Page 60 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
“Harriet was rude to you?” he asked sharply.
“No more than usual. Now, will you come and sit? Take a dish of tea?”
He hesitated. She had looked so content before he entered. “I thought I might go down to the kitchens and see if there is any apple cake left.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Flemming will be happy to meet you, I know.”
He ran a glance over her as his throat tightened and an odd ache uncoiled in his chest. “Goodnight, ladies.”
He moved blindly, making his way to the kitchens. The cook was hanging up his apron when he stepped in, but he donned it again, welcoming Whiddon in and serving him cake with the custard sauce, this time. Praise and appreciation were easy to offer, and they talked for a while and parted on good terms. Whiddon headed back to his rooms, taking the servants’ stairs this time.
Charlotte had been right about the cook. Her changes were not so intrusive, so far.
She’d looked happy tonight. Lovely. At ease and settling into her new role.
He was happy, as well. She would adjust and arrange her new life and leave him to his.
Exactly what he’d wanted.
This empty, dissatisfied feeling was only temporary, surely.
He’d tarried long enough downstairs, so that it wasn’t long before he heard movement from her rooms. Tensing a little, he waited. It took only a few moments before he heard the quiet knock on the connecting door.
He called admittance and she came in carrying the box he’d left on her bed, opened now.
“Did you leave these for me?” Somehow, she managed to wear an expression that was both soft and wary. Her fingers caressed the line of colored pastel sticks.
“I did. I thought you might like to add a little color to your sketches of the staff. I made sure the selection included a red stick, as I thought you might need it to illustrate the firing of Mrs. Prigg.”
She shuddered. “No. I’ve no inclination to dwell on that scene. She’s gone and that’s the end of it.”
“That bad, was it?”
“And worse.” She set the box down on his table and looked up at him, assessing. “Whiddon, what is Monkford?”
He flinched. “Why? Who told you about it?”
“Chester’s grandmother was at the musicale this evening. She asked if you’d told me about Monkford yet. When I said you had not, she said I must ask you.”
He cursed inwardly. He adored that old woman, but she was a champion meddler. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “She must mean Monkford Park. It’s one of the estates. It’s in Wiltshire.”
“Is there something I should know about it?”
He made a face. “Not unless you are fond of sheep. That’s the main enterprise there. I’ve hired a man who is developing a breed known for its size, it’s longer wool and decent meat.”
“Hmm. I wonder why Lady Chester brought it up?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d much rather hear about Prigg and how you sent her packing.”
She laughed a little. “Oh, my timing was atrocious. I walked in while she was in a rage.”
“Over what?”
“Over your man of business meeting with me. She was slamming pots and flinging spoons and furiously ranting over this being the last of their easy take and how were they going to get their cut off the top and next I’d be asking to see the books!”
“God’s teeth.” His eyes widened. “You didn’t even have to examine them. She just said it all right out loud.”
“They didn’t notice me in the doorway, so caught up were they. Mrs. Prigg was ladling soup into a bowl and barked at Old Alf to get it up to me quick, or I’d be moaning about a cold meal again.” She made a face. “He promptly stuck his finger in the bowl and pronounced it warm enough.”
