Page 49 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

At half six he was snoring anew, and if he only counted seven of the twelve raps, he was fairly certain the fault was his, not hers. And really, one had to admire the poor girl’s adherence to plan when faced with his somewhat surly No, followed by:

Go away;

Ten more minutes;

I said, ten more minutes; and

Don’t you have a bloody pot to scrub?

At fifteen minutes before seven, as he teetered on his belly at the edge of his bed, one arm hanging limply over the side, he finally managed to get both eyes open, and he saw her, sitting primly in a chair across the room.

“Er, is Miss Eversleigh awake?” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his left eye. His right eye seemed to have shut again, trying to pull the rest of him along with it, back into sleep.

“Since twenty minutes before six, sir.”

“Chipper as a bloody mockingbird, too, I’m sure.”

The maid held her tongue.

He cocked his head, suddenly a bit more awake. “Not so chipper, eh?” So Miss Eversleigh was not a morning person. The day was growing brighter by the second.

“She’s not so bad as you,” the maid finally admitted.

Jack pushed his legs over the side and yawned. “She’d have to be dead to achieve that.”

The maid giggled. It was a good, welcome sound. As long as he had the maids giggling, the house was his. He who had the servants had the world. He’d learned that at the age of six. Drove his family crazy, it did, but that just made it all the sweeter.

“How late do you imagine she would sleep if you didn’t wake her?” he asked.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you that,” the maid said, blushing madly.

Jack did not see how Miss Eversleigh’s sleep habits might constitute a confidence, but nonetheless he had to applaud the maid for her loyalty. This did not mean, however, that he would not make every attempt to win her over.

“What about when the dowager gives her the day off?” he asked, rather offhandedly.

The maid shook her head sadly. “The dowager never gives her the day off.”

“Never?” Jack was surprised. His newfound grandmother was exacting and self-important and a host of other annoying faults, but she’d struck him as, at the heart, somewhat fair-minded.

“Just afternoons,” the maid said. And she leaned forward, looking first to her left and then her right, as if there might actually be someone else in the room who could hear her. “I think she does it just because she knows that Miss Eversleigh is not partial to mornings.”

Ah, now that did sound like the dowager.

“She gets twice as many afternoons,” the maid went on to explain, “so it does even out in the end.”

Jack nodded sympathetically. “It’s a shame.”

“Unfair.”

“So unfair.”

“And poor Miss Eversleigh,” the maid went on, her voice growing in animation. “She’s ever so kind. Lovely to all the maids. Never forgets our birthdays and gives us gifts that she says are from the dowager, but we all know it’s her.”

She looked up at him then, so Jack rewarded her with an earnest nod.

“And all she wants, poor dear, is one morning every other week to sleep until noon.”

“Is that what she said?” Jack murmured.

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