The serving woman came back and set down a plate with two puff pastries filled with egg custard, dusted with sugar. The kitchen was shutting down for the night, she explained with a smile for Zach, and she didn’t want these to go to waste.
“Obrigado, senhora.” Zach gallantly kissed her hand as she gave him two clean forks, then he watched her walk away, her hips swaying suggestively.
Nick viewed the exchange, glad for the distraction, his amusement turning to mild annoyance when he had to tap Zach on the arm to get his fork.
Zach ate a bite of the pastry and closed his eyes in gastronomic bliss. He looked at Nick again, his shoulders rising and lowering with a sigh. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Your mother knew that I have three by-blows, all boys, with three different mothers. I like to think she would have chosen me over Adam if I’d had more than two thousand a year. But her parents wanted her to marry the heir, not the spare. Nothing less than a viscount for their girl.” He ate another bite of pastry, then tipped back his glass and swallowed.
Nick’s paternal grandmother had died giving birth to what would have been his aunt, and his grandfather had lived well into his seventies before succumbing to lung fever one winter. But Nick had only fuzzy recollections of his maternal grandparents. Both had passed on before he was out of the nursery. “You should have the title, not me,” he said quietly, staring into the dark depths of his glass, his pastry untouched.
“Ah, Nicky. You make a much better viscount than I would. Even though Adam gave away most of the estate’s money—”
“Pious hypocrite.”
“—and you drive your steward mad with lack of attention, your tenants don’t go hungry and they don’t have leaky roofs. Even if you’ve had to smuggle loads of brandy and such along with the spies to earn enough blunt to take care of them.”
“I am an honest merchantman,” Nick argued reflexively. He met Zach’s gaze, and they both chuckled.
“Family tradition,” Zach said. He raised his glass. “To the third Viscount Sheffield. Crafty old devil.” Nick clinked his glass to Zach’s in a toast to his grandfather, and they both drank.
The two chess players finished their game. They put the pieces and board away on a shelf beside the fire, where there were decks of cards and a checkers set, and left the dining room with their friend, calling good night to the innkeeper and serving women.
Only one other guest remained in the dining room, a lone gent near the fireplace. He sat slouched down in his chair, feet close to the fire, black knit wool cap tugged low over his ears, chin on his chest, eyes closed. Could be asleep, or, from the empty bottle on the table, possibly passed out.
Zach ate another bite of the pastry and gave a tiny moan of delight. “Now that the Home Office no longer needs your services, and with the abysmal harvest this year, you’re going to need to do something to keep everyone afloat. So, in the morning we’ll ride up to the bluff together and see what Adam and Giles left for you and Harry, eh?”
The serving woman walked to the door, now wearing a cloak and tying a scarf over her head.
“Yes, that sounds—”
Zach rose abruptly, nearly tipping his chair back in his haste. He cupped Nick’s cheek and stared into his eyes. “I’ve always been proud of you, son.” He lingered for a heartbeat or two, then strode to the door. He bent to whisper in the young woman’s ear, one hand resting on her waist, then sliding around to caress her bottom. She giggled and nodded, and they went up the stairs hand in hand.
Nick raised his glass in a silent toast to them, then ate a bite of Zach’s pastry.
While he enjoyed the privileges of being the viscount, he’d never wanted the role. Never wanted to take Adam’s place, follow his example. Nick’s sense of honor demanded that he take care of the Langston tenants, despite the estate’s lack of funds, but he delegated the day-to-day running to the steward.
Adam’s duty had been to God, country, and family, in that order. He stayed in the Navy during the war in service to the first two ideals. Nick felt a duty to England as well, but instead of taking orders from officers who too often had attained their rank because of influence rather than ability, he served the Crown as a privateer. He didn’t follow any orders he didn’t like.
But the war was over. Nick was a private citizen. And he was a member of the aristocracy, whether he wanted the title or not.
The gent by the fire rose and climbed the stairs. Nick was alone in the dining room.
He thought about what awaited him upstairs; the long uncomfortable night ahead sleeping on the hearth or sitting slouched in a chair so he wouldn’t be tempted to break Harry’s trust.
He sighed and polished off Zach’s pastry, then drained his glass and went upstairs, carrying the plate and clean fork.
His key didn’t open the door. He checked the hall to make sure he had the correct room. The knob turned freely but the door wouldn’t open. He scratched on the door. “Harry?” he called softly.
After a moment he heard wood scraping, then the door opened a fraction and Harry peered around the edge. As soon as Nick was inside, she closed the door and wedged the chair from the dressing table under the knob.
“You don’t trust the lock?”
She was wearing just a linen shirt, untucked, and striped dungarees. A towel was draped around shoulders, her damp hair loose and wild. “I don’t know who else has a key.”
“Good point. Here.” He thrust the plate and fork at her, trying not to be distracted by her bare feet. And bare ankles. And where water droplets had turned her shirt translucent.
Her eyes lit up with the first bite. “Ooh! This is delicious! Thank you.” She moved to the fire, where she had apparently been drying her hair. Damp spots on the floor indicated where the tub had recently sat.
No, he was not going to imagine how she might have looked, naked and wet in the bathtub. Or how she would have looked stepping out of it, water sluicing down her bare skin, firelight glinting off the droplets, making her skin glow. How he’d like to hold the soft woven towel and dry her off, caressing every inch of her body.
