“As it happens, the gossips had it wrong. That wager didn’t have anything to do with the marchioness’s virtue at all. It was about a West End whorehouse.”
There was a shocked gasp, but Martha’s excited voice drowned it out. “Miss Sheridan, look!” She tugged at Thea’s skirts, her face filled with glee. “The carpet’s on fire!”
Chapter Two
Christmas Eve, 9:00 p.m.
It wasn’t as if the entire house had gone up in flames.
It’d hardly been a fire at all, for pity’s sake. The flames certainly hadn’t gotten as far as the drawing-room door, no matter what Ethan Fortescue said. Such a fuss, and over nothing more than a few scorched raisins! Well, that and a singed carpet, but it was only the tiniest of holes. No one would even know it was there once the footmen moved the settee over it, and the smell of burnt wool would dissipate eventually.
It had every other time.
Thea jabbed at a log in the fireplace in Ethan’s study. Cursing, in the middle of a Christmas Eve party, in front of children! It would take her ages to persuade George and Henry not to repeat the wordsdevilandbloody,and Martha was bound to be up all night for the next week, fretting about Thea being taken up by the magistrate.
Taken up, indeed. What nonsense—
“Children messing about with lit spirits, Miss Sheridan? Ah, well. It’s hardly like Christmas at all without painful burns, I suppose.”
The low drawl came from the doorway behind her. Thea gave the log a vicious poke, but she didn’t turn around, because if she had to look at Ethan’s slow, mocking smile just now, there was no telling what she might do—
“It’s a mercy the entire bloody house didn’t go up in flames.”
Thea hefted the heavy poker in her hand, considering. Perhaps shedidknow what she’d do, after all.
He sauntered into the room, dropped into the chair behind the massive oak desk, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Not to worry, Miss Sheridan. Despite your recklessness, we won’t be homeless for Christmas, after all. I’ve managed to douse the flames.”
“Indeed?” Goodness, what a reliefthatwas. She’d been certain a handful of unruly raisins would be the end them all. “I’m delighted to hear it, my lord.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound delighted. You sound cross. Don’t tell me the fire has blackened your holiday spirits?”
Thea warned herself to hold her tongue, but as usual it didn’t listen. “No. I only wonder how you managed to put out such terrible flames. Did you smother them with the toe of your boot? Or did you beat them back with one of the tasseled silk pillows?”
“Such a saucy tongue.” He made atskingsound, his voice heavy with mock regret. “Even when you were a small child that tongue could flay the skin off the toughest hide, but we’re not children anymore, Miss Sheridan. I’m the earl, you’re my servant, and you forget yourself. Now, I’ll have the explanation I demanded earlier at once, if you please. What the devil are you up to?”
Thea stabbed the log and watched it disintegrate in a shower of red sparks. Well, he was every inch the proper earl now, wasn’t he? “Up to? Why, just a jolly game of Snapdragon. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Children have played it on Christmas Eve for centuries. We’ve played it here at Cleves Court for years now, with no harm done.”
He snorted. “No harm? There are at least six burn holes in my great-great-grandfather’s Aubusson carpet, and if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect someone was trying to hide them under the furniture.”
Thea winced. Dash it all, why had the footmen moved those settees while Ethan was in the room? “Well, as to that, there’s a perfectly innocent explanation—”
He held up his hand. “Never mind. I always hated that carpet. But perhaps you’d be so good as to answer a few other questions. We’ll start with a simple one, shall we? A serving maid called Becky told me the housekeeper was responsible for this party. I assume she meant you. What the devil happened to Mrs. Hastings? I hope those demonic children haven’t bound and gagged her, and locked her in a cupboard somewhere.”
Thea blinked. “Mrs. Hastings?” A better question would be,whothe devil was Mrs. Hastings? Unless . . . “Oh. You must mean Mrs. Hopkins.”
“Hopkins?” Ethan frowned, then waved an impatient hand at her. “Yes, very well. Hopkins. Where the devil is Mrs. Hopkins? Why hasn’t she presented herself to me?”
“Allow me to apologize on Mrs. Hopkins’ behalf, Lord Devon. I’m certain she would have presented herself to you at once, aside from one small difficulty. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” He gave her a blank look. “How unfortunate.”
“Yes, isn’t it? Nearly two years ago now.”
He pondered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I suppose she’s excused, then.”
“Are you quite certain? Because I could send a footman to fetch her, if your lordship insists.”
His eyes narrowed at her sarcasm, but Thea only raised an eyebrow at him, her chin in the air. For pity’s sake, was this how aristocrats behaved in London? She wouldn’t overlook such rude arrogance even if he were a duke.
