Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(20)

“There’s no need,” Mr. Makepeace began.

“When did you last eat?”

His brows drew together in irritation. “Last night.”

Isabel pursed her lips. “Then there is every need.”

Once again his look was wry. “I bow to your expertise in the matter.”

“Humph.” His teasing words warmed her, even as she felt alarm looking at the stubble on his chin. Had he slept at all last night? He must be truly weary to relax enough to banter with her. Another thought struck. “We really must find a cook for the home, now that the children are settled in the new building. Nell Jones and the other maidservants have enough to do without preparing the meals as well.”

He stifled a yawn behind a fist. “The girls are taught to cook.”

“Yes, but they can’t see to every meal. Besides, I’ve eaten the girls’ efforts, and while their biscuits are, er… very interesting, it might be a good idea to have someone who can cook things that are rather more standard, don’t you think?”

She looked at Mr. Makepeace expectantly, but his only reply was a soft snore. The wretched man had fallen asleep, his head still propped in his hand. For a moment Isabel simply watched his sleeping face. The lines around his mouth had softened in relaxation, his eyelashes were black and rather thick, and he might’ve looked boyish were it not for the beard shadowing his jaw. His stubble gave him a rakish air.

Isabel’s lips curved at the last thought. Any man less rake-like than Mr. Makepeace she’d yet to meet. Why, he spent so much of his time caring for his home and the inhabitants that he’d fallen asleep in front of her in the middle of the day. It made her wonder what, if anything, he did when he had a moment to himself. Did he read? Perhaps he kept a diary or enjoyed touring churches? She considered, but couldn’t come up with any more activities for the man. He was rather an enigma, wasn’t he? His life was given to self-sacrifice, but he still kept a large part of himself secret. If only—

The door to the sitting room opened and Isabel looked up, expecting Pinkney.

Instead, a small elderly woman stood in the doorway. “Oh! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

“Mistress Medina,” Winter Makepeace’s voice was raspy with sleep. He hadn’t moved, but he’d evidently woken up as soon as the door had opened. “We have need of your services.”

The little woman cocked her head. “Sir?”

He indicated Isabel. “Lady Beckinhall was just chiding me for lack of a good cook.”

Isabel’s eyebrows snapped together. “I did not chide—”

He ignored her protest, turning toward Mistress Medina. “Can you start at once?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Good, then—”

A gaggle of little girls bearing trays trooped into the sitting room, herded by Pinkney, looking less than her usual neat self.

“Here’s the tea, my lady,” Pinkney said.

“Excellent.” Isabel smiled and waved a hand to a side table. “You can place the tea there and we’ll dine as I discuss matters with Mr. Makepeace.”

Winter Makepeace cleared his throat ominously. “What matters are those?”

Isabel smiled firmly. “How I’m going to help you keep your position.”

NATURALLY ALL THE little girls goggled at Lady Beckinhall’s words.

Winter had not slept more than a few minutes since finding “Peach” the night before, but Lady Beckinhall’s presence was strangely invigorating.

Even if it was irritating as well.

He turned to the girls. “Mary Whitsun, please show Mistress Medina to the kitchen. She’s to be our new cook, so you must obey her and give her any help she might need. The rest of you girls are due in the schoolroom for lessons, I believe.”

There was a general slumping of shoulders, but the girls filed out. Mary Whitsun nodded briskly and smiled at Mistress Medina before leading the new cook from the room.

He turned back to Lady Beckinhall, looking dangerously attractive in a dark green dress that gave her hair mahogany highlights. “Now, what are you about?”

“Luncheon first.” She rose and found a plate and began heaping it with meat, cheese, and bread. It looked like a lot of food for a lady. “I find arguing—and we do seem to argue quite a lot—is best done on a full stomach.”

He stared at her, perplexed. What was she up to now?

Lady Beckinhall turned, saw him scowling at her, and beamed. “Have something to eat. That’ll make you feel better.”

And she handed the full plate to him.

Well, he couldn’t continue to frown at her when she was being so nice. Winter took the plate, feeling warmth creep into his chest. It wasn’t often that someone else provided for him. Usually it was the other way about.

He cleared his throat before saying gruffly, “Thank you.”

She nodded, unperturbed, and selected a small wedge of cheese and a slice of bread before reseating herself on the settee. “Have you thought about putting something in that corner?” She waved her wedge of cheese at the right side of the fireplace. “A statue, perhaps? I have the most wonderful little white marble statuette. It’s of a stork and a frog.”

He blinked, bemused. “A stork.”

She nodded. “And a frog. Roman, I think. Or perhaps Greek. Maybe it represents one of Aesop’s fables—he was Greek, wasn’t he?”