A boom shattered the silence, rattling the glass in the casement windows.
Sebastian spun around. “What the hell …?”
Tricia slapped a sheaf of letters on the stone table. “Damn that girl! I warned her.”
Her robe rippled around her feet as she stalked into the house and down the long corridor to the east wing. Old Fish trotted behind her. Sebastian followed at a safe distance, fascinated by the abrupt change in Tricia’s demeanor.
Black smoke rolled out of the kitchens. Tricia slammed a handkerchief over her nose and charged into the smoky fray, batting at the air. Old Fish hung back, clutching the door frame. The smoke slowly cleared, revealing a scene of such charming chaos that Sebastian felt himself grinning like a fool.
White gobbets of dough spattered every visible surface. They clung to the cracked glass of the windows, dotted the brick hearth, and dangled from the herb rack like yeasty pearls. The iron door of the oven hung askew on its hinges. Inside, a tongue of flame licked at a charred ball. Wooden bowls, spoons, and platters littered the floor and table. Two maidservants huddled in the corner, coughing into their aprons. Sebastian-cat perched on the table, lapping cream from a shattered pitcher.
In the midst of it all stood Prudence, enveloped in a charcoal-smudged apron, her hair piled on her head in an untidy mass. Flour dusted her spectacles. Sebastian threw back his head to laugh, but as Prudence faced her aunt, something in her stance stopped him.
She laced her fingers together. Her slender throat convulsed as if she were swallowing a knot of dread. Still, she managed to summon a weak smile. “Good afternoon, Auntie.”
She hadn’t seen him. Sebastian slipped into the narrow alcove between pantry and cupboard, wanting to spare her the embarrassment of his presence.
“It weren’t my fault, mistress.” A stringy cook charged forward, brandishing a rolling pin. “The girl slipped in while I was takin’ my afternoon nap.”
Tricia’s wig quivered with rage. Sebastian suddenly realized how much shorter than Prudence she’d be without it. “How many times have I forbidden you to use the kitchens for your horrid experiments?”
“I’m very sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t think. You didn’t think about how many pounds it cost to have these windows shipped from London, did you? Or about who might be able to repair the range before my supper party tonight? This is the fifth oven you’ve destroyed, you careless girl.”
As Prudence knotted her apron in her hands, Sebastian’s hands clenched into fists. Old Fish retreated a discreet distance, but not too discreet to hear everything that was said.
Hands on her hips, Tricia surveyed the wrecked kitchen. The ribbons on her bodice heaved wildly. Sebastian-cat chose that unfortunate moment to lift his head from his feast. His whiskers dripped cream. He shook his head, spattering yellow droplets across the satin skirt of Tricia’s robe.
She gave an unintelligible shriek. “How dare you let that furry monster into my kitchens!”
Her hand flew back. Prudence snatched up the cat and cradled him against her chest. Tricia’s hand hung poised in the air, her crimson-tipped fingers curled like claws.
Sebastian held his breath, paralyzed, as the image fractured into jagged shards of memory. How often had he stood crippled with fear and frustration at such a scene? Then his vision cleared. His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t a child anymore. It might cost him his engagement, his fortune, and his future, but if Tricia dared lay her hand against Prudence’s smooth cheek, he would show her why his enemies called him Dreadful.
Prudence was paler than cream, but the hands locked around her cat were steady. She met her aunt’s gaze without blinking, her chin tilted in calm defiance.
“It was an accident,” she said.
Tricia slowly lowered her hand. “You and your father are prone to them, aren’t you?”
Only Sebastian saw Prudence’s barely perceptible flinch, for Tricia had already turned, her skirt swishing. Sebastian ducked deeper into the shadows.
“You can’t expect me to clean up this ungodly mess,” the cook protested.
“I certainly don’t,” Tricia tossed over her shoulder. “My niece made the mess. She can clean it up.”
The cook tapped the rolling pin in her palm with waspish satisfaction. The maids giggled into their aprons. Tricia swept from the room, her entourage of supporters in tow. Old Fish reappeared to slam the door, jarring a glob of dough from the herb rack. It plopped into Prudence’s hair. Sighing, she set the squirming kitten on a stool.
As she surveyed the kitchen, she swiped at her hair, leaving a smudge of flour where the dough had been. The small gesture betrayed her dejection more than tears or curses. Sebastian emerged from his corner, no longer able to ignore the ache in his own heart.
When she saw him, Prudence hid her shock behind a stern frown. “And where did you come from?”
He smiled. “You forget—lurking is one of my best talents.”
“Remind me to remember that.”
He began to open the windows. The lingering tendrils of smoke drifted away on the wind. “It seems my bride has a bit of a temper.” He threw open the last window with more force than he intended. The warped pane shattered and crashed to the floor. “Damn. I’m so clumsy.” His sulky grin was less than repentant.
Prudence gathered up pieces of the broken pitcher in her apron. “Tricia’s not so bad. You can’t really blame her, can you? It was the fifth oven.”
“What were you working on?” He wracked his brain, hoping to impress her with something he’d learned from her book. Studying the floured table, the thick bowl of goo resting next to her elbow, he asked, “Was it corning powder? Some sort of detonator?”
A brilliant pink tinged her cheeks, and she sighed. “Tea cakes. I was working on tea cakes.”
“Tea cakes?” If she hadn’t looked so crestfallen, Sebastian would have laughed.
She scraped at the dough on the table with renewed vigor. “Cooking seems to be the only form of chemistry that eludes me. I’ve never been any good at it. But I was so encouraged. The icing turned out quite well.”
She dipped her finger in the bowl, then tucked it between her lips with a soft moan of satisfaction. The innocent gesture wreaked havoc on Sebastian’s heartbeat. A tiny bit of icing clung to the corner of her mouth. He wanted to lean over and lick it away, knowing full well the hunger he felt had little to do with tea cakes. If she only knew the dangers of tempting a starving man.
Unable to resist, he traced the inner curve of her lips with the tip of his little finger. As her eyes widened, he slid his finger into his mouth.
A smile of genuine pleasure curved his lips. “Delicious. Perhaps you’re not such a bad cook after all.”
The sweetness lingering on his tongue was ashes compared to her answering smile. “We should both remember that lying is also among your special gifts.”
He reached down and drew off her spectacles. Her eyes revealed only a faint wariness. Would she be as compliant if he worked the pins from her hair, buried his fingers in the silky mass, traced the delicate curve of her jaw with his lips?
With a brisk motion, he polished her spectacles on his sleeve, leaving the cambric streaked with flour. He set them back gently on her nose, pretending not to see the shaky breath she drew.
Reaching around her, he plucked an apron from a wooden peg. “We’d best get to work if we plan to have this kitchen in order before Tricia’s supper party.”
“You don’t have to help me.”
“You didn’t have to help me either. But if you hadn’t, I’d probably be dead or crippled right now. Toss me that broom, won’t you?”
She obeyed, not quite able to hide her grin. “You cut quite a dashing figure in an apron. It’s a pity Tiny can’t see you now.”
“I shudder to think of it. Why don’t you stick a spoon in that icing? It would be a shame to let something so sweet go to waste.”
She gazed into the bowl, s
miling a sad little smile. “Yes, I do believe it would.”
Old Fish paused outside the kitchen door, his bony fingers splayed on the knob. Frowning, he leaned forward, pressing his ear to the fine oak. Voices murmured in soft accord. A soft clink was followed by masculine laughter. What was the insolent chit up to now?
He drew in a deep breath and threw open the door. A flash of white disappeared into the pantry. Prudence stood in the middle of the kitchen, broom in hand.
She blinked at him. “May I help you, Fish?”
Her voice was cool, almost subservient, but Fish knew she was mocking him.
His sharp gaze traveled the immaculate kitchen. A wooden bucket of wash water sat at her feet. The table, floor, and walls had been scrubbed clean. Even the oven door hung straight. The only sign of the earlier destruction was a gaping square where the window glass should have been. A breeze wafted in, sifting the pungent aroma of the mint drying on the herb rack.
He reached for the pantry door. Before he could touch the knob, the door slipped open a crack. Sebastian-cat strolled out as if he owned the kitchen.
Old Fish backed away, sniffing. “I believe your aunt requested that you remove this animal from the premises.”
“Why, thank you for reminding me, Fish. Would you be so kind as to take him out to the herb garden for me?”
Before he could protest, Prudence draped the beast over his shoulder like an infant and blithely departed, humming under her breath. The kitten snagged his claws in Fish’s coat and glared at him cross-eyed. Fish scowled at the cat, then gazed thoughtfully at the bucket of water. But, no. He might have a hard time explaining that one.
With a beleaguered sigh, he unhooked the cat and started for the garden, holding the squirming creature at arm’s length. He vowed to himself that he would keep a stricter eye on prim Miss Prudence. Her weekly excursions to church did not fool him. No proper young lady would dabble in such unnatural sciences as chemistry. Unchecked, the little heathen might resort to dabbling in things more sordid. He would not have his mistress’s reputation tarnished by Miss Prudence’s folly.
With a furtive glance behind him, Fish opened the nearest window and gave the cat a toss.
Prudence snuggled into the velvet cushions of the window seat. Sebastian-cat rolled over on her lap, baring an irresistibly furry hump of a belly that demanded stroking. She absently obliged, her thoughts elsewhere.
A warm breeze wafted through the open window. June was waning, melting into the sultry heat of July. The humid air curled the tendrils of hair escaping from her braid and freed the intoxicating scent of the jasmine twining up the trellis. Light spilled from the wing that housed the servants’ quarters, breaking the darkness into cozy squares.
A snatch of laughter drifted into the night, followed by a chorus of tipsy song. Prudence smiled ruefully as she recognized the most recent ditty immortalizing the amorous adventures of the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick. If they only knew the half of it! She wished she could go down to the servants’ hall and somehow join their merriment undetected. All the windows between her chamber and their quarters were solid rectangles of darkness.
Sebastian and Tricia had set off that morning in a rattle of coach wheels and merry peals of Tricia’s goodbyes for a ball in Durham County. They would not return before dawn, if then. For the mistress of Lindentree, the last three weeks had passed in a veritable cyclone of social activity, as Tricia presented her betrothed to every squire, duke, and earl in the county of Northumberland. That accomplished, she set out to conquer the neighboring counties. Much to her satisfaction, all the gossip was of Sebastian—his elegant but casual dress, his refusal to wear a wig or pomade his hair, his sun-bronzed visage.
At his first ball, he had scandalized half the county by listening earnestly as a foppish young marquess explained the intricate powdering of his hedgehog wig. Sebastian had then taken the fellow by the elbow and suggested that a live hedgehog would require less care and be considerably more attractive. When Tricia had repeated that story, Prudence had choked on her tea and been forced to excuse herself from the table.
By the end of the second week, baring pates was becoming outrageously fashionable. Even the doddering Duke of Poitmontou dared to arrive at an afternoon picnic with his bald scalp glistening like a baby’s rump. His duchess had fainted, knocking her wig askew and revealing that her own head had been rubbed bare by the weight of the wigs she had worn for half a century.
Some of the younger men had taken to exposing their faces to the sun. On his last visit, Sir Arlo had shyly exhibited his own sallow tan for Prudence’s approval.
She sighed at the memory. Sir Arlo hadn’t had time for many visits to Lindentree lately. There had been a fresh rash of robberies along the Scottish border.
The Dread Kirkpatrick’s boldness increased daily. Some whispered he would soon desert the highways to prey on the manors themselves. At the mere mention of his name at tea the day before, a serving girl had dropped a tray of china and burst into tears, earning herself a scolding from Fish and a slap from Tricia. No one, fortunately, associated the bandit’s raids with Lord Kerr’s frequent trips to Edinburgh to review his Highland holdings.
To Prudence, Sebastian was unfailingly polite. He went out of his way to draw her into a game of whist or coax her to attend a ball at a neighboring estate. She now carried two pastries to the library each morning, knowing she would find him poring over a book or sorting through her correspondence, sifting the pleas for money from those truly interested in her father’s work.
He might seem an elegant ruffian to the gentry, but with her he practiced perfect decorum, even gentleness. She rewarded his kindness by sliding his fork nearer his place at supper, and clearing her throat in warning when he absently picked up the brandy decanter and brought it to his lips.
The previous night, she, Sebastian, and Tricia had gathered in the parlor like a proper family while Tricia pounded out a melody on the pianoforte and lifted her fuzzy soprano in song. Prudence had glanced up from her embroidery to find Sebastian watching her over the rim of his brandy glass. His eyes were narrowed as if he were searching for something he had misplaced. It reminded her of her father’s lost expression when he could not remember where he had left his wig. His quizzical frown tugged at her heart, and her aching hunger to help him find what he had lost unnerved her. She had excused herself, her temples pounding with another of her interminable headaches.
Prudence was jerked back to the warm summer night by the ringing crash of an iron spoon against a kettle. Someone had decided the addition of a makeshift cymbal would greatly enhance the bawdy chorus. She leaned forward, straining to hear more clearly the quavering rasp that sounded suspiciously like Old Fish.
A hobgoblin face popped out of the darkness.
Prudence screamed. The hobgoblin gave a nasal shriek of terror. Sebastian-cat’s fur stood on end as he dug his claws into Prudence’s night rail, then fled, dragging long scratches down her thigh. Prudence scrambled backward out of the window seat and the hobgoblin vanished, as if an unseen hand had abruptly jerked off its wings.
A curious bumping and scraping was followed by a string of curses in a burr so thick, it was nearly unintelligible.
Prudence snatched a hairpin from her dressing table and crept back to the window. She peered down into the rustling ivy, wielding the hairpin like a tiny dagger.
Glossy leaves flew as the mysterious gremlin popped back up with a triumphant crow.
“I knew it was ye! By God, he told me to stay away from the house, but I seen ye from the stables, and I swore it was ye.”
She recoiled anew from the malnourished, freckled visage.
“Jamie,” she whispered in dread.
Eight
“Aye lass. ’Tis Jamie Graham. In the flesh.” His hazel eyes narrowed dangerously. “Ye’re seein’ better than ye used to, ain’t ye?”
Prudence took another step backward. “I went to London. I had an operation.” She was a terrible
liar and they both knew it.
To her shock, he flung a wiry leg over the windowsill and climbed into her room. No man other than her papa had ever set foot in her bedchamber. She hugged her night rail tight around her.
“Maybe it was a miracle,” he said. “You one of them Catholics?” He wiggled his bony fingers at her. “Did a priest sprinkle holy water in yer eyes? I don’t want no one sayin’ Jamie Graham don’t understand miracles. Me own da’s a minister of the kirk.”
In her surprise, she forgot her fear. “Your father is a minister?”
“Aye, that he is.” He leered at her. “Don’t it show?”
“Of course,” she said faintly. “I suspected it from the first moment we met.”
He brushed dirt and leaves from the seat of his pants onto her pristine rug. “Damned ivy.”
Prudence drew herself up. “I wish it had been rose bushes. It would have served you right for daring to spy on a young lady.”
Her indignation did not trouble Jamie. His gamin face crinkled in a smile. “Nice place ye got here.” In horror, she watched as he flung himself on the bed, crossing his ankles and resting his head on folded hands as if he planned to stay. “Very nice indeed.”
He gave the down mattress an experimental bounce before jumping up. His boots left dirty smudges on the counterpane. She jerked up her bolster, brushed it off, then clutched it in front of her. Her eyes widened as Jamie careened around the chamber like an elf run amok.
He scooped up her gilt hand mirror and surveyed his foxlike face from all angles, then puckered up and blew his reflection a kiss before lifting her hairbrush to his matted mop. At her helpless sound of dismay, he turned the brush over in his hands and studied it with a sly smile.
“Worth a pretty shilling, if ye ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” she said, desperate to rid her chamber of the horrid creature.
He tried on her spectacles and splashed a dab of rose water behind each ear. “The ladies love a good scent on a man, don’t they? That’s what Sebastian told me.” He spun around on the stool. “Look what it’s done for him. Two lovely lasses under one roof. Which room does he come to first every night? Yers or hers?”