Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(2)

Ethan drained his flask and urged his horse forward, but once he crested the hill he stopped a second time, his gaze frozen on his ancestral estate nestled at the notch in the hill just below him.

Light spilled from every downstairs window and cast a cheerful glow onto the drive in front of the house, which was crowded with wagons and carriages. Even from this distance he could see people passing to and fro in front of the windows, and hear voices and an occasional shriek of muffled laughter. The delectable scent of sugared apples and roasted meat drifted through the air, and Ethan’s stomach let out an insistent growl.

Laughter, music, and sugared sweets? He might be in his cups, but he wasn’t so foxed he couldn’t see what was right in front of his eyes. Some presumptuous devil was running amok at his estate, without his knowledge or permission.

Ethan tucked his flask into his pocket, kicked his horse into a run, and shot down the hill toward the house. Damnation. He’d only just arrived, and already he was being thrown headlong into sobriety.

A few coachmen were loitering in the drive, but they were distracted by cups of ale, so he dismounted and tied his horse himself, grumbling at the neglect. What bloody good was it being the earl if he didn’t get to shout orders, and then stand back like a proper aristocrat while the servants rushed about in a panic to do his bidding?

He strolled through the front door, squinting at the sudden light. Christ. It appeared they did have candles and lamps at Cleves Court, because the place was brighter than a London ballroom. A dozen or so people hung about, and the entire entryway was smothered in kissing balls and evergreens.

Bloody hell. It looked as if Christmas had gotten foxed, and then cast up its accounts all over Cleves Court.

There was a rather nice-looking Christmas punch on a table at his elbow, so Ethan snatched up a glass. Whiskey was preferable, but he’d drunk it all, so the punch would have to do.

He raised the glass to his lips, took a healthy swallow, spluttered, and then stared down at the glass, aghast. For God’s sake, who made a punch without brandy? It was a disgraceful waste of perfectly good fruit—

“Who d’ye think ye are? That’s my punch ye just drunk.”

Ethan dropped the glass onto the table and turned to find a thin, dark-haired boy at his elbow. “Who the devil are you?”

Instead of disappearing as a figment of one’s imagination should, the boy jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Why, I’m Henry Munro.” He announced this as if everyone in their right mind should know who Henry Munro was. “Who’re you?”

“The Earl of Devon.” Everyone in his right mind should know who that was, but if Ethan expected the boy to blanch with terror to find the master of the house had suddenly appeared in his midst, he was disappointed.

“What, yer a lordship? I’ve not got much use fer lordships, meself.” Henry took in his depleted glass of punch, and gave Ethan a disgusted look. “’Specially those what drink my punch.”

“That’s my punch. Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m Lord Devon.” Ethan waved a hand around the room. “Lord Devon. This is my house. Every glass of punch in the bloody place belongs to me.”

He sounded like a two-year-old whining over a toy, but for God’s sake, who was this demonic imp, and what was he doing here? And didn’t anyone in this house recognize the name Devon?

“Aw right then, guv. No need to take on like that.”

The boy grabbed what was left of his punch and tried to dart away, but Ethan snatched him up by the collar and hauled him back. “Who’s in charge here?”

“I thought ye said this was yer house.”

“It is, but—”

“Ye don’t know who’s in charge of yer own house?” Henry wriggled loose from Ethan’s grip and eyed him, looking less impressed with every passing second.

Damnation. As much as Ethan hated to admit it, the boy had a point. “I’ve been away. Is it Mrs. Hastings still?”

It seemed unlikely Mrs. Hastings—or Mrs. Hastens, he couldn’t quite recall—was the authoress of all this offensive merriment. A vague image of a gray-haired lady with lace collars and dozens of iron keys at her hip rose in Ethan’s mind. She had to be at least sixty years old by now. Perhaps she’d gone senile.

“Mrs. who? Never ’eard of ’er.”

Ethan’s eyebrows shot up. What, the boy hadn’t even heard of Mrs. Hastings? What had happened to his bloody housekeeper? “Well, who then, Henry? If it’s not Mrs. Hastings, then who’s responsible for this house?”

“Same person what’s always been responsible, guv.”

Ethan grasped the boy’s collar again, ready to shake the answer out of him. “And who would that be?”

Before Henry could reply, a maid appeared and held out a tray to Ethan with a smile. “Punch, sir?”

“No! No bloody punch. I’m Lord Devon, just arrived.”

“Lord Devon? Oh, no. That is . . . oh, dear, the earl himself.” The maid’s face went white and she sank into a hasty curtsey, still clutching the tray. “I, ah—welcome home, your lordship.”

Cleves Court wasn’t his bloody home anymore, and in another few weeks it wouldn’t be anyone else’s either, but the maid would find that out soon enough. “What’s your name?”