Page 83 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
“Yes, he is,” the older woman agreed. “After breakfast, I’ll give ye a tour of Hangcok Hill, including his laboratory—”
“I saw his laboratory in his flat,” Merida interrupted. “It was full of glass tubes and fire pots and drippy bits and all sorts of interesting things! He told me how he used hisown loveto make stuff for his old friend’s heart—”
Fawkes was chuckling when he interrupted her. “Foxglove, Merida, no’Fawkes love. And aye, it’s for weak hearts. I make it for my upstairs neighbor, Mister Reynald.”
Merida was sitting forward in her excitement. “Except he told me he’s gotta bereallycareful with it, because too little and it won’t work, but toomuchand it’ll kill his friend, right Fawkes?”
“Right. Foxglove is used to treat weak hearts, especially ones experiencing spasms, but too much will weaken the heart further and cause heavier spasms and eventual death.”
“Which is why,” Estella cut in, as she spread some jam on a piece of toast, “my Fawkes is so good at what he does. He learned that from me, ye ken. He’s a good lad, my Fawkes, who uses his skills to make the world a better place.”
The Duke of Death.
Ellie shot him a sidelong glance but Fawkes was bent over his sausages, a faint darkening of his cheeks making her wonder if he knew what she was thinking.
“Mimi,” announced Merida with a barely concealed smile. “What do flowers wear beneath their petals?”
Estella gaped at the little girl, before finally lowering her toast and clearing her throat. “Well, I suppose they could be said to bewearingtheir stems—”
“Under-plants!” Merida squealed, finally allowing herself to grin as she slapped the table with glee.
The older woman blinked twice, then burst into chuckles as Ellie smiled. “Oh, ajoke. Och aye, I ken plenty of those. What kind of flower is imperative to falling in love?”
Wide-eyed, Merida shook her head. “I dunno.”
“Tulips,” Estella announced proudly.
It took a moment for the little girl to get it, then she gasped, eyes wide. “Two-lips! Oh, Mimi, I love you!”
Chuckling, Estella picked up her toast once more. “And I just adore ye, dear. I cannae wait to show ye around Hangcok Hill—and my flowerbeds, and my conservatory! Can I give ye the tour after breakfast?”
Since Fawkes’s mother had addressed the question to her, Ellie smiled noncommittedly as she picked up her teacup. “I would love a tour, Estella. Our intention naturally was to leave as soon as possible—”
“What? Oh, nay-nay-nay!” the older woman declared, slapping her toast back to her plate. “And where are ye planning on going, this time of year?”
Ellie glanced at Merida, who was frowning down at her plate. “My—my sister is the Duchess of Lickwick, and has made her home at Endymion.”
Estella scoffed. “Everyone kens the duke is no’ just a recluse, but agrumpyrecluse who doesnae like company. Besides, the duchess is nearing her confinement, eh?” She leaned sideways and nudged Merida. “That means she’s getting ready to have a bairn. Dinnae ask me how it got in her tummy, that’s a conversation to have with yer mother.” Estella straightened, eyes twinkling. “Nay, ye’ll just have to stay here at Hangcok Hill. Christmas is coming, ye ken.”
Ellie had opened her mouth to object, but the joy in Merida’s expression stopped her. When she cut a glance toward Fawkes, it was to see the man eyeing her cautiously, one be-forked piece of sausage hovering halfway to his mouth.
He seemed to be frozen, waiting to see what she would say.
“Thank you for the invitation,” she began.
But Estella snorted. “Invitation? Nay, that was an order. Yemuststay with us, at least until Christmas, eh? It’s been so long since I had a wee one around for Christmas”—she winked at Merida—“but I believe Father Christmas still kens the address of Hangcok Hill.”
The girl gasped. “Did ye hear that, Ellie? Father Christmaswillfind me!”
Oh Lord.
It was bad enough she’d thrust them into Fawkes’s life without asking, and then for Merida to invite them to Hangcok Hill? Far worse. But to impose upon a household in mourning, right before Christmas?
“I do thank you, Estella,” she began, in all sincerity, “but we could not impose in your time of sorrow.”
“Sorrow?” the older woman snorted, turning to Fawkes. “Did ye no’ explain why we’re no’ mourning the gormless prat?”
“Nay, Mother,” Fawkes said stiffly, saluting with the sausage, “we’ve been distracted.”
