Devlin waved off the question. He had already consumed enough food to feed a regiment of hungry Hussars while waiting for Anna to appear. For someone who normally rose at an ungodly early hour, she was proving perversely slow this morning.
At the sound of steps, he looked around again, but it was only McClellan.
Devlin didn’t relish the company. The room had been his alone for the last half hour, allowing him to swear at will.
The baron went straight to the chafing dishes and helped himself to several slices of gammon and a ladleful of thick Scottish porridge. Taking a seat across the table, he proceeded to attack his breakfast without a word of greeting.
Noting the other man’s haggard looks, Devlin couldn’t refrain from venting his frustration with a little well-placed needling.
“Enjoyed a few drams too many of whisky with the moor banshees last night, McClellan?”
The baron didn’t look up from his oats.
“I’m assuming your company naught but wild Gaelic spirits, for the ladies here don’t seem to care for your manners. Or lack of them.”
McClellan slowly set down his spoon. “Careful, laddie. Or in another moment you may be digging your teeth out of your gullet.”
“I wouldn’t wager on that.” Though he normally considered fisticuffs an egregiously silly waste of energy, he was itching to hit something. The harder, the better.
McClellan’s aquiline nose would do very nicely.
Speaking of which, that particular portion of the baron’s anatomy had turned an angry shade of red. He, too, looked spoiling for a fight.
“You have a very high opinion of your wit, Davenport. Perhaps that illusion ought to be thumped down a notch or two.”
“By you?” drawled Devlin. “That should be amusing.”
McClellan’s sun-bronzed face turned a shade darker. “I would pound you to a pulp here, but I might break some of my cousin’s precious porcelain.” His chair scraped back across the oaken floor. “Shall we take a stroll in the gardens?”
Devlin cracked his knuckles—a deliberately infuriating sound. “Oh, very well. If you insist. But only if you promise not to puke on my boots when I break your beak.”
The comment provoked a sharp growl from the baron. Shooting up from his seat, he looked on the verge of lunging across the table—
“Oh, please don’t rise on my account, Lord McClellan.”
Intent on the confrontation, Devlin hadn’t heard Anna enter the room.
“It’s not necessary to stand on ceremony this early in the day,” she went on brightly. “My, my, what a lovely day. Do you gentlemen plan to venture into the hills for more birds?”
The baron unclenched his fists. “Actually, I was thinking of organizing a hunt for vermin—foxes, stoats, and other pests who plague the estate.”
Devlin met her gaze as she sat down next to him. Beneath the surface smile, her eyes looked troubled.
“In fact, Davenport and I were just about to take a stroll in the gardens to attend to the details,” went on McClellan. “If you would excuse us—”
“It would be most impolite to abandon Miss Sloane,” interrupted Devlin. “You go on. I shall join you anon.”
The other man’s jaw tightened, but after a tiny hesitation, he simply nodded with ill grace and stalked away.
Chapter Eighteen
You,” uttered Devlin, “have a great deal of explaining to do.”
“Please don’t waste your breath ringing a peal over my head,” replied Anna. “I do indeed have much to tell you.” She glanced at the footman stationed at the far end of the serving sideboard. “But we ought to find a more private spot.”
“You should eat something first.” His tone softened considerably. “You’re looking pale.”
“Never mind that.” The sight of McClellan in a temper had her stomach too jumpy to contemplate food. “I’m not hungry.”