Regency Christmas Wishes(106)

“You have rag manners,” she scolded, “or is this a typical breakfast in the City?”

“No, indeed,” he assured her. He finished the bacon, and looked at the baked eggs, then back at her. She raised her eyebrows and handed him a plate. “Breakfast is usually a sausage roll from a vendor’s stall in front of Old Bailey.” He put two eggs on his plate and sat beside her. “This is Elysian Fields, Miss Ambrose. I should visit my dear brother more often. Not only is the food free, it is well cooked and must be eaten sitting down.”

He finished his eggs, then tipped back in his chair and reached for a piece of toast from the sideboard. “Do I dare wipe up this plate with toast?” he asked.

“Would it matter what I said?” she countered, amused. He was the antithesis of everything that Miss Dupree attempted to teach her select females, and quite the last man on earth for any lady of quality. Why that should be a concern for her, she had no clue. The idea came unbidden out of some little closet in her mind. “Do you really care?”

“Nope.” He wiped up the plate. “I did ask, though,” he said, before finishing the toast. “I probably ought to get a proper cook in my house, and maybe even a butler,” he said, as though he spoke more to himself.

She thought he was going to leave then, but he turned slightly in his chair to face her. “Since we have already decided that I have no manners, would you mind my comment, Miss Ambrose, that you really don’t look English?”

Her face felt warm again. When the embarrassment passed, she decided that she did not mind his question. “People usually just stare, my lord,” she told him. “Politely, of course. My parents went to Egypt to study old documents, and do good. Perhaps you have heard of philanthropists like them. They found me on the steps of Alexandria’s oldest archive. They could only assume that whoever left me there had seen them coming and going.” She smiled. “They suspect that an erring Englishwoman from Alexandria’s foreign community became too involved with an Egyptian of unexalted parentage.”

“How diverting to be found, and at a dusty old archive,” he said, without even batting an eye. “Much more interesting than the usual garden patch, or ‘tucked up under mama’s heart’ entrance.”

Is there anything you won’t say? she thought in delight. “It’s better. There was a note pinned to my rather expensive blanket, declaring I was a half-English love child.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “That certainly trumps being a duty!”

“Yes, certainly,” she agreed, trying not to laugh. “My foster mother named me Cecilia because she is a romantic doing homage to the patron saint of music.” She looked at him, waiting for him to draw back a little or change the subject. To her delight, he did neither.

“Which means, as far as I can tell, that you will always look better in bright colors than nine-tenths of the population, and you probably will never burn in the sun, and should curly hair be in vogue, you are in the vanguard of fashion.” He stood up. “Miss Cecilia Ambrose, you are quite the most exotic guest ever to visit this boring old manor. Do whip my nieces and nephew in line, and render a thorough report this evening! Good day to you, kind lady. Thank you for rescuing me from utter boredom this Christmas.”

He left the room as quickly as he had entered it. For the tiniest minute, it seemed as though he had sucked all the air out with him. She was still smiling when she heard the front door close behind him. My lord, you are the exotic, she thought, not me. She took a final sip of her tea. I think it is time I woke the sleeping darlings in this lovely little house and put them all to work.



She got off to a rocky start. Lady Janet had no intention of turning a hand to dust or sweep the floors after the footman removed the elegant carpets to beat out the dust. “Lysander would be aghast,” she declared. “I shan’t, and you can’t compel me.”

Lucy gasped at her sister’s rudeness. “I always do what Miss Ambrose says.”

“You’re supposed to,” her sister sniffed. “You’re still in school.” She glared at Cecilia. “I have a grievance about this, and I will speak to my uncle when he returns. I will remind him that I Have Come Out.”

“From under a rock,” David muttered. He looked at Cecilia. “I do not know why my Uncle Trevor did not let me accompany him.”

“Nor I,” replied Lady Janet with a sniff. “Then we would be rid of a nasty little brother who would try a saint. I am going to write to Lysander this instant! I know my darling will rescue me from this. . . . this . . .”