Regency Christmas Wishes(104)

Below stairs, Mrs. Grey had already made room for herself. “I’ll send the footman to the manor for food, and you’ll have a good breakfast in the morning,” she assured Cecilia. “Where are you planning to sleep, Miss Ambrose?”

She took the blanket Mrs. Grey held out. “I will wait up for Lord Trevor in the sitting room. Perhaps tomorrow we can find a cot for the dressing room.” She looked around, already anticipating a busy day of cleaning ahead. If Janet keeps busy, she won’t have time to complain, Cecilia thought. If Lucinda keeps busy with her sister, they might even remember all those things they have in common. If Davy keeps busy, he won’t have so much time to miss his mother.

She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, savoring the heavy warmth. She thought at first that she might sit up on the sofa, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to lie down just until Lord Trevor returned. She closed her eyes.



When she woke, the room was full of light. Lord Trevor sat in the chair across from her. She sat up quickly, then tugged the blanket down around her bare feet.

“I thought about covering them, but reckoned that would wake you.” He coughed. “Lord, no wonder chimney sweeps seldom live past fifteen,” he said when he finished coughing into his handkerchief that was already quite black.

“Let me get you something to drink,” she told him, acutely aware that she was still in her nightgown, her favorite flannel monstrosity that was thin from washing.

“Mrs. Grey is bringing in coffee, and probably her latest harangue about the way I take care of myself.” He sighed, then gave her a rueful look. “Lord spare us from lifelong retainers, Miss Ambrose! They must be worse than nagging wives.”

She laughed, and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. If ever a man looked exhausted, she thought, it is you. He was filthy, too, his nightshirt gray with grime, and his hair black. Bloodshot eyes looked back at her. When he smiled, his teeth were a contrast in his face.

He held up his hand. “No harangue from you, Miss Ambrose, if you please.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied serenely. “I don’t know you well enough to nag you.” She paused and thought a moment. “And even if I did know you better, I do not think I would scold.”

“Then you are rare, indeed.”

She shook her head. “Just practical, sir! Don’t we all pursue our own course, no matter what people who care about us say?”

She could tell that her words startled him; they startled her. “I mean . . .” she began, then stopped. “No, that was exactly what I meant. Anyone who does what you do in London’s courts doesn’t need advice from a teacher.”

He sat back then, his legs out in front of him, in that familiar posture of men who feel entirely at home. “Miss Ambrose, you are wise, as well as clean,” he teased.

“And you, sir, are dirty,” she pointed out. “Mrs. Grey can arrange a bath for you.”

She wrapped her blanket around her and started for the door. As she passed his chair, he put out his hand and took hold of hers. “That I will appreciate, Miss A. Do one thing more for me, please.”

He did not release her hand, and she felt no inclination to remind him. His touch was warm and dry, and standing there in the parlor, she realized that she was still shivering inside from last night. “And that would be . . .”

“Reconsider your resolve to leave us on the morning coach, Miss A,” he said, and gave her hand a squeeze before he released it. “I need help.”

“Indeed you do, my lord,” she replied quietly. She left him, spoke to the housekeeper, then returned to the parlor.

She thought he might be asleep, but he remained as she had left him, leaning his chin on his hand, his eyes half closed. He had tried to dab some of the soot from his eyes, because the area under them was smudged. Without comment, she took his handkerchief from him and wiped his face carefully. He watched her the whole time, but for some unaccountable reason, she did not feel shy.

When she finished, she sat down again. “How bad is the damage to the house?”

“Bad enough, I think,” he said with a grimace. “When the Rumford was installed, the place where the pipe runs into the chimney must have settled. Ashes have been gathering behind it for some time now, I would imagine. It’s not really something a sweep would have noticed.” He shook his head. “That portion of the house is three hundred years old, so I can not involve the builder in any litigation.”

She smiled at him. “I’m glad you can joke about it, Lord Trevor. It didn’t seem so funny last night, standing on the lawn.”