“Seven,” he mumbled into the cloth. “I am small for my age.”
“You know, perhaps we could go belowstairs and ask the cook for . . .”
“Mama never coddles him like that,” Janet said.
“I would,” Cecilia answered. She looked at Lord Trevor, who was watching her with a smile of appreciation. “Do you mind, sir?”
“I don’t mind at all,” he replied. “Miss Ambrose, do as you see fit.”
Cecilia took David downstairs. The second cook beamed at the boy, and suggested a bowl of the rabbit fricassee left from luncheon. In another minute, he was eating. Cecilia sat beside him, and Cook placed a bowl of stew before her, too. “If you don’t mind leftovers,” he said in apology. “I know Lord Trevor don’t mind, but there are them above stairs who are a little too high in the instep these days.”
“Janet makes us eat in the dining room,” David said when he stopped to wipe his mouth. “We always eat in the breakfast room when Mama is here.” He glared at the ceiling. “She thinks it is not grand enough.”
“I think Janet is going through a trying time,” Cecilia said, attempting to keep her face serious.
He shook his head. “Grown-ups do not have trying times.”
They do, she thought. “Perhaps now and then.”
She sat there, content in her surroundings, as David finished the stew. He pushed away the bowl when the cook brought in a tray of gingersnaps with a flourish, and remembered his manners to offer her one.
“Any left for me?”
You’re a quiet man, Cecilia thought as she looked over to see Lord Trevor standing beside his nephew. David made room for his uncle on the bench. He passed the cookies, even as the cook set a glass of milk in front of Lord Trevor. He dipped a cookie in the milk and ate it, then looked at her. “Try it, Miss Ambrose. Anyone who reads newspapers can’t mind dipping gingersnaps.”
“Will I never be able to live that down?” she said as she dipped a gingersnap.
He touched David’s shoulder. “It is safe to go above stairs now. Your sisters have retired to their room, where Janet, I fear, will continue to brag about darling Lysander.”
“Oh, dear,” Cecilia murmured. “I have to speak to Lady Falstoke about that.”
“Then you must remain here through the week,” Lord Trevor told her.
“I couldn’t possibly do that,” she replied as he gestured for her to proceed them up the stairs. “I will write her a letter from Bath.”
The three of them walked down the hall together, uncle and nephew hand in hand. They paused at the foot of the stairs. “David and I will say good night here,” Lord Trevor told her. “I brought my files with me from Lincoln’s Inn, and he is helping arrange my 1808 cases alphabetically.”
“But it is 1810,” she reminded him. “Nearly 1811.”
“I’m behind.” He ran his long fingers through his hair, a gesture she was coming to recognize. “Not all of us were kissed by the fairy of efficiency at birth, madam!”
She laughed, enjoying that visual picture. He smiled at her, then spoke to David, who went on down the hall.
“I can’t get you to change your mind?” he asked, keeping his voice down. “You can see from my ham handling of David at the dinner table that I need help.” He hesitated. “I seldom stay here until Christmas. Well, I never do.”
“I am certain you will manage until your brother and sister-in-law return.” Cecilia curtsied to him. “Thank you, Lord Trevor, for your hospitality. If you can arrange for a gig to take me tomorrow to the mail coach stop, I will be on my way to Bath.”
He bowed. “Stubborn woman,” he scolded. “What is the big attraction in Bath?”
There is no big attraction in Bath, she thought. “I . . . It’s where I live.”
He took her hand. “That is almost as illogical as some of the courtroom arguments I must endure! Good night, Miss Ambrose. We will see you on your way to Bath tomorrow, since you are determined to abandon us.”
“You are as dramatic as your nieces,” she chided him.
“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Ain’t it a shame?”
She wasn’t certain what woke her, hours later. Her first inclination was to roll over and go back to sleep. All was quiet. She sat up and allowed her eyes to focus on the gloom around her. Nothing. She debated whether to get up and look in the hall, but decided against it. That would mean searching for her robe, which she hadn’t bothered to unpack, considering the brevity of her visit.
Then she heard it: someone pounding up the stairs and banging on a door down the hall. She leaped out of bed, ran to her door, and opened it at the same time she smelled smoke. Her hand to her throat now, she stepped into the hall. She thought she recognized the footman, even though he was wearing his nightshirt. “My lord! My lord!” he yelled as he banged on the door.