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After your last refusal, I wouldn’t ask you again if the situation wasn’t dire. I’ve spoken to the debtors myself this time. Martin has until December first to pay them, or it’s to debtors’ prison for him. I haven’t the blunt to cover his debts. Tabitha and Ramona have a constant stream of bills coming in. I know my son has faults, but what father can watch his child go to prison?
~Lord Hayward Kellinggrave, in a letter to his brother
Harland Kellinggrave, Duke of Landrith
Still in Dovetonwick Court’s kitchen
Three uncomfortable seconds later
A man’s voice—please not Constantine, please not Constantine—far too high-spirited and jolly for this time of the morning accompanied the staccato of boot heels in the corridor.
A delighted grin wreathed the cook’s face as she hurried back to the stove to turn over the ham.
“Do I smell cinnamon buns?” the man asked as he drew closer to the kitchen. “Please tell me I smell cinnamon buns.”
Having just filled her mouth with an ample bite of ham and toast, Faith almost choked. Eyes watering, she swallowed twice and then took a gulp of hot tea, burning her tongue.
Drat and damna—
Faith stopped herself just short of cursing aloud.
She might’ve become a liar via coercion, but she wasn’t going to start muttering vulgarities beneath her breath.
Another forceful swallow propelled the lodged food down her throat. The alternative was spewing a mouthful of half-chewed ham and toast across the table.
Not precisely ladylike.
But then again, Faith wasn’t a lady, per se, was she?
Not by birth, but she’d been raised with the skills and decorum of the noblest aristocrat.
Of course, the man approaching wasn’t Constantine, she reassured herself.
What was she thinking?
He was never cheerful, light-hearted, or playful.
Besides, Faith knew his rumbling voice well.
Dry, critical, acerbic… and any number of appropriate and unflattering descriptions for a man with no sense of humor, who often forgot to comb his hair, and preferred insects to people.
Most likely, the overly chipper chap was one of his older brothers.
Still, Faith must be gone from the kitchen before whoever he was entered. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation or explanations, and she felt certain Lord Cedric or Lord Kenworthy would expect one or both.
Faith slapped her bonnet on her head, letting the ribbons dangle. She grabbed the toast, sausage, and sweet bun and, after plopping them in the middle of the napkin, vaulted to her feet.
Dovetonwick’s laundress would never forgive her for the offense to the linen square.
Once Faith had snatched the corners together, she rushed to the door on the other side of the kitchen, praying whoever the exuberant fellow was, she’d make her escape before he entered.
Aware of several perplexed or amused gazes fixed upon her, she raised a forefinger to her lips. “Shh. I was never here.”
A lad of perhaps seventeen years broke into a cheeky grin, two fresh-faced maids covered their mouths and giggled, and Cook puffed her cheeks out as if stifling what she yearned to say.
Faith slipped through the doorway, confident she’d made her getaway undetected by whichever Kellinggrave male believed—as she did—that mornings were the prime time of day.
“Why, Miss Roth. Are you breaking your fast without me? I thought we agreed on half-past five?”
