Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

T he mop fair was a bustling event, and as Ethan's carriage pulled into the village square, he saw it was teeming with men and women looking for work. Those hoping to be hired wore emblems to show off their trades. Farmhands had straw tucked in their buttonholes, footmen dressed in old livery, and maids wore aprons over their frocks. Those who didn't have a specific skill carried mops as a sign that they were jacks-of-all-trades. The pool of available help boded well for Ethan's purpose, yet any optimism he felt was dampened by another emotion.

Guilt.

He slid a look at Mrs. Wood, who sat on the opposite bench, as far from him as possible. The morning light touched her mouse-brown hair, giving the illusion of fiery highlights. Her cheeks were pale, and her spectacles didn't hide the tired smudges under her eyes.

His chest tightened. He hadn't slept well either. After his temper ebbed, the undertow of remorse and self-revulsion had pulled him into their dark depths. He'd resisted the melancholy, however; he had to make things right with Mrs. Wood first. He knew he ought to apologize, but he couldn't think of a way to do so without exposing too much.

Without revealing what a bloody damaged bastard he was.

Mrs. Wood's gaze suddenly collided with his, and the hurt in her eyes sliced into his soul. He remembered her fear yesterday when he ripped up the copy of his sonata. The way she'd flinched, as if she thought he might hit her, made him suck in a breath.

You frightened her, you bounder. Caused her pain. Fix it.

The tension in the carriage grew suffocating. He had to say something.

"Thank you," he said.

Her gaze cut to his. "For what?"

For not leaving. For making my life better. For putting up with me.

"Er, for assisting with the hiring today."

Christ, he was an idiot. He wanted to bash his head against the headrest.

She looked out the window. "It is what you pay me for, after all."

If her reply was frosty, he couldn't blame her. Hell, she could call him all the names she wanted, and he would deserve it. Before his injury, he'd never been the type of man to take his temper out on others, no matter what they'd done. And what unforgivable offense had Mrs. Wood committed? She'd cleaned his study and, in the process, discovered his piano studio. Like any curious person (and musician, apparently), she'd played a few notes. She hadn't meant to cause harm.

She couldn't know what the piano meant to him…although he'd rather be drawn and quartered than talk about it.

"I am grateful, nonetheless." He cleared his throat. "For everything you've done for the manor. And for me. I hope…I hope we can put what happened yesterday behind us."

She pursed her too-plump lips, studying him, and he hoped that she saw his sincerity. For what it was worth. Which, admittedly, wasn't much.

"As you wish," she said primly.

The carriage drew to a stop, putting an end to the awkward exchange.

"Here you go, Mrs. Wood." Mrs. Pettigrew peered anxiously at Xenia. "Taste it and tell me what you think."

They were standing outside the Leaning House. The three-story building was so named because of its visible tilt, a flaw in construction that turned out to be a happy accident as it drew curious customers. In fact, Mrs. Pettigrew played up her establishment's askew charm by painting each story a different color: pink on the bottom, blue in the middle, yellow on the top. Xenia thought the tea house looked like a layer cake created by a whimsical and slightly tipsy baker.

At present, Mrs. Pettigrew had set up a small table with a tray of samples, and she'd waved Xenia over to try her latest concoction. Dutifully, Xenia popped the bite-sized morsel of fried dough into her mouth. The sweet and fluffy concoction was the perfect mix of custardy softness and crispy caramelized edges.

"Well, what do you think? Be honest, now."

Beneath Mrs. Pettigrew's frilled cap, her light-blue eyes were wide. She was a comfortably curvy widow with eight grown children who were scattered across the county. To cope with her empty nest, she took newcomers like Xenia under her wing. She was a gossip, but a kind-hearted one, and Xenia had benefited from her knowledge about the village. Indeed, Mrs. Pettigrew had been the one who'd encouraged her to take up the Earl of Manderly's offer to interview at Bottoms House.

"Ghost or no ghost, an opportunity like that presents itself once in a blue moon," Mrs. Pettigrew had declared. "A person has to take risks once in a while if she's to get ahead."

It turned out to be sage advice. By staying instead of running last night, Xenia had taken another risk. She hadn't seen Lord Ethan until this morning, and she'd braced herself for their encounter. She needn't have.

He'd been unfailingly polite. He'd even given her his version of an apology, which was probably more than most employers would have done. With a prickle of shame, she realized that she hadn't found the courage to admit her own wrongdoing. Confessing that she was a failure at her job wasn't the most pleasant task, especially since she'd been working hard at shedding that version of herself. At becoming a better person.

She had made amends in other ways. She had focused on the task of finding female staff, and by midday, managed to secure housemaids and a cook named Mrs. Johnson, whose references included the owners of two fine estates. A round-cheeked brunette with a cordial manner, Mrs. Johnson was eager to start. She helped Xenia select meats from Mr. Bailey, produce from the Pickleworths, and a flock of chickens from a farmer.

Lord Ethan had seemed pleased by Xenia's productivity. While his comment of "Well done, Mrs. Wood" couldn't be described as effusive, his approval had given her a warm, tingly feeling. Moreover, he'd given her leave to explore the fair while he and Brunswick worked on filling the roster of male servants.

Thus, Xenia had had the chance to wander amongst the colorful barrows and booths that had sprung up on the village green. Vendors offered everything from roasted chestnuts to potions guaranteed to cure a host of diseases. Intrigued, she'd been examining a red glass bottle shaped like a heart when the hawker, a woman with crinkly skin and a mass of ebony curls, startled her with a cackling laugh.

"That's a love potion, dearie," the woman said with a wink. "If you've a sweetheart who doesn't return your fancy, a few drops will change 'is mind."

For some reason, Xenia's gaze had searched out Lord Ethan. To her horror, he'd been standing a few feet away, looking straight at her. Her heart thudding, she'd shoved the bottle back at the seller and fled. She'd been flagged down by Mrs. Pettigrew, who was now awaiting her response.

"I am not certain what I think of this new dish," Xenia said.

Mrs. Pettigrew's face fell.

Xenia gave her an impish smile. "Another sample might help me decide."

With a relieved chuckle, Mrs. Pettigrew obliged. She placed her chapped hands on her generous hips as Xenia savored her second helping.

"Oh, you had me going there for a moment, Mrs. Wood. I must say I am relieved you're enjoying my Poor Knights o' Windsor pudding. It comes from an old family recipe, passed on from my great-grandmama, and I haven't served it before."

"It's delectable." Xenia licked sugar off her lips. "Why hasn't it been on your menu?"

"My great-grandmama's original recipe is for ‘Bloody Poor Knights' pudding, a creation that made her famous countywide. She called it ‘bloody' on account o' the sauce she drizzled over the pudding, made from a type o' cherry grown only in Chuddums. Used to be, the village was known as ‘Chudleigh Blossoms' on account o' how plentiful the cherry trees were. Then all the orchards started dying."

Xenia drew her brows together. "What happened?"

"The curse, that's what," Mrs. Pettigrew said gloomily. "After Thomas Mulligan died, the cherry trees started to wither. Year by year, the orchards grew thinner, and the few trees that survived stopped bearing fruit. Many townsfolk lost their livelihoods. My grandma retired her mama's recipe because she said it weren't the same without the cherries…and only the Chudleigh Bottoms's cherries would do."

"Well, I am glad you revived it," Xenia said sincerely. "Cherries or no cherries, your pudding is delicious."

"Thank you, dear. Let's pray that it draws customers."

The proprietress narrowed her eyes as a trio of ruffians sporting striped neckerchiefs staggered by, bellowing a rude song and snarling at frightened villagers, who scrambled out of their way.

In an undertone, she added, "Let us also pray that the riffraff doesn't scare off the decent folk. If this keeps up, Chuddums will be filled with nothing but Corrigans."

"Corrigans?" Xenia asked.

"Not so loud." Mrs. Pettigrew glanced around nervously before replying. "The Corrigans are the gang that have taken over the docks. Their members wear those neckcloths with orange stripes, and make no mistake, they're a shady bunch. A cousin o' mine who works at the Redding constabulary says the Corrigans are suspected o' burglaries and other crimes, but the evidence and witnesses against them have a way o' disappearing. They're the worst sort o' trouble—take my advice and steer clear o' them, do you hear me?"

While Xenia doubted that the Corrigans could be worse than her mother when it came to villainy, she nodded. She had no intention of going anywhere near the gang.

"Now I must get to work. Enjoy the fair, dear." Mrs. Pettigrew straightened her shoulders, and hefting her tray, strode into the crowd. "Try my Poor Knights Pudding, fresh and tasty!"

Xenia continued her stroll around the square. She waved at Wally, who was happily giving tours to unsuspecting visitors. When she passed Mr. Bailey's and Mr. Khan's shops, she saw both men were busy with customers and did a happy skip on their behalf. At the Briarbush Inn, Mr. Thornton insisted on serving her a cup of cider on the house. She thanked him and bought one of his wife's golden-brown mushroom pies to enjoy away from the hustle and bustle.

She exited the square in search of a quiet spot. Turning right on a small street called "Spring Lane," she saw that it was deserted. Most of the storefronts were boarded up, and the few places open for business were empty, their half-closed shutters giving them a sleepy look.

A sudden shout snagged her attention.

"Let me go, you bastard!"

The female voice was familiar, and without thinking, Xenia dashed toward it. Two alleyways down, she spotted Alice. Her friend was being pinned against a brick wall by a large, menacing male.

"You weren't so hoity-toity last night, you stupid slut," he snarled. "I said I'll pay for the upright this time."

"I don't want your blooming money. Now get off me," Alice screeched.

The bastard grabbed her skirts, shoving them up as she struggled. "If you don't want to be paid, then I'll sample your bleedin' wares for free?—"

"Let her go!" Xenia ran toward her friend.

The brute turned his head, and his lust-glazed eyes stopped Xenia in her tracks. He had dirty-blond hair, arrogantly handsome features, and the familiar, orange-striped neckerchief tied around his neck. He was drunk in a way that made him more, not less, dangerous.

His eyes slitted in a speculative manner. "If it isn't a little lost kitten."

Xenia's palms turned clammy, but she knew better than to show fear, which was an aphrodisiac to bastards like him.

"Let my friend go, and there won't be any trouble," she said evenly.

To her surprise, the ruffian released Alice. The latter stumbled, catching her balance on the opposite wall. Xenia noticed her friend's eyes were also bloodshot from drinking.

"I've let 'er go." The cad leered at Xenia. "What do I get in return?"

Xenia forced herself to stand her ground. "A clean conscience?"

"Ain't got no use for that. I'd rather 'ave some company."

He moved with shocking speed, grabbing her before she could get away. The next instant, she was shoved against the wall, sandwiched between brick and a heavy wall of muscle. A wave of panic crashed over her.

"Alice, help me!" she shouted.

Her friend stared at her…then took off down the alleyway.

Stunned, Xenia registered the trouble she was in. She opened her mouth, but the blackguard gripped her by the throat, strangling her scream for help.

"Now that the old slattern is gone, we can 'ave ourselves some fun." He oozed a noxious odor of spirits and sweat. "I've been hankering for some fresh meat."

When Xenia thrashed, trying to get free, he squeezed until stars floated in her vision. Darkness threatened to suck her under, but she continued to struggle, trying to push him off?—

He flew backward, hitting the opposite wall with a loud thud.

She wheezed, filling her lungs with air.

Am I…am I stronger than I realize?

Then Lord Ethan stepped into view. He hauled the protesting ruffian up. The brute threw a sudden punch, and she gasped when it connected with Lord Ethan's jaw. The latter showed no reaction, and any wise person would find his stoicism foreboding. The brute, of course, didn't take the hint and swung again. This time Lord Ethan caught his fist, twisting it in a quick, controlled motion.

The brute yelped, holding his injured arm. "You're going to pay for that! Do you know who I am? I'm Patrick Harlow, head o' the Corrigans?—"

Lord Ethan drove his fist into the other's jaw. He pinned the ruffian with his left forearm, pummeling Harlow's face with savage right jabs. His technique was unique and effective, resulting in blood…a lot of it. When he was done, Harlow lay slumped in the dirt, moaning incoherently.

Lord Ethan looked down at his vanquished foe. "Touch my housekeeper again," he said with a soft snarl, "and I will finish you."

Then he raised his gaze to hers. She saw the primal blaze in his eyes, blood dripping from his gloved fist. Her rescuer was a beast of a prince.

She shivered, not with fear…but something far more dangerous.

Something she could no longer deny.