Page 65

Feeling unusually optimistic, Ian descended the stairs. The long-case clock hadn’t chimed half-past seven yet, but he’d a small, if somewhat unrealistic hope, Vangie might’ve risen early herself. No sooner had he settled into his customary chair, teacup at his lips, than his stepmother strutted into the sun-streaked breakfast room.

Her steps faltered, and the self-satisfied look dropped off her face.

Damn and blast. Why was she still here? It wasn’t bloody-well likely she just popped over for breakfast.

From beneath hooded eyelids he scrutinized her. What had his father seen in her? Blunt. Father would do most anything for money. But lie with that? No wonder his father had been perpetually in his cups, though how he got his pizzle stiff when he was foxed and laying atop that squeeze crab was beyond Ian’s ken.

“I wasn’t aware you had returned, Ian.”

An obvious understatement if ever there was one. Cocking a hawkish eyebrow, he said, “I arrived late last night, or rather, early this morning. No doubt you were abed.”

Helping herself to several hot cross buns and tea from the sideboard, Lucinda made her way to the table. She avoided his eyes, making a show of buttering a roll then adding two lumps of sugar to her tea.

“Lucinda, I presume your presence indicates you didn’t do as I requested and remove yourself to the dower house?” He made no effort to conceal his displeasure.

In the act of stuffing a large piece of warm bun into her mouth, she gulped it down. She took a hurried sip of tea and from her grimace, she’d burnt her mouth. He was positive she’d have spewed the mouthful onto the table if it wasn’t for his presence. Instead, she swallowed, her face pinched with pain. Composing herself, she heaved dramatic sigh as if greatly put upon.

He tapped the side of his mouth. “You’ve—”

“You’re correct.” Meeting his eyes, she scowled, pursed her lips, and blew a large breath out her nostrils. All signs she was about to work herself into a state. “It was most impractical…”

“Lucinda, there’s…” Ian tried again, looking pointedly at her chin.

“Ian, you asked me a question. Do let me speak!”

“You’ve a dab of butter about to—”

The blob rolled over her chin, then plopped onto her chest. “Hell and damn,” she grumbled, wiping at the oily stain. “Now look what you’ve done. It’s ruined.” She tossed her serviette on the table and slumped in her chair. Folding her arms across her bosom, she shot daggers at him with her eyes.

Ian ignored her, long accustomed to her blaming others—usually him—for everything. “You were saying?”

“Yes, well, it was most impractical for me to remove myself with the disruptions that half-breed gypsy caused in your absence.” She drummed the fingers of her right hand on her bent arm. “I needed to remain here to maintain some degree of order.”

Ian leveled her a thunderous glower. “You dare to call my wife a half-breed gypsy to my face?” Incipient anger crackled beneath the surface of his calm composure. “You go too far, Lucinda!”

She paled beneath her sallow complexion.

“Her name is Evangeline Hamilton. The Viscountess Warrick.” He stabbed her with his gaze while stressing each word, “You had best never call her anything else again.”

Jasper plowed into the dining room, his movements so uncharacteristically hasty, he skidded three feet across the floor before coming to an unsteady stop.

Ian quirked an eyebrow in askance. Whatever was the man about? Jasper never moved faster than a rigidly-measured gait.

A long wisp of hair flopped over his high forehead and dangled atop his nose. He calmly shoved the strands back onto his head then smoothed them from one side of his balding head to the other. Ah, that explains that. For years Ian had wondered about the odd, waxy strand across the butler’s nearly bald pate.

“My bride has been troublesome, Jasper?”

“Really, Ian,” Lucinda objected, her thin face registering annoyance. “Surely you’re aware how those belowstairs are given to tittle-tattle.”

Those abovestairs too.

With an air of patronizing superiority, she tilted her head and attempted to look down her pointed nose at the majordomo. The affect was comical, and Ian fought to control the grin tugging at his lips. She looked rather like one of his hounds. Nose in the air, Lucinda sniffed haughtily, “One simply cannot rely on candor from the likes of them.”

With great dignity, Jasper lifted his chin and cast a contemptuous glance at the woman. “Indeed, my lord. My lady’s imprisonment in the south—”

“That’s outside of enough. You may go,” Lucinda hissed, bolting upright in her chair.

“Her imprisonment in the south tower these three weeks past, has been severely troublesome to be sure,” the butler finished in a rush.