No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(6)

Julia refrained from moaning. She had no time to mourn the loss of the bread. She might still save the oats. A quick glance at the hearth showed the oats bubbling over the big black pot. Mindful of her raw hand, she took a moment to locate the thick, quilted mitten, slip it on her hand, and pull the pot away from the fire. She lifted the large spoon hanging nearby and stirred the oatmeal. The top layer of mush ceased bubbling onto the floor, but the oats at the bottom stuck fast to the pot. Breakfast had been burned.

Tears stung her eyes.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” the visitor asked from the door.

She heaved out a sigh. “Not unless you can repair burnt oatmeal or bake bread.”

“I confess I have no talent in either arena. Was that the children’s breakfast?” Abruptly, the man took a step back. “Uh, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you have a mouse in your pocket.”

She looked down to where Mark’s head poked out. “It’s a rat,” she said. Think, Juliana. There must be something else you can prepare.

If only she had restocked the larder, but the shelves were all but bare.

“My mistake.”

Mark had wriggled to the edge of her pocket, and she caught him before he could make a bid for freedom. There had to be more oats, and she knew there were potatoes. Potatoes took so long to cook, though…

“Here.” She held the rat out to her visitor absently. He took a large step back, his gaze telling her exactly how daft he thought her.

“Will you hold him for a moment?” she asked in exasperation. “I need to search for something to cook.”

“No, I will not.”

“Oh, don’t be missish. He’s harmless.”

“Missish?” His blue eyes narrowed.

She shoved Mark into the visitor’s hands. The visitor made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a curse, but he held the animal securely while she searched cabinets and shelves.

“If that was breakfast,” the visitor said, “perhaps you could have the cook start on the noon meal. It’s nigh eleven.”

“I don’t have a cook,” she said, the feeling of hopelessness growing as she found nothing but empty drawers and bins. “She quit this morning.”

Silence.

“Then perhaps your lady’s maid—”

“She quit last week.”

“Your manservant then. Allow me to send the man to fetch bread or pies from one of the street vendors.”

She rose, wishing she could disappear, just for an hour, back to her Mayfair life, with its scones and drinking chocolate. “I would,” she said with a sigh, “but I don’t have the coin to spare.”

“Then allow me.”

She whirled to face him. “I cannot do that, sir.”

“I would gladly pay the price if it meant I could relinquish my role as rat holder.”

She almost laughed. “I do apologize.” She took Mark from him and placed him in the box that served as the rats’ cage. “My manners are sorely lacking this morning.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” His gaze met hers, and she found it hard to breathe with those Mediterranean Sea eyes so focused on her. Had she ever known a man this handsome? She didn’t think so, and she had known many handsome men. She’d had her share of Seasons and beaux over the years. She realized she’d once again stared at him too long when he lifted a brow.

“How many more of those are you wearing?” he asked with a nod at the box of rats.

“Just the one. There are three in total.” She lifted the box so he could see, but he didn’t even lean forward to catch a glimpse. “Their names are Matthew, Mark, and Luke,” she said, knowing she was babbling now and wishing she would simply shut up.

“What happened to John?”

“We don’t discuss John.”

His eyes almost smiled at her then, though his mouth remained tight. “I understand. Give me a quarter hour, and I’ll return with warm food.”

“Really, Mr…sir. I cannot allow you to do that.”

“Lady Juliana,” he said, already starting for the door. “You cannot stop me.” He paused and looked back at her. “And you look like you need all the help you can muster.”

With that, he was gone. She sank into the chair and would have cried, except that she did need help and just the knowledge this man would take care of breakfast was one small weight off her shoulders. But that weight was quickly replaced by a glance at the state of the kitchen. It was in shambles, and without the cook here, she would be the one to clean it.

“My lady?” Robbie stood in the doorway.

“Yes, Robbie?”

“Who was that man?”

“I…” Good question. She’d never had a chance to look at the letters of introduction. “I don’t know yet, but he’s gone to fetch you and the other boys something to eat.”

A roar sounded from the hallway, and she realized the other boys must have been standing behind Robbie.

“Before he comes back, will you please take your pets up to your room? They’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

Robbie looked chastened. Almost. “Sorry, my lady.”

“I’m sure you are.” The boys were always sorry after they’d done something wrong. For the life of her, she could not seem to teach them to think of the consequences before they acted.