He frowned down at her. He wasn’t used to a woman carping at him—well, a bit of carping, and that was usually amusing. His mother did it brilliantly, always following it with a smile to curl a man’s toes. He shrugged off the greatcoat. “I’m still hot and thirsty. Are my britches to be next?”
She didn’t look remotely interested or remotely shocked at his improper words. Actually, she didn’t want to take him inside, but she probably had no choice. She couldn’t see him leaving until he was satisfied, until, in short, he was good and ready. But she had to get rid of him. She wasn’t about to take any chances.
She stilled a moment and listened very carefully. She heard nothing. Finally she shrugged and said, “Very well. I will be glad to give you something to drink, perhaps even a small cake, but then you must leave.”
“You don’t want money from me?”
“No. Come inside,” she said, her hands fisted at her sides. Of course that was what he expected. She probably would have expected the same thing if she’d been in his boots. She shuddered at what her father had written. She didn’t know yet what she would say to him once he returned to Mulberry House, but it wouldn’t be at all filial.
He followed her into the dim entry hall of Mulberry House. It was very cool inside, simply because the windows in the hallway were covered, not letting the sunlight in. He followed her into a nearby smallish room that was nonetheless filled with light, no draperies on these windows, and very little furniture. There was a single sofa covered with an ancient yellow brocade and set on fairly new Egyptian feet, two chairs that looked vastly uncomfortable, and a single carpet that was clean and looked quite cheap. The oak floor was well waxed, and there was no dust that he could see in the corners.
This place could certainly use some money. He looked around him and curled his lip. Why the devil didn’t she want any of his groats? What was going on here?
She pointed to a chair and walked out of the room without a word or a backward glance.
He remained alone for a good ten minutes. He had stared at those Egyptian feet for at least eight minutes of the ten. Then she returned carrying a tray. “I have brought some tea and lemon cakes. They’re only a day old and still fresh enough.”
“You’re also the cook?”
“Usually Mrs. Timmons comes in from Upper Slaughter, but this week her daughter had twins and she has to see to the rest of the children.”
“Oh.” He eyed her as he picked up a lemon cake. He took a bite. It was sour and dry. He swallowed, barely. It actually tasted no worse than the near-moldy slices of bread served at Almack’s.
“My father doesn’t like my cooking either. He says that I look at a loin of pork and it turns into a boot, fit only for Lolah the goat. As for these poor cakes, I’ve never been able to figure out just how much lemon juice to squeeze into the mixture. Also, I was very low on sugar and the cakes surely need more of it.”
“I cannot help you.”
“No, I imagine that you have never done anything for yourself in your life.”
That was a low shot a man couldn’t tolerate. “If I tried to make the lemon cakes, I wouldn’t muck it up. That is because I can read a recipe, I have a brain, and I know how to use measures. This is drier than the wheels on my curricle. It’s stuck in my throat.”
“If it’s stuck in that throat of yours, then how are you able to talk so much?”
He grunted at that and drank some tea, expecting warm swamp water. Instead, it was delicious, India tea, his favorite. He nodded. “Now,” he said, sitting back on the old yellow brocade, “tell me how you came to know George and how he didn’t ruin you, or did ruin you, according to your father.”
“No,” she said. “The only reason you’re here is because of my father’s accusation. You will not hear again from him, I swear it. Thus there is nothing you need to know. You may leave in good conscience.” She rose. “Good day, my lord. Have a safe journey back to London.”
He waved his hand at her, a finely shaped hand with clean, buffed nails, a strong hand. “You claim you knew my brother well. Tell me how you met him.”
She sighed, as if much put upon. “I really wish you would just leave and go back to London.”
“How do you know I’m going back to London?”
“You’re the Wild Baron, are you not? Surely that is where most gentlemen of your ilk reside?”
He was occasionally called the Wild Baron, a sobriquet that usually amused him and that certainly pleased his proud mama, but from this young lady’s mouth it sounded like a rank insult. He drew up stiffer than the fireplace poker that stood at an odd angle in the corner. “I am not notorious. And I wish to God that whoever pinned that silly nickname on me would fall off the face of the earth. Did George tell you that?”
“Whenever he called you the Wild Baron, it was with much affection. He said it was in the blood, tainted blood evidently. He said that his other brother, Tibolt, was a very serious, very hol
y young man, a vicar, who hadn’t inherited the tainted blood. George said your parents were renowned for their lechery, beloved for their vices. Any antic they pulled was eulogized. George said that your father rubbed his hands together whenever he heard of one of your exploits and said you were as wicked as the devil himself, that you were his proud first fruit.”
“Don’t forget my mother’s blood in this rhapsody of yours.” Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that. He sat forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “Listen, I have no knowledge that my father ever said such things. He died two years ago. My mother, however, is still very capable of carrying on her own wild escapades. She is herself, nothing more. Still, you’re just parroting foolish tales. It is no more than gossip.”
“I do occasionally read the London Times and the Gazette. You appear with great regularity in both papers. You indulge in exploits that appear to titillate everyone in society. You must be a very busy man, since I have read that you have enjoyed liaisons with most ladies in London, that you have made outrageous wagers with the Prince Regent and have won, that you have been known to fill a lady’s bathing tub with champagne and, well, what followed is better left unsaid.”
“It wasn’t all that expensive a champagne. As to the ladies, you actually believe all that drivel? I do not cozy up to married ladies. Scarcely do I get all that close to them, despite what they wish. No, what you’ve read is preposterous, gross overstatements—well, most of it must be.”
He stopped cold. He sounded ridiculous and he wanted to kick himself. Why was he trying to convince her that he wasn’t a satyr? He was quite pleased, all in all, with his reputation. He would have to think about this. She’d made him say things he would never normally say. She had raised a smooth brow and was giving him the look of a tolerant mother superior to an errant novice.