No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(9)

She gestured to the pugilists. “I had the situation under control.”

He let out a huff of laughter. She was obviously deluded. “Is that what you call it?”

She looked as though she had a ready retort on her lips, but he was saved from the tongue-lashing when one of the boys who had been fighting jumped forward. “Forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to make you fall.”

“Me either,” the other one said, head hanging in a very good imitation of one shamed by his actions.

She gave the boys narrowed looks. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had not been fighting. How many times have I told you fighting is not allowed?”

One of the boys with dark hair and freckles waved his hand and jumped up and down eagerly. “Ooh! I know! I know!”

She turned and sighed. “Michael?”

“One hundred and twelve times, Lady Juliana. I’ve been counting, I have!”

“I know you have, Michael. Your counting skills are quite extraordinary.” She looked back at the combatants. “You would think after”—a glance at Michael—“112 reminders you would know the rule by now.”

“I do, Lady Juliana, but he took my cards.” This from what Neil had come to consider the older combatant, as he was taller and had a shaggy mane of brown hair.

The other, a bit shorter with curly, blond hair and a chubby face, which grew redder at the accusation, clenched his fists. “Did not. Those cards are mine!”

“Are not!”

“Are too!” countered the younger one.

Neil raised his brows at Lady Juliana as if to ask whether this was what she meant by under control. She glared right back at him, then held her hand out in front of the boy with the curly hair. “Give me the cards, George.”

“But, Lady Juliana…” George whined.

“I told you there’s to be no gambling.”

“No fighting, no gambling. What type of establishment is this?” Neil drawled.

She turned her fiery, brown eyes on him. “And you, sir. I will speak with you in the parlor, if you would kindly wait for me there.”

He gave her a mock bow. “Of course, my lady.” But she would not win the field that easily. “The pies in the kitchen are growing cold.”

“Pies!” That exclamation from every child in the room. And then he flinched as a line of boys, every bit as formidable as one of the French battalions, raced past him, thundered down the steps, and presumably landed in the kitchen.

The lady blew out an exasperated breath as though to indicate he had done something else of which she disapproved. “I’d better go down and make sure the little ones are given their fair share. There will be no practicing table manners this morning,” she said, attempting to sweep by him as though her stained attire were a court-presentation dress.

He caught her arm, surprised by the warmth of her skin. “A moment of your time, my lady. I believe introductions are in order.”

She sighed. “You are right. I’ve been terribly remiss. The morning has been rather hectic. I wish I could say it has been unusually hectic, but I’m afraid chaos has been the norm since I arrived.”

He released her arm. “And when did you arrive?”

“Oh, almost three months ago. Or has it been four?”

The shock must have showed on his face because she quickly continued, “It used to be much, much worse. We actually have something of a routine now.”

This was a routine?

A crash sounded from somewhere in the building, but before she could run off, he made a slight bow. “I am Neil Wraxall. My father is the Marquess of Kensington.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then you’ve come at my father’s request. St. Maur and Kensington have been friends since their days at school.”

He inclined his head. “As you say.”

“And you obviously know I am Lady Juliana.”

He would have made some nonsense remark about how he was pleased to meet her—although he hadn’t been particularly pleased yet—but she held up a hand to stay his response.

“I see what this is about, and I regret to inform you that you are wasting your time. I have no intention of returning home until I have matters here in order. My father wants me to dance at balls and attend the theater. I ask you, how am I to attend the theater with all of this to think of?”

Neil knew an ambush when he saw one, and he remained silent.

“If my father sent you to convince me to return home, you are wasting your time, sir.”

“I am not here to convince you to leave,” he said. In fact, he’d intended to simply carry her out, put her in a coach, and send her home.

He saw now that while brute tactics might win the battle, they wouldn’t win the war. She’d be right back here.

And then so would he.

This moment called for diplomacy, as Rafe would have called it. Ewan would have called Neil’s next words by their true nature: a lie. “I am here because your father is worried for your safety. He asked me to put measures in place to ensure you are well protected.”

She gave him a wary look. “My father said that?”

“I didn’t actually speak to the earl, but that is my interpretation.” A very loose interpretation.

“What sorts of measures?” she asked with narrowed eyes.