Irritatingman.
Jenny bustled at the rough-finished, old-fashioned kitchen dresser.
At least she assumed it was old-fashioned. Bakeley made sure Cransdall had the newest of everything, but she had no idea how other houses compared. In truth, her social calls and house parties did not include visits to the kitchens.
“The bread is a bit soggy, my lady, but the cheese is good,” Jenny said.
So soggy bread and cheese for dinner.
Jenny opened another parcel and whooped. “None of the eggs broke neither. And we’ve got ham here, a fresh joint, and some carrots and turnips. T’would make a good hot stew, those last bits, and these apples for a dessert.” She looked up at Fox. “Sir, does the woman who cleans for you also cook?”
He blinked.
Taking his time to answer. If he’d been one of the lordlings she met at house parties and fêtes, she’d chalk his silence up to the shock of being addressed by a servant. But this was Fox. He’d always measured out his words in dribs and drabs.
“The woman who cleans for me,” he said, finally.
Jenny lifted a shoulder. “Well, the house, sir, it does seem very clean, excepting where you’ve left some dishes and such.”
His dark eyes glimmered. The corners crinkled again. “I wasn’t expecting company. No one’s been in to clean during my stay. The house was closed up so tight no dust was allowed in.” He lounged back against a worktable. “I expect someone comes in now and then. I don’t expect a visit any time soon.”
She blinked. He didn’t expect a visit? He had no plans to leave?
She turned away. “Bread and cheese and a bit of the ham tonight, Jenny,” Perry said. “There’s a knife on the board behind you.”
“Saints, I hope it will keep. I hate seeing a good joint be spoilt.”
Fox readjusted his leaning, pulling Perry’s gaze to his long-muscled legs. His head all but touched the low ceiling. “Just cook it up, Miss Jenny.”
He shot Perry a look that said to hell with your aristocracy. Oh yes, Fox was thoroughly a republican, even though he’d been born too late for the American revolt, and out of the country for the last war with the colonials. If not for horses, he’d never have come into the Earl of Shaldon’s sphere.
But…a memory jolted through her. Bakeley’s wife, Lady Sirena, had whispered that Father and Bakeley had actually approved Fox’s attendance at Bakeley’s wedding ball.
And had she not herself seen Father at the ball, speaking to Fox in that way that meant he was not just an arrow in Father’s quiver, but might be something more?
The man who had stolen a priceless painting?
She clenched her fists on the back of a chair. No one would tell her anything, not even Charley.
“Grab a pot from the pantry, Miss Jenny. I’ll haul in fresh water.”
Jenny pressed her lips together. “I’m just Jenny, sir. Not Miss Jenny. And I’m a maid, not a cook.”
Under his steady gaze, she squirmed. “I mean, I don’t know how.”
“You don’t know how to cook?” The words burst from Perry’s mouth. She had assumed—but then why had she assumed? They hadn’t discussed this. Jenny grew up on the streets, probably stealing pies when she was overwhelmed with hunger.
“Andyoudon’t know how to cook.” Fox was looking directly at her, that gleam still lighting his eyes.
He’d turned the tables on her, damn him. She needed him out of this house. This was her house—would be her house, someday, when she married.Ifshe married. If she could not get that ridiculous clause out of her mother’s will.
Never mind, she intended to go on as if she had. She intended to claim this as her very own house for as long as she wished. Bakeley would have to come himself and haul her out.
She pushed herself up from her chair and looked around for the door to the pantry. “I’ve seen bread made, and bread toasted, but otherwise I’ve not had occasion to learn.” As he well knew. The family had always had excellent cooks. “But I shall muddle through. And you will help me, Jenny.”
Fox crossed to her and took both of her hands in his large ones, sending her nerves rattling.
