Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(9)

“Orphans.” Ethan blew out a disgusted breath. “It had to be bloody orphans.”

“Yes, well, I do apologize for the homeless orphans, your lordship. Their plight truly is most inconvenient for you. But I’m certain the repairs will be completed by the end of January, or perhaps a bit later than that—”

“You have twelve days.”

“Twelve days! But what if the roof isn’t finished by then?”

“If the repairs aren’t done, you’ll have to take the children to the inn, after all.”

“You’re mad! I can’t take three young children—”

“Twelve days, and not a day more. And another thing, Miss Sheridan. During those twelve days, I will not be subjected to that bloody song, the “Twelve Days of Christmas”. I forbid anyone to play it in this house.”

“But that’s absurd! It’s a perfectly charming song, and so festive. What rational objection can you possibly have to the Twelve—”

“Charming, festive things irritate me.”

“Everything irritates you, Lord Devon.”

“I am the earl, Miss Sheridan, and I’ve forbidden it. Now, I have business in London in mid-January. I will leave Cleves Court the day after Twelfth Night, and I promise you.” He fixed her with a cold, blue-eyed stare. “I will leave this house dark and empty behind me, and never look back.”

It won’t help, Ethan.

An empty house, a locked door—neither would allow him to escape his past. His ghosts would follow him, but he’d have to find that out for himself, just as his father had. All she could do was pray it wasn’t too late when he did.

Ethan wandered back over to his desk and dropped into the chair. His eyes narrowed on her. “One would almost think you’d arranged this whole thing to test my temper.”

Thea snorted. “You give yourself far too much credit if you imagine you didn’t fail that test the moment you walked through the door and began cursing in front of the children.”

“Bloody orphan children. Perhaps I’ll go stay at the inn myself.”

Thea hurried across the room after him. “What, the Duke’s Head? No, no, you can’t possibly stay there, my lord. They’ve been overrun with mice, and I’ve heard the sheets are damp. No self-respecting duke would ever be seen there, and it won’t do for an earl, either.”

She hadn’t heard any such thing about the sheets, but if she was going to remind Ethan of everything he used to love about Cleves Court, she needed him to stay here. “We have a comfortable bedchamber here for you. Becky is making it up right now.”

Whether she could convince him was another matter altogether.

She studied him from the corner of her eye as she built up the fire. Goodness, he looked grim, rather like a bad-tempered bear, but surely that playful, affectionate boy he’d been couldn’t have disappeared entirely. He’d been happy here once, long ago. This house had been his home before Ethan’s brother Andrew became ill, and before the old lord left and Lady Isabel died of a broken heart.

If she could help Ethan remember what it had been like back then, when they’d been loud and merry, their lives full of friendship and love and family, then he’d see why he couldn’t abandon Cleves Court forever. If he ever was able to see it, it would be now, at Christmastime, when the house was at its most magical.

She turned away from the fire to give him a bright smile. “Until Twelfth Night, then. Once the holidays are over and the children are settled, we’ll prepare to—to close down the house.” She had to force the words past the lump in her throat.

He didn’t reply right away, but after a moment he reached into his greatcoat, pulled out a silver flask, and set it on the desk before him. “Is there whiskey in the house?”

“Yes, of course.” Whiskey, and brandy for punch, and evergreens for decorations, and anything else one might need for a memorable holiday. “Plenty of it.”

Ethan tipped the flask upside down, and a single drop fell onto the polished wood of the desk. “Bloody good thing.”

Thea let out a heavy sigh as the frown on his face stretched into a fierce scowl. “I couldn’t agree more, your lordship.”





Chapter Three


Christmas Day, 8:00 a.m.

Slam!

Ethan cracked open one bloodshot eye and squinted into the darkness. Where the devil was he? Not in his London townhouse, that much was certain. Fenton was far too fond of his own neck to risk it by waking his lordship before noon.

Slam!

Hell and damnation. Someone was pounding a fist against his skull. He raised his head from the pillow, but it was too dark to see who it was. It was too dark to find his pistol, as well, and too damn much effort to maim the intruder without one.

Christ. Couldn’t a man get some peace in his own bloody bedchamber?

Slam!

Ethan let out a low growl, dragged a pillow out from under his cheek and hurled it into the darkness. With any luck it would hit the culprit, and they’d go away.

It didn’t work.

“Lord Devon? Your lordship?” The door creaked open, then something rattled on the table next to the bed. Ethan pulled the blankets over his head, but the voice moved closer until it was whispering right in his ear. “Miss Sheridan sent me up to—”