Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(5)

“Ethan? My goodness, is that you?” One shaking hand came up to cover her mouth, but when she lowered it again her lips were curved in the same smile that still haunted him, the one that made his heart leap in his chest. The smile that said she couldn’t imagine it being anyone but him, as if he were the only person in the world she wanted to see.

But he didn’t deserve that smile. Not anymore.

“Ethan, what are you doing here? I can’t believe it’s—”

“Not Ethan, Miss Sheridan. I’m Lord Devon now, and I’m here because this is my house. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten that?”

She stared at him in silence for a moment, then, “No. I haven’t forgotten . . . your lordship.” She paused before she added his title— not for long enough to be accused of outright insolence, but just shy of it.

“I’m pleased to hear it. Given you do recall I’m the master of this house, perhaps you’d favor me with an answer to my question. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Having a Christmas Eve party, my lord.” Her voice was calm, but Ethan didn’t miss the flicker of temper in her eyes.

“Did you get my permission to have a party at my house, Miss Sheridan?”

“No.”

Ethan’s temper rose at this blithe dismissal. She didn’t sound the least bit repentant, damn her. “Well, why not? I believe it’s customary for servants to ask the earl’s permission for such things.”

“My apologies, your lordship. I’ve never done so in my tenure as housekeeper here, but I should have realized this time you meant for me to write to London for permission to have guests at Cleves Court.”

Christ, the sting of that tongue. Only Thea could make an apology sound like an accusation. “You’ve stolen from me, Miss Sheridan. I could bloody well have you taken up by the law if I chose.”

Henry sucked in a gasp. “Oh, ’e did it again, George! He said . . .” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “He said bloody.”

Thea held up a hand to quiet the boys, but her gaze remained fixed on Ethan. “Very well, my lord. I believe our magistrate, Mr. Williamson is in the entryway even now, helping himself to a glass of punch. Becky, if you wouldn’t mind fetching Mr. Williamson? His lordship wishes to have me taken up for theft.”

“Do you suppose I won’t?” Of course he wouldn’t—Thea could march out the front door with every silver teaspoon in the house secreted away in her bodice and he wouldn’t move a muscle to stop her—but devil take her, her stubbornness could drive a saint to the flask, and he was no bloody saint. “I warn you, Miss Sheridan—”

“No!” A high-pitched wail pierced the room, and a tiny child with wild black curls tossed all the raisins clenched in her chubby fists to the floor, rushed forward, and threw her arms around Thea’s knees. “No! George, that lordship there said ’e’s going to have Miss Sheridan taken up, and then she’ll have to go to jail, and we won’t ever see ’er again!”

“Hush, Martha. I won’t be taken to jail.” Thea gathered the girl into her arms and glared at Ethan over the child’s head. “I’ve done nothing illegal, no matter what that lordship says.”

“Um, Miss Sheridan? There’s a—”

“I hope you aren’t teaching these children stealing isn’t illegal.” Ethan pointed to Henry and George. “Those two in particular need a lesson on proper morals and behavior.”

“Miss Sheridan!” George tugged at the sleeve of her dress. “Martha’s raisins are still—”

She waved him off. “I’m not teaching them anything of the sort. I’m simply telling them I’m not a thief. But thank goodness your lordship is here, because I can’t think of anyone more suited to give a lesson on morality to young boys than a man who wagers on a marchioness’s virtue!”

Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. Well, it seemed rumors of his London exploits had reached Cleves Court. Not so bloody remote after all, was it?

“Sir? That is . . . lordship?” Henry was starting to look panicked. “Hadn’t we better—”

“As it happens, the gossips had it wrong. That wager didn’t have anything to do with the marchioness’s virtue at all. It was about a West End whorehouse.”

There was a shocked gasp, but Martha’s excited voice drowned it out. “Miss Sheridan, look!” She tugged at Thea’s skirts, her face filled with glee. “The carpet’s on fire!”





Chapter Two


Christmas Eve, 9:00 p.m.

It wasn’t as if the entire house had gone up in flames.

It’d hardly been a fire at all, for pity’s sake. The flames certainly hadn’t gotten as far as the drawing-room door, no matter what Ethan Fortescue said. Such a fuss, and over nothing more than a few scorched raisins! Well, that and a singed carpet, but it was only the tiniest of holes. No one would even know it was there once the footmen moved the settee over it, and the smell of burnt wool would dissipate eventually.

It had every other time.

Thea jabbed at a log in the fireplace in Ethan’s study. Cursing, in the middle of a Christmas Eve party, in front of children! It would take her ages to persuade George and Henry not to repeat the words devil and bloody, and Martha was bound to be up all night for the next week, fretting about Thea being taken up by the magistrate.