“Think of it as medicine,” he said. “Would you care for the scone?”
She eyed the thing on the tray, looked up at him in bewilderment, which made him vow to kick every one of them harder than he’d planned just five minutes before, then slowly shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry, but thank you.”
He stared off toward the fire for a moment, then said, “I wanted to be the one to tell you, but I had no idea when you would arrive or where you would go first. I did ride to Scrilady Hall, but the solicitor was there, a Mr. Brogan, and I don’t think I was all that welcome. I’m sorry about your aunt. I liked Eleanor Penrose very much. She first came here when I was a boy of only ten. She was very popular.”
“Not with everyone, it appears.”
Tears welled up again but he held his place, not moving, saying nothing.
“Mrs. Freely at the inn in Goonbell said you were the one who had found her.”
“Yes. Listen, Miss Derwent-Jones, you’re very tired. It’s too late for you to go to Scrilady Hall. You will remain here tonight and I will escort you there on the morrow.”
To his pleasure, she gave him a crooked smile. “Can one drink brandy for breakfast?”
He smiled, such a strange feeling, really. “The breakfast tea will be wonderful, I promise you. I will have a small cozy chat with Cook about recipes and such.”
“I thought your butler would slam the doors in my face. I’m sorry I threatened him with the pistol but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“He deserved it. He will survive the shock. As to his behavior, all I can say is that there hasn’t been a lady in Mount Hawke in many more years than they’ve been alive. I suppose that he and Cook didn’t quite know what to make of things.”
“Evidently she didn’t want me here either.”
“He, actually. Mr. Polgrain is my cook.”
He saw that she was weaving where she sat, and rose. “Excuse me a moment, Miss Derwent-Jones. I must inform Tregeagle to prepare a bedchamber for you.”
“Does Tregeagle wear skirts?”
“No, it’s Mr. Augustus Tregeagle. As I said, it is a very long time since a female has been here. It’s a house of men only.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It must be very difficult for you.”
“Actually not,” he said shortly, then smiled to soften it, and again, that smile came easily, too easily, and he thought, Well, fancy that, she feels sorry for me because I don’t have females roaming my corridors, females sniffing the air to make certain it’s sweet enough for their tender nostrils, females clucking over sheets with but small rents in them and worrying incessantly over how black the fireplaces are, and here I am smiling at her about it. He wanted to tell her he was grateful that God had spared him that; indeed, it was a fine thing for other men like his friend Marcus Wyndham, but not for him, but he held his peace. He found himself smiling at her again, and here she was very nearly asleep and not even noticing she was the recipient of a rare occurrence, for him at any rate.
He left her there, slumped down in the chair close to the blazing fireplace, to find Tregeagle. He hoped Tregeagle, a man with more waving white hair than a man should have at his age, and a handsome face that many men would kill to have, wouldn’t be too far under the kitchen table from the quantities of Goonbell ale he consumed nightly, that he wouldn’t now know the difference between clean sheets and a chamber pot.
It seemed Tregeagle wasn’t drinking Goonbell ale at all. He was, in fact, in close conversation with Coombe and Polgrain, standing by the wooden counter, watching Polgrain wipe away stray crumbs from an already very clean surface. Tregeagle stood tall and straight and lean as he’d been as a young man. North stood in the doorway watching men who’d known him since he was a boy, since he’d come to live here at the age of five, to be exact, then cleared his throat loudly, hearty curses hovering on his tongue.
“Ah, my lord,” Coombe said, his voice as smarmy as a tinker’s who’d just sold all his hair potions to a bald man. He hurried forward, wiping his hands on Polgrain’s apron as he passed him. “Was everything satisfactory?”
“No, it wasn’t, as all of you well know. However, we will speak of your collective lapse on the morrow. Tregeagle, I need a bedchamber for our guest.”
“But, my lord, there isn’t a bedchamber!”
“Don’t be an ass, Coombe. This house is larger than the village. There are at least two dozen bedchambers, damn your stubborn hide.”
“That is all very well and good, my lord,” Tregeagle said, drawing to his full five foot eleven inches, meant to intimidate, but didn’t, not North in any case, “but Mr. Coombe is right. We have fed the Young Lady. We have given her sufficient succor. But to have her remain here? Unheard of, my lord, not possible. This is a gentleman’s establishment. Our reputation would be—”
“Our reputation? What bloody nonsense is this? No, be quiet and listen to me. She is Mrs. Eleanor Penrose’s niece. She just found out her aunt was murdered.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Coombe, “she didn’t tell me that, just aimed that pistol at me and looked mean. I thought her quite mad, my lord.”
“It is a pity, certainly,” said Tregeagle. “Such news would be enough to lead to female hysteria, which I understand is more prevalent among their sex than even we could guess.”
“Surely she would be happier at Scrilady Hall,” Polgrain said. “There are women who would see to her and comfort her. Also, I hear they have excellent food there.”
“It would have to be better than what you offered her,” North said. “Jesus, Polgrain, I could have thrown that scone at you and killed you dead—it was like a damned stone. Now, enough of this or I’ll begin to believe you’re nothing but a dried-up old trio of misogynists. Never mind, I already believe it, but hear this. Miss Derwent-Jones is very young. If she didn’t know me, she wouldn’t have anyone. She’s exhausted and needs a good night’s sleep. It’s too late to take her to Scrilady Hall. See to it, Tregeagle, and no more muttering behind your damned teeth.”