. As much as Ethan hated to admit it, the boy had a point. “I’ve been away. Is it Mrs. Hastings still?”
It seemed unlikely Mrs. Hastings—or Mrs. Hastens, he couldn’t quite recall—was the authoress of all this offensive merriment. A vague image of a gray-haired lady with lace collars and dozens of iron keys at her hip rose in Ethan’s mind. She had to be at least sixty years old by now. Perhaps she’d gone senile.
“Mrs.who?Never heard of ’er.”
Ethan’s eyebrows shot up. What, the boy hadn’t even heard of Mrs. Hastings? What had happened to his bloody housekeeper? “Well, who then, Henry? If it’s not Mrs. Hastings, then who’s responsible for this house?”
“Same person what’s always been responsible, guv.”
Ethan tightened his grip on the boy’s collar, ready to shake the answer out of him. “And who would that be?”
Before Henry could reply, a maid appeared and held out a tray to Ethan with a smile. “Punch, sir?”
“No! No bloody punch. I’m Lord Devon, just arrived.”
“Lord Devon? Oh, no. That is…oh, dear, the earl himself.” The maid’s face went white and she sank into a hasty curtsey, still clutching the tray. “I, ah—welcome home, your lordship.”
Cleves Court wasn’t his home anymore, and in another few weeks it wouldn’t be anyone else’s home either, but the maid would find that out soon enough. “What’s your name?”
“Becky, sir—that is, my lord.”
“Becky, you will tell me at once who’s responsible for this madness.”
Becky shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “Um, our housekeeper, your lordship, just as she is every year.”
Every year?
Ethan gritted his teeth. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find the housekeeper?”
“Let’s see. The last time I saw her she was in the kitchens, but I think she may have gone back to the drawing room. I’d be happy to take you to her, sir—”
But Becky got no further, for at that moment a child darted through the drawing-room door, his head down, and slammed right into the back of her, sending the tray in her hands to the floor with a crash of shattering glass. Becky let out a despairing wail as punch splattered everywhere.
The floor, the walls—Christ, even the kissing balls were dripping with it.
Ethan might have laughed if it hadn’t been for his boots, which were now splattered with sticky punch. He’d managed to make it through every muddy inch of bloody Cornwall with the pristine shine still on his boots, but the second he set foot in this godforsaken house, they were ruined. Damn it, a man’s boots were sacred—
“George Munro! You naughty boy! Look at what you’ve made me do!”
GeorgeMunro? Ethan stared at the child who’d come to a screeching halt in the middle of the hallway. He was an exact replica of Henry, who’d taken one look at the mess and doubled over with laughter.
Dear God, there were two of them.
George Munro was no fool. He took one look at the mayhem he’d caused, turned on his heel, and fled. Becky made a grab for him, but the boy, who looked as if he’d perfected his escape technique, leapt nimbly out of her reach.
“Come back here this instant, George!”
George did not come back, and Becky chased after him, leaving Ethan standing in a puddle of brandy-less punch and a pile of broken glasses. Such a scene would have reduced Fenton to tears, but Ethan simply stepped over the mess, made his way toward the drawing room, and found a place at the back of the crowd, near the door.
The housekeeper would have to appear eventually, and when she did, she’d find one furious earl in ruined boots waiting for her.
There were a great many servants rushing about—far more than he’d expected to see at Cleves Court—and a great number of guests, as well. A few of them looked vaguely familiar, but damned if he could say what any of their names were. They were all having a grand time of it, and looked quite at home, as if they spent every evening at Cleves Court, drinking his liquor and smashing his crystal to bits.
