A sly look came across the little girl’s features, or it would have been sly were it not such an obvious prelude to dissembling.
“A lady. She lives in a house down by the river.” The Ouse flowed past the western boundary of the property, so the earl concluded that like all good lies, this little tale was somewhat grounded in truth.
“Is she a nice lady?” the earl asked, wondering when the damned apple tarts would be arriving.
“She’s old, but she bakes pies and cakes and they smell ever so lovely, especially in winter. She has two cats, and they are hugely fat from eating cheese.”
The earl stifled another smile. “And what are their names? Scylla and Charybdis?”
“Io and Ganymede.”
The earl’s eyebrows rose, as most children would not know the names of Jupiter’s moons. “Are they friendly?” he asked, getting ready to ring for his damned tart if need be.
“Very.” Winnie nodded vigorously. “At least to me. They don’t like everybody, but I share my cheese with them, so we get along
famously
.”
“And what is the name of this lovely old dear who lets you cozen her cats and steal her pies?”
“Miss Emmaline Farnum,” the child informed him, her air serious. “I call her Miss Emmie. She is my best friend.”
“How sweet.” The earl drummed his fingers on the table, but it occurred to him that since arriving at Rosecroft more than a week ago, he’d not seen one other child. In all likelihood, Winnie had no playmates her own age. Then, too, children could be cruel, particularly to an orphaned by-blow of a penniless and unpopular earl.
“My lord, I beg your pardon!”
The door to the little dining parlor banged open, the apologetic footman rushing in behind a young woman St. Just had not seen before. She was trussed up in a shapeless black bombazine dress covering her from ankles to wrist to neck, an equally hideous black bonnet on her head.
“That is not my tart,” the earl observed to no one in particular.
“Bronwyn!” The woman leapt across the room and wrapped her arms around Winnie, the bonnet tumbling off in her haste. “Oh, Winnie, you naughty, naughty child, I’ve been searching all over for you.”
“Hullo, Miss Emmie.” Winnie beamed a grin, hugging the lady back. “Rosecroft says we’re going to have apple tarts.”
“Madam?” The earl rose and bowed. “Rosecroft, at your service.”
“My lord.” She bobbed a nervous curtsy then swiveled back to the child. “Winnie, are you all right?”
“I had to take a bath.” Winnie frowned at the memory. “But I ate and ate and ate. I am not a gentleman, though.”
“You took a bath?” Miss Farnum’s eyes went round. “My lord? Did I hear her aright?”
“With lavender bubbles,” the earl replied gravely. “And you would be?”
“Miss Emmaline Farnum,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Just how did you get her to take a bath?”
The earl narrowed his eyes, as well. “Perhaps that is a discussion we adults might reserve for later. And as I wouldn’t want to be guilty of breaking my word to a child, may I invite you to join us for apple tarts, Miss Farnum?”
The footman withdrew at the earl’s lifted eyebrow while the child’s gaze bounced back and forth between the adults. Winnie sat, all innocence in an old nightshirt somebody had dragged out of a trunk. Her golden curls gleamed, and on her feet were wool socks many sizes too big.
“Apple tarts sound delicious,” Miss Farnum said. The earl graciously seated her, taking the opportunity to notice that the lady—for all her egregious taste in attire—bore the scent of lemons and meadow mint, a tart, pleasing combination that went well with the summer evening. His gaze happened to stray to her neck as he pushed her chair in, and the smooth expanse of female skin suggested she wasn’t as mature as he’d first surmised.
“Miss Winnie was just telling me about your cats,” the earl began, continuing his assessment of his latest guest. She was a dressmaker’s disaster, but then, what else would one expect in the wilds of Yorkshire? Fading black was seldom a good color for blondes, and she was no exception. “Your cats have interesting names.”
“Gany and Io?” Miss Farnum replied, removing her gloves. At the earl’s discreet signal, the gloves were whisked away, but not before he noticed the tear on the right fourth finger. “They were from a litter of four, the other two were named Europa and Callisto.”
“Somebody enjoyed either stargazing or mythology,” the earl said as the tarts were brought in. He would have to settle for one, he supposed, as the third tart would go to his uninvited guest. “Winnie, may I cut yours for you?”
The question hung in the air just as Winnie reached for her tart with her fingers.
“Bronwyn?” Miss Farnum’s voice was perfectly polite. “His lordship has offered to cut up that delicious tart for you.”
The child sighed mightily but nodded. “Yes, please.” She watched, eyes near crossed with anticipation, as the earl cut hers into small pieces, then slid the plate to her.
“Thank you.”
“Go ahead. Mind you don’t choke, lest I have to turn you upside down and whack at you to save your scrawny neck.”
Miss Farnum looked like she’d take great exception to his comment, but when Winnie only picked up her fork and began taking dainty bites, the lady held her peace.
“I take it you are a neighbor, Miss Farnum?”
“I am,” she said, regarding her tart rather than her host.
“Shall I cut yours, too, madam?” The earl lifted an eyebrow when she blinked at him. Rustics were an odd lot, and women left to rusticate too long were the oddest of all. She wasn’t old by any means, but her expressions and mannerisms were old. Careful, as if she expected to be unpleasantly surprised at any moment.
“Thank you no, my lord.” Her frown was aimed directly at him now. “I am your neighbor to the immediate north, or I am if you now own Rosecroft?”
“I do,” he said, knowing full well the gossip mills in rural settings were never idle. “As the place has been neglected in recent years, I expect I will be spending a fair amount of time here, at least in the foreseeable future.” There was no part of him, however, seeking to spend the winter in Yorkshire. Picturesque, idyllic, dress it up a thousand different ways, the dales were miserably cold and prone to heavy snows, and there was an appalling paucity of company. Even York itself offered far less than London in the way of society and entertainment.
“Will you rebuild the greenhouses?” Miss Farnum asked, spearing a bite of tart.
“I honestly don’t know. Winnie, you have a serviette for that purpose.” Winnie paused in the act of wiping her mouth on her sleeve, then picked up the linen on her lap as if noticing it for the first time.
“Heavenly days,” Miss Farnum expostulated on a soft breath. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was moving in a slow caress over the bite of apple tart. “Where on earth did you find your chef? This is the best dessert I can ever recall having.”
“Better than your gran’s plum cake?” Winnie asked between bites.
“Better. I must winkle the recipe out of your cook, my lord.”
“I can write it down for you,” the earl said, polishing off his own serving. “It’s not very complicated, provided you get the crust right.”
“You expect me to believe you know the recipe for this apple tart?” She aimed her smile at him, and he had to push the last bite of tart down his throat with a concerted swallow. Despite the awful black clothing, despite her hair being scraped back into a nondescript bun, despite the complete lack of anything approaching feminine adornment, that smile
charmed
. It made him aware her mouth was generous and her lips were full. Her eyes, he noticed, were a soft gray blue, and her features were actually pretty.
Not classically pretty—her nose was by no means small, but rather would be accurately described as giving her face character. Her chin was cast in the same, probably Teutonic, mold, and her jaw followed suit. But graced with that smile, the whole was pleasing, winsome, and utterly, arrestingly feminine.
“Start with a clean, cored apple,” the earl recited, “and one quarter of a piecrust, preferably made with butter, not lard, and white flour twice sifted, a dash each of cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and salt added to the flour. Shall I go on?”
“You know a recipe,” Miss Farnum said, her smile softening into a muted glow. “I own I am impressed.”
“I can count to ten, as well, provided I am not interrupted. Winnie,” he waited until the child raised her eyes to his, “you need not sit here and listen to me boast of my culinary and arithmetic talents. Would you like to go up to bed?”
Winnie’s gaze locked on his. “I can sleep here?”
“You are more than welcome to sleep here. You are Helmsley, after all.”
“Where? The stables are hot, up in the haylofts, anyway. Down by the river in the trees, it’s cooler, but the cows like to go down there, and my feet would get dirty.”
“Child, you will sleep in a bed, with clean sheets, pillows, and a nice cup of peppermint tea to aid your digestion.” Ye gods, had no one taken any interest in this girl?
“Will I have to take another bath?” Winnie searched his gaze, and the earl knew she was alert for warning of when he would start lying to her.
“Not until you are dirty again, though it being summer, one can find oneself in need of frequent ablutions.”
Winnie’s expression was wary. “What are blutions?”
“Bubbles.” The earl signaled a footman. “If you would fetch the tweeny who was so helpful at bath time, she can escort Miss Winnie up to the bed. Now attend me, Winnie. When you want to leave the table, you inquire of your host, ‘May I please be excused?’”
“Are you my host?”
“I have that great honor.”
“May I please be excused?”
“Well done. You may, but don’t forget to wish Miss Farnum good night before you go. I gather she was concerned about you.”
“G’night, Miss Emmie.” Winnie hopped down from her chair, scampered over to the lady, and gave her a tight hug around the neck. “G’night, Rosecroft!” She inflicted the same affection on St. Just, grabbed the footman’s hand, and pattered out, leaving the earl an unobstructed field upon which to upbraid Miss Farnum.
“Miss Farnum, shall we adjourn to the library for a cup of tea, or perhaps you’d prefer a cordial?”
“The apple tart was quite sweet enough,” she replied, seeming to realize the child’s absence meant matters were no longer going to be so neighborly. “If you could just answer a few questions for me, then I will be going, though I’ll collect Winnie in the morning, shall we say, and my thanks for the very delicious…”
The earl stood beside her chair, waiting for her to rise, and as her voice trailed off, he offered his arm.
“I must insist on just a little more of your time.” He picked up her hand and placed it on his arm. “You are my first visitor here, you see, and I wasn’t aware the custom in Yorkshire was to burst in upon a neighbor at table, without explanation or invitation, and disturb his meal.”
***
As they made a leisurely progress through the once-gracious manor, Emmie Farnum reminded herself that, drunk and mean, the late Earl of Helmsley hadn’t been able to make her back down. Sober and chillingly polite, the Earl of Rosecroft wasn’t going to be any greater challenge. Life’s circumstances had made her a good judge of character, particularly a good judge of male character, as it was invariably a shallow, trifling subject. In less than ten minutes in the earl’s company, she’d come to understand he was a very deceptive man.
Not willfully dishonest, perhaps, but deceptive.
He looked for all the world like an elegant aristocrat come to idle the summer heat away in the country. A touch of lace at his collar and throat, a little green stone winking through the folds of his neckcloth, a gleaming signet ring on his left hand, and even in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he projected wealth, breeding, and indolence.
His speech was
expensively
proper, the tone never wavering from a fine politesse that bespoke the best schools, the best connections, the best breeding. He wielded his words like little daggers though, pinning his opponent one dart at a time to the target of his choosing.
His body deceived, as well, so nicely adorned in attire, tailor-made for him from his gleaming boots to his neckcloth, to everything so pleasantly coordinated between.
And he was handsome, with sable hair tousled and left a little too long, deep green eyes, arresting height, and military bearing. His face might be considered too strong by some standards—he would never be called a pretty man—but it had a certain masculine appeal, the nose slightly hooked, the chin a trifle arrogant, and the eyebrows just a touch dramatic. No honest female would find him unattractive of face or form.
Beneath the well-tailored clothes, great masses of muscle bunched and smoothed with his every move. The hands holding Emmie’s chair for her were lean, brown, and elegant, but also callused, and she’d no doubt they could snap her neck as easily as they cut up Winnie’s apple tart. He was clothed as a gentleman, spoke as a gentleman, and had the manner of a gentleman, but Emmie was not deceived.
The Earl of Rosecroft was a barbarian.