A gaggle of little girls bearing trays trooped into the sitting room, herded by Pinkney, looking less than her usual neat self.
“Here’s the tea, my lady,” Pinkney said.
“Excellent.” Isabel smiled and waved a hand to a side table. “You can place the tea there and we’ll dine as I discuss matters with Mr. Makepeace.”
Winter Makepeace cleared his throat ominously. “What matters are those?”
Isabel smiled firmly. “How I’m going to help you keep your position.”
NATURALLY ALL THE little girls goggled at Lady Beckinhall’s words.
Winter had not slept more than a few minutes since finding “Peach” the night before, but Lady Beckinhall’s presence was strangely invigorating.
Even if it was irritating as well.
He turned to the girls. “Mary Whitsun, please show Mistress Medina to the kitchen. She’s to be our new cook, so you must obey her and give her any help she might need. The rest of you girls are due in the schoolroom for lessons, I believe.”
There was a general slumping of shoulders, but the girls filed out. Mary Whitsun nodded briskly and smiled at Mistress Medina before leading the new cook from the room.
He turned back to Lady Beckinhall, looking dangerously attractive in a dark green dress that gave her hair mahogany highlights. “Now, what are you about?”
“Luncheon first.” She rose and found a plate and began heaping it with meat, cheese, and bread. It looked like a lot of food for a lady. “I find arguing—and we do seem to argue quite a lot—is best done on a full stomach.”
He stared at her, perplexed. What was she up to now?
Lady Beckinhall turned, saw him scowling at her, and beamed. “Have something to eat. That’ll make you feel better.”
And she handed the full plate to him.
Well, he couldn’t continue to frown at her when she was being so nice. Winter took the plate, feeling warmth creep into his chest. It wasn’t often that someone else provided for him. Usually it was the other way about.
He cleared his throat before saying gruffly, “Thank you.”
She nodded, unperturbed, and selected a small wedge of cheese and a slice of bread before reseating herself on the settee. “Have you thought about putting something in that corner?” She waved her wedge of cheese at the right side of the fireplace. “A statue, perhaps? I have the most wonderful little white marble statuette. It’s of a stork and a frog.”
He blinked, bemused. “A stork.”
She nodded. “And a frog. Roman, I think. Or perhaps Greek. Maybe it represents one of Aesop’s fables—he was Greek, wasn’t he?”
“I believe so.” Winter set his plate aside, bracing himself. “Charming as this visit is, I think we need to get to the point now, my lady.”
She smiled ruefully. “The arguing so soon?”
That smile sent a bolt straight through his middle, but he soldiered on, keeping his face expressionless. “If we must.”
“Oh, I think we must,” she said softly. “I’ve heard that Lady Penelope intends to hire a new manager for the home.”
He’d been expecting something like this, but the blow was hard nonetheless. This wasn’t just the children’s home—it was his as well. Last night’s rescue of Peach had made him realize that. He could no more walk away from the home than he could cut off his right hand.
But he didn’t let those ragged emotions show on his face. They were carefully hidden. Carefully contained. “And how will you help me keep the home?”
She shrugged elegantly, though he noticed that she couldn’t quite conceal the tension in her face. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one concealing emotions. “I’ll tutor you in social manners, prove that you can be as graceful as any popinjay Lady Penelope finds. It’s the only way to defeat her plans.”
He raised his eyebrows in amusement at her choice of words. “And you’ve appointed yourself my savior? Why?”
“Why not?” She smiled carelessly. “I’ve found I’ve acquired a taste for saving gentlemen lately. Did you know that I helped the Ghost of St. Giles escape from a maddened mob the other day?”
His heart stopped. “No, I did not.”
“Quite brave of me, don’t you think?” Her lips curved mockingly at her own words.
“Yes,” he said with perfect seriousness. “I do.”
She glanced up and he snared her eyes. Her soft mouth wobbled. What was she thinking, this beautiful, exotic creature? She didn’t belong here in his plain sitting room, didn’t belong in St. Giles or in his life. And yet he had a near-impossible-to-resist urge to drag her into his lap and kiss her.
He took a deep breath, beating down the animal. “Well, then. I suppose I’d best put myself under your tutelage.”
“Good.” She rose abruptly and without her usual grace. “Then we shall start tomorrow morning.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Winter stood looking up at the facade of Lady Beckinhall’s town house. It was exactly what he’d expected: new, ostentatious, and in the most fashionable part of London.
The inside was another matter altogether.
Winter paused on the threshold of the grand doors, giving his right leg a rest and trying to understand the difference, ignoring for a moment the supercilious butler who had admitted him. The house was grand, yes, rich and elegantly appointed, but there was something else here as well.
The butler cleared his throat. “If you’d care to wait for Lady Beckinhall in the small sitting room, sir?”
Winter tore his gaze from the sunbeam dancing across the marbled entryway floor and nodded absently at the man.
He was ushered into the “small” sitting room, which, naturally, wasn’t small at all—it was nearly the size of the new home’s dining room. But the room had been appointed in such a way that its large size didn’t seem cold or uncomfortably formal. The walls were a buttery yellow with a gray-blue wainscoting. Groups of chairs and settees were scattered here and there, making smaller, more intimate seating spaces. Overhead, cherubs frolicked on the painted ceiling, peeking from behind billowy white clouds. Winter snorted under his breath at the sight. He strolled toward a fireplace at the far end of the room, not bothering to hide his limp now that he was alone. A pink and white gilded clock ticked on the mantel, its face nearly hidden by curlicues and cupids. The sitting room was at the back of the house and the sounds from the street were muffled, making the room pleasantly quiet.
Winter touched the clock. It was a silly thing, and yet… oddly adorable and utterly fitting in Lady Beckinhall’s sitting room. He frowned, puzzled. How could a clock be adorable?
Something scuttled behind one of the pink settees.
Winter raised his brows. Surely Lady Beckinhall wasn’t troubled by rats? But perhaps she had a lap dog like so many fashionable ladies. He stretched to peer over the back of the settee.
Large brown eyes stared back from a small boy’s face. The child couldn’t be more than five, but he was dressed in a fine scarlet coat and breeches with lace at his throat. Not a servant’s child, then.
He hadn’t known she was a mother. The thought made something in his heart contract.
Winter inclined his head. “Good day.”
The boy slowly rose from his place of hiding and scuffed one foot in the thick, plush carpet. “Who’re you?”
Winter bowed. “Mr. Makepeace. How do you do?”
Some instinct—or more likely hours of tutelage—made the child bow in return.
Winter felt his lips twitch in amusement. “And you are?”
“Christopher!” The answer came not from the boy, but from a frazzled-looking female servant at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, if he was bothering you.”
Winter shook his head. “No bother at all.”
Lady Beckinhall appeared behind the maidservant, her face expressionless. “Christopher, you’ve worried Carruthers terribly. Please make your apologies to her.”
Christopher ducked his head. “Sorry, ’Ruthers.”
Carruthers smiled fondly. “That’s all right, Master Christopher, but I think it’s past time for your bath now if we’re to see the park this afternoon.”
The child dolefully left the room, no doubt doomed to a soapy fate.
Winter looked at Lady Beckinhall as the door closed. “I did not know you had a son, my lady.”
For a split second he was shocked to see pain on her face. Then she smiled brilliantly as if to mask whatever true emotions she might be feeling. “I don’t. I don’t have any children.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Then why—”
But she had already turned to seat herself on the settee, talking all the while. “I thought we’d start simply this morning. The Duchess of Arlington’s ball is one week away, and unless you know how to dance…?”
She obviously didn’t want to talk about the child. Interesting. He shook his head at her inquiring look.
“No, of course not,” she sighed. “Then we’ll have to begin dancing lessons very soon. You’ll need to at least know the steps—I have no hope that you’ll actually master them, but if we can get you to the point where you don’t step on a lady’s toes, I’ll be more than pleased.”
“You’re too kind,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed as if she’d taken exception to his dry-as-dust tone. “I think a new suit is in order as well. Perhaps something in cream or light blue silk?”
His pride balked. “No.”
Her lush lips firmed. “You can’t appear in polite society in the dingy clothes you’re wearing now. That coat looks to be at least a decade old.”
“Only four years,” he said mildly. “And I cannot accept such a lavish—such a personal—gift from you, my lady.”
She tilted her head, studying him, and he was reminded of a crow looking one way and then another to figure out how to crack a nut. “Think of it as a gift from the Ladies’ Syndicate. We appreciate the work you do for the home, and a new suit of clothes so you can move about in society is hardly a wasted extravagance.”
He wanted to decline, but her gentle argument made sense. He sighed silently. “Very well, but I must insist upon somber colors. Black or brown.”
She clearly had to bite back the urge to try and persuade him to wear something outrageous—bright pink or lavender, perhaps—but in the end she must’ve seen the wisdom of a compromise.
“Very well.” She nodded briskly. “I’ve sent for tea so we can at least practice that today. And naturally I thought we’d make conversation.”
“Naturally.”
“And while sarcasm does have its place in polite company, it’s best used in moderation,” she said sweetly. “Very strict moderation.”
There was a short silence as she held his gaze. Her blue eyes were surprisingly determined. Surprisingly strong.
Winter inclined his head. “What would you have us converse about?”
She smiled again, and he felt it deep in the pit of his belly, the pull this woman had on him. Pray it did not show upon his face.
“A gentleman often compliments a lady,” she said.
She wanted compliments from him? He searched her countenance for signs of a jest, but she seemed in earnest.
Winter sighed silently. “Your home is very… comfortable.”
He realized now that was the feeling her house exuded: a sense of comfortableness. Homey. That was what it was.
He glanced at her, rather pleased with himself.
Lady Beckinhall looked as if she were trying to restrain a smile. “I’m not sure that is exactly a compliment.”
“Why not?”
“You’re supposed to compliment a house’s decor,” she said patiently. “The taste of its mistress.”