Ethan cracked open one bloodshot eye and squinted into the darkness. Where the devil was he? Not in his London townhouse, that much was certain. Fenton was far too fond of his own neck to risk it by waking his lordship before noon.
Slam!
Hell and damnation. Someone was pounding a fist against his skull. He raised his head from the pillow, but it was too dark to see who it was. It was too dark to find his pistol, as well, and too damn much effort to maim the intruder without one.
Christ. Couldn’t a man get some peace in his own bloody bedchamber?
Slam!
Ethan let out a low growl, dragged a pillow out from under his cheek and hurled it into the darkness. With any luck it would hit the culprit, and they’d go away.
It didn’t work.
“Lord Devon? Your lordship?” The door creaked open, then something rattled on the table next to the bed. Ethan pulled the blankets over his head, but the voice moved closer until it was whispering right in his ear. “Miss Sheridan sent me up to—”
Of course she had.
Ethan let out another growl, then reached out with one hand toward the table and searched until his fingers closed around something hard. He snatched it up, and without opening his eyes, hurled it across the room.
Whatever it was smashed against the floor. Or perhaps it was the door—he didn’t bother to look. The noise made him wince, but it served the purpose. Footsteps scurried away from the bed, and the door slammed closed.
And then . . . blessed silence. Ah, yes. That was much better.
He drifted off again, and he must have slept for hours, because when he opened his eyes the sunlight peeking around the edges of the heavy window curtains earlier had faded to dusk.
What had woken him? His stomach was growling with hunger, but there’d been a noise, too—
“Ye’re a wicked, wicked man.”
Ethan buried his face in the pillow with a groan. It was true enough, but couldn’t he repentafterhe’d had his tea? “I know it, love, but that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” After all, it wasn’t as if they chased him because they wanted a perfect gentleman in their beds.
“No. I’m ’ere fer the jam.”
Jam? How odd. He’d never heard it called that before.
Well, whatever she was here for, she would be disappointed, because his head ached, and she was making it worse with her chatter. Time for Fenton to escort the lady out.
Ethan rolled over, fumbled for the bell, and came face to face with a pair of unblinking dark eyes. He scrambled upright in his bed, yanking the blankets to his chin.
Christ.He wasn’t in London—he was at bloody Cleves Court, and that little chit with the black curls who’d run into Thea’s arms last night was standing by his bed, her fingers stuck in a pot of jam.
“What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?” He made a quick inventory of the room, but he didn’t see any flames. “Get out.”
He pointed toward the door, but the child didn’t move. She stood there studying him as if he were some kind of curious—and not very impressive—insect. “Henry says it’s because ye’re a lord. He says all gentlemen are wicked, but ’specially the earls and such.”
Henry was smarter than he looked, then. “Iamwicked, even for an earl. I’m even wickeder than a duke, so you’d best leave at once before you annoy me, hadn’t you, ah . . .” What the devil was the child’s name again? Something like Mary, or Marjorie. “Ah, Maria?” It was as good a guess as any.
Maria, who looked unimpressed by this speech, pulled two sticky, jam-smeared fingers from the pot and shoved them into her mouth. “Ye shouted and cursed last night, and ye look like ye’re about to do it again.”
Well, the child was observant, at least. “Yes, well, as I said, I’m wickeder than most, and there’s no telling what I might do to a naughty child who’s stolen my breakfast. Aren’t you frightened to find out?”
Ethan frowned, lowered his brows and did his best to look terrifying, but the child only gave a calm shrug. “No. I’m not frightened of ye. Everyone else is, though.”
Noteveryone else, he’d wager. “Does Miss Sheridan know you’re up here bothering me and pawing into my jam with your filthy little fingers?”
She ignored the scold, scooped another large helping of jam from the pot and licked it off her thumb. “Ye threw a teapot at Peter.”
Who the devil was Peter? “I did no such thing—”
