Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(10)

Of course she had.

Ethan let out another growl, then reached out with one hand toward the table and searched until his fingers closed around something hard. He snatched it up, and without opening his eyes, hurled it across the room.

Whatever it was smashed against the floor. Or perhaps it was the door—he didn’t bother to look. The noise made him wince, but it served the purpose. Footsteps scurried away from the bed, and the door slammed closed.

And then . . . blessed silence. Ah, yes. That was much better.

He drifted off again, and he must have slept for hours, because when he opened his eyes the sunlight peeking around the edges of the heavy window curtains earlier had faded to dusk.

What had woken him? His stomach was growling with hunger, but there’d been a noise, too—

“Ye’re a wicked, wicked man.”

Ethan buried his face in the pillow with a groan. It was true enough, but couldn’t he repent after he’d had his tea? “I know it, love, but that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” After all, it wasn’t as if they chased him because they wanted a perfect gentleman in their beds.

“No. I’m ’ere fer the jam.”

Jam? How odd. He’d never heard it called that before.

Well, whatever she was here for, she would be disappointed, because his head ached, and she was making it worse with her chatter. Time for Fenton to escort the lady out.

Ethan rolled over, fumbled for the bell, and came face to face with a pair of unblinking dark eyes. He scrambled upright in his bed, yanking the blankets to his chin.

Christ. He wasn’t in London—he was at bloody Cleves Court, and that little chit with the black curls who’d run into Thea’s arms last night was standing by his bed, her fingers stuck in a pot of jam.

“What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?” He made a quick inventory of the room, but he didn’t see any flames. “Get out.”

He pointed toward the door, but the child didn’t move. She stood there studying him as if he were some kind of curious—and not very impressive—insect. “Henry says it’s because ye’re a lord. He says all gentlemen are wicked, but ’specially the earls and such.”

Henry was smarter than he looked, then. “I am wicked, even for an earl. I’m even wickeder than a duke, so you’d best leave at once before you annoy me, hadn’t you, ah . . .” What the devil was the child’s name again? Something like Mary, or Marjorie. “Ah, Maria?” It was as good a guess as any.

Maria, who looked unimpressed by this speech, pulled two sticky, jam-smeared fingers from the pot and shoved them into her mouth. “Ye shouted and cursed last night, and ye look like ye’re about to do it again.”

Well, the child was observant, at least. “Yes, well, as I said, I’m wickeder than most, and there’s no telling what I might do to a naughty child who’s stolen my breakfast. Aren’t you frightened to find out?”

Ethan frowned, lowered his brows and did his best to look terrifying, but the child only gave a calm shrug. “No. I’m not frightened of ye. Everyone else is, though.”

Not everyone else, he’d wager. “Does Miss Sheridan know you’re up here bothering me and pawing into my jam with your filthy little fingers?”

She ignored the scold, scooped another large helping of jam from the pot and licked it off her thumb. “Ye threw a teapot at Peter.”

Who the devil was Peter? “I did no such thing—”

Oh. Had that been a teapot? He leaned over the edge of the bed and saw a pile of broken porcelain on the floor. “Well, so I did. What of it?” If he had another teapot to hand, he’d throw that one, too. Maybe that would frighten this nosy little beast away.

“Now Peter says ’e won’t serve ye, and Becky says the same, and do ye know what Miss Sheridan said?”

Oh, he could just imagine what Thea had said to that. Ethan stacked a pile of pillows against the headboard and leaned back against them. This conversation might prove amusing, after all. “I assume she reminded them I’m the earl, and told them they would bloody serve me, or else they’d lose their places.”

“No. She said they didn’t have to serve ye, and then she said it would do ye a world of good to serve yerself.”

“Serve myself? What bloody nonsense. What’s the use of being an earl if I have to serve myself?”

“Don’t know.” Maria shrugged, and a dollop of jam slid from the end of her thumb and plopped onto the white bedsheets.

“Mind the jam!” For God’s sake. Why was this child still in his bedchamber?

“Then Miss Sheridan said it would be amusing to see ye try an’ serve yerself, since most earls can’t even fasten their own breeches without help.”

“She said that, did she?” Yes, that sounded like Thea.

“Is it true?” The child swept a disdainful look over him. “Ye really don’t know how to fasten yer own breeches?”

“I manage.”

Another dollop of jam disappeared into her mouth. “Then Miss Sheridan said earls know how to unfasten their breeches well enough.” She frowned. “I don’t know what she meant by that, but she and Becky laughed and laughed.”

Despite himself, a corner of Ethan’s mouth twitched. Thea might play at being the respectable housekeeper, but that green-eyed hellion still lurked beneath the surface.