Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

“Wasn’t expecting his lordship back so soon,” Cook said, obvious looking to gossip. She put a stack of sweet tarts on the tray Myriah had set on the table.

“Yes, Mr. Wimborne was surprised as well—oh, and those look good.”

“They be young Wimborne’s favorite.”

“Have you been with them at Wimborne long?” asked Myriah.

“M’mother was cook at Wimborne before me … ’tis a shame what hard times will do to a place.”

“And they have fallen onto hard times?” asked Myriah.

“That they ’ave … we used to have quite a staff running about … then something went wrong jest this past year—just after his lordship come home from fighting the Frenchies in Spain. All but me and my boys were let go.”

“How dreadful! Those poor people—did they find work?”

The cook cast her eyes away from Myriah’s face and suddenly busied herself again. “Oh, as to that … they make out all right.”

Odd, thought Myriah. Why had the woman become suddenly secretive? She took up the tray, marveling to herself at its weight, and made her way to young Wimborne’s room.

Without knocking at the open door, she sauntered in, placed the heavily laden tray on a stained wood table, and pulled it to the bed. Exclaiming disapprovingly, she made her way to the long window-hangings and opened them. “There, that’s better!” she said, hands on hips. There wasn’t much light from the dismal day, but it was better than total darkness.

“Oh God, she’s back!” groaned young Wimborne. Myriah said nothing to this but went to his water pitcher, poured some of the cool water into the basin, and brought it to the bed. Dipping a washcloth in the water she moved it over her patient’s face and neck, then left it in his free hand while she brought him a towel.

“There,” she exclaimed with approval. “Now don’t you feel better?”

“She-devil, move aside and let me eat!” retorted her patient.

She laughed, drew up a chair for herself, and placed a tray of delectables on his knees. “Eat, puppy. I am told the strawberry tart is your favorite.”

“Aye, so it is.” He smiled widely.

“Sip your tea first,” she said, placing them out of his reach.

“Fiend!” He snorted but took up the cup and did in fact sip with a sound of pleasure.

She sipped her own tea and slid his tart to him. Watching him eat with relish, she thought he was well on the mend. When he had finished, she poured him another cup and handed it over, spilling a bit as she did so.

“Careful, chit!” admonished Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

“Ungrateful scamp! Be satisfied it was not dropped on your head!”

“And is that how you treat your

benefactor, Billy my lad?” said a male voice from the doorway.

“Back, Kit? Have some tea and one of those tarts, and aye, ’tis only what she deserves. She is a fiend.”

“Would you like some tea, my lord? I’ve brought an extra cup,” Myriah said, feeling for no apparent reason a sensation very much like shyness.

“Thank you, Miss White,” his lordship replied quite formally. Myriah peered at him, wondering if this tall, honey-haired man was indeed the same one who had leaned over her last evening. He seemed so distant and … cold.

His imposing figure loomed above them as he came over for the teacup. He took up a chair and sat across from her with the small table between them, and Myriah decided to ignore him by sipping her tea.

“Drink up,” Myriah ordered, returning her attention to Billy, who was staring out the window, his cup in mid-air.

“Fire-breather … no need for you to order me about—I was just about to,” returned Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

Lord Wimborne laughed, sat back, and relaxed as he watched the lively exchange between the two. He wondered about Miss White, as she called herself. She looked and behaved every bit the spoiled lady—certainly her clothes had come from none other than Madame Bertin’s Salon.