The breakfast table had never been so occupied. Nor the room so quiet.
Mr. Foxcroft—or rather Uncle—had seated himself next to Lady Walpoole, and he smacked his way through a third piece of toast. Then, using his knife to stab a boiled egg, he hunched over his plate to ravish it in two bites.
Lady Walpoole sent an appalled look across the table.
Lord Cunningham mirrored the expression for a second before masking it with an unconvincing smile. “Miss Foxcroft, I trust you slept well?”
“Violet did not awaken me once.”
“Violet?” Lady Walpoole perked up. “Do you mean to say you have forsaken your own chamber to sleep with a child?” She angled her chin at Lord Cunningham. “You must put an end to such nonsense, your lordship, if you require your wife to possess any semblance of decorum.”
To these words, the breakfast room doors parted, and Tom entered.
Instant heat skittered beneath her cheeks.
“Mr. McGwen.” Lord Cunningham ushered him in. “Do take a seat. Mary, bring another plate.” When Tom had taken the seat across from Meg, Lord Cunningham pulled the napkin out from his cravat. “I have asked Mr. McGwen to partake of breakfast with us. The very least accommodation I can offer my guest.”
Tension surged throughout the room.
Her appetite waned.
“Upon your next visit, Mr. McGwen, do make me aware. You must allow me the pleasure of securing you a proper guest chamber. I imagine you shall find a bed much more restful than a chair.”
If Tom detected the spur of hostility, he gave no sign. He nodded his thanks to Mary when she slid a plate of food in front of him. Why had he yet to look at Meg? Had he overheard Lady Walpoole?
Meg pushed away the memory of his hands on her face. The warm swirl of heat still stirred in her, like a terrible rash after consuming something sweet and tempting. Something she should not have. Should not wish to have. What was wrong with her? Why was she thinking of him this way?
She knew enough of the past to know he’d been trouble. She’d had enough of that already.
“She cannae be left alone.”
“Mr. Foxcroft and I have been discussing as much,” answered Lord Cunningham.
“Not even in the house.”
“These walls have yet to be compromised.” Lord Cunningham scooted back his chair. “I believe if she remains here, no calamity shall befall her. I think it wise Mr. Foxcroft do the same.”
“Can’t.” Mr. Foxcroft drained his coffee. “Going back to Juleshead. Rebuilding the shop.”
“No.” All eyes turned on Meg, and she regretted her outburst. “It is not safe.”
“People need medicine,” said Uncle.
“And I need family.” Stranger or not, he was blood. Someone she belonged to. “If you return to Juleshead, I go with you.”
“You stay.”
“Well.” Lady Walpoole offered a pinched smile to Lord Cunningham as she folded her napkin by her plate. “This is all very stimulating. Unconventional too. But hardly the sort of topic one digests at the breakfast table.”
“You are right of course, my lady.” Lord Cunningham raised his goblet. “We shall resume this later. Mr. Foxcroft, I do hope you shall reconsider. At the very least, I hope you will remain a guest here until some measure of compromise has been reached.”
Mr. Foxcroft snorted. He grabbed the last piece of toast from the platter, speared Tom with a hard glare, and bumbled from the room.
The door banged shut behind him.
The sound rattled through her, long after the room fell silent. She had loved her uncle. That much she knew from Tom’s stories.
From all accounts, he had loved her back.
