Always a Maiden (The Belles of Beak Street #5)(44)

Evan’s mouth tightened. “I will be my uncle’s steward for the foreseeable future and my cousin’s steward after that.”

She stared at him. There was something he wasn’t saying, but she didn’t have any idea what it could be. Being a steward was a respectable position for a gentleman. It was management of an estate—just not his own. But occupations of that sort were reserved for gentlemen with no property or holdings that generated income. The kind of man who should be a fortune hunter. Not that it mattered. “Who is your uncle’s steward now?”

He inhaled through his nose loudly enough she could hear it. “I am.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. It still didn’t make sense to her. But her thoughts were swirling. She’d thought him a gentleman—a slightly dissolute one—but a gentleman nonetheless. But he was a working man. A steward. An employee of his uncle. “What if your cousin wants to employ another as his steward?”

“He won’t.” Evan’s voice was dismissive. Then as if he’d had enough of the explanations, he changed the subject. “I apologize for the primitive nature of our al fresco supper. I didn’t bring plates.” He flipped out a napkin in front of her and then put one in front of himself. “Or glasses, I didn’t want them to rattle. So it will be sandwiches and drinking straight from the bottle.”

He pointed out the ham, beef, and pheasant. There was butter wrapped in an oilcloth as well as both soft and hard cheese. Small loaves of bread were already sliced in half lengthwise. On top of that, there were figs and currents.

Her world had altered, although she didn’t want him to see how dismayed she was at the idea that he worked for his uncle.

The boundaries between the ruling class and the working class were fluid. An aristocrat’s younger children had to find employment unless an estate could be found for them. There were acceptable occupations for them, military, banking, stewards, and the clergy. Their children would slide even further down until they were in trade, but she’d never thought about the eventual fall out of the ranks of the gentry. It went the other way too. When a nobleman died without a son, the genealogy was traced back to find the proper heir, even if he was a tradesman. Except not in her father’s case. The title wasn’t that old and there weren’t any male descendants of a prior marquess to take over, which was why so much hung on her.

“I think you brought enough food to feed all of Wellington’s army.” She wasn’t hungry, but she supposed she should eat something since he’d gone to so much trouble and a fair amount of expense for a man on a salary.

Evan lifted his shoulders. “I didn’t supply enough last time.” From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small tin and slid it toward her. “I bought these for you. I thought I would be able to slip them to you at a ball. I figured you could hide them in your reticule or tuck them in your stocking.”

It went without saying that he hadn’t attended any of the same events that she had before last night. Had he tried to find her? Eager for any distraction, she picked up the tin and tilted it so she could read the markings in the dim light. Candied almonds from a well-known confectioner. Her mouth watered, and she allowed she might be hungry after all. Or it could just be because she adored candied almonds and always took as many as she dared whenever they were served. “I probably would have eaten them then and there.”

Her mother always searched her reticule for contraband food in the carriage on the way home. Although Susanah had to wonder about transporting food in her stocking. Or a billet-doux. She’d risked her mother finding the notes she had folded inside her handkerchief. Thus far her mother hadn’t searched her extremities.

Evan gave her a small smile. “You did seem to like them at the Spencers’ ball.”

If he noticed, she had probably taken too many. She’d somehow called attention to her gluttony.

“Would you like me to fix a sandwich for you?” Evan asked gently.

His tone surprised her. He already had a sandwich heaped with meats and cheese resting on his napkin as if he were waiting for her. Well of course he was. To eat before she was served would be rude, and he knew the rules of civilized behavior. She followed his example, albeit with far less filling than his sandwich. Opening the tin, she allowed herself one candied almond. Reluctantly, she held it out for him to take some.

He shook his head. “Those are for you.”

She realized she hadn’t properly thanked him. “Thank you. I will enjoy them.”

“Let’s eat.” He gathered his sandwich in both hands and took a bite.

Following suit, she nibbled at hers. In short order, he finished his food and took a swig from the wine bottle. Her sandwich remained mostly intact.

Stretching out one leg to the side he bent his other leg and rested his elbow on it. He was still so far away, and he’d made no effort to touch her since they sat down.

He pulled out his watch and checked it.

“Am I taking too long?” she asked.

“No. Take as much time as you want. I just don’t want to lose track of time.” He tilted his head to the side and said, “You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry.”

She tore off a piece of bread. “When are you leaving?”

“That depends,” he said slowly. “But most likely within the week.”