Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(3)
“Becky, sir—that is, my lord.”
“Becky, you will tell me at once who’s responsible for this madness.”
Becky shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “Um, our housekeeper, your lordship, just as she is every year.”
Every year?
Ethan gritted his teeth. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find the housekeeper?”
“Let’s see. The last time I saw her she was in the kitchens, but I think she may have gone back to the drawing room. I’d be happy to take you to her, sir—”
But Becky got no further, for at that moment a child darted through the drawing-room door, his head down, and slammed right into the back of her, sending the tray in her hands to the floor with a crash of shattering glass. Becky let out a despairing wail as punch splattered everywhere.
The floor, the walls—Christ, even the kissing balls were dripping with it.
Ethan might have laughed if it hadn’t been for his boots, which were now splattered with sticky punch. He’d managed to make it through every muddy inch of bloody Cornwall with the pristine shine still on his boots, but the second he set foot in this godforsaken house they were ruined. Damn it, a man’s boots were sacred—
“George Munro! You naughty boy! Look at what you’ve made me do!”
George Munro? Ethan stared at the child who’d come to a screeching halt in the middle of the hallway. He was an exact replica of Henry, who’d taken one look at the mess and doubled over with laughter.
Dear God, there were two of them.
George Munro was no fool. He glanced at the mayhem he’d caused, turned on his heel, and fled. Becky made a grab for him, but the boy, who had apparently perfected his escape technique, leapt nimbly out of her reach.
“Come back here this instant, George!”
George did not come back, and Becky chased after him, leaving Ethan standing in a puddle of brandy-less punch and a pile of broken glasses. Such a scene would have reduced Fenton to tears, but Ethan simply stepped over the mess, made his way toward the drawing room, and found a place at the back of the crowd, near the door.
The housekeeper would have to appear eventually, and when she did she’d find one furious earl in ruined boots waiting for her.
There were a great many servants rushing about—far more than he’d expected to see at Cleves Court—and a great number of guests, as well. A few of them looked vaguely familiar, but damned if he could say what any of their names were. They were all having a grand time of it, and looked quite at home, as if they spent every evening at Cleves Court, drinking his liquor and smashing his crystal to bits.
Not that he gave a damn about the crystal, or anything else in this house. He didn’t intend to take so much as a teaspoon from here back to London with him. Tomorrow he’d order everything packed away forever. They were welcome to smash every glass in the house until then, and the windows too, if they liked.
“Oh, here comes the housekeeper with the bowl of brandy,” a lady next to him whispered to her companion. “It’s so pretty when it’s lit, isn’t it, with the blue flames?”
A flutter of excitement passed over the knot of people gathered in the drawing-room, and a hush fell as the servants lowered the lamps and doused the candles. Every head turned toward the door, the faces alight with anticipation. The children were wriggling with excitement, and the adults were nearly as enthusiastic.
Despite himself, Ethan felt a twinge of anticipation. They’d played Snapdragon in this very room when he was a boy. He straightened from his slouch against the wall to get a better look, but the servants had plunged the room into near darkness, and he couldn’t see a bloody thing.
“Over here, ma’am!” George Munro, who’d evidently escaped his pursuer, was hopping up and down and waving his arms in the air. “I’ve been a very good boy!”
Ethan snorted aloud at this blatant falsehood, but the sound was swallowed by another childish voice, this one raised in outrage. “Ye haven’t been a good boy, George. Ye made Becky drop the glasses and they all smashed to bits! Ye’re naughty, and ye don’t deserve any raisins!”
“Quiet, Henry, ye tell-tale!”
A furious shriek followed this insult, and Ethan turned just in time to see Henry leap upon George’s back and the two tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs. He watched them with a grin, because a brawl was good fun—especially one so indecorous as to happen in the midst of a Christmas Eve party—but this one was even more impressive because the two boys looked so much alike, it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Henry, George, you will stop that scuffling at once.”
A tall, slender woman with dark hair passed near Ethan, carrying a large glass bowl in her hands. She was looking down, and he couldn’t see her face, but one thing was certain.
She wasn’t Mrs. Hastings.
His memories of that good lady were indistinct, but he was damn sure her scent hadn’t made his mouth water. This lady smelled of warm, rich brandy, with a faint hint of cinnamon and vanilla, and her voice—low and faintly husky, but utterly feminine—tugged on him, as if a hook had caught at the memories buried deep inside him and was trying to drag them out through his chest.
They two boys climbed off each other, but Henry couldn’t quite hold in his ire. “Aw, but Miss Sheridan, he called me a—”