Page 14 of Nice Earls Do

“In that, ma’am,” said Oliver, bowing them from the room, “we are in perfect agreement.”

Suddenly, Tabetha knew exactly what he meant to do.

You mustn’t, she mouthed over her shoulder, fixing him with a pleading look. She couldn’t bear it if he sacrificed his happiness for hers.

But Oliver only gave her one of his knowing smiles and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Chapter 5

Though he heard a sound behind him, Kit did not turn away from the nursery window. It did not matter that it had long since grown too dark to see anything beyond his own reflection. His eyes were focused on the freshly scrubbed floor, from which rose the sharp scent of pine.

The footsteps came no closer; the person to whom they belonged did not speak. Kit clung as long as he could to the hope that Beth had sought him out to demand an explanation. Eventually, however, he would have to face the reality that it was the housekeeper or another servant. As he lifted his gaze to the glass, his resigned sigh fogged the windowpane, blurring but not disguising the reflection of the person standing behind him.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said Mr. Oliver.

“The question,” Kit said, after he’d recovered from his surprise at the identity of his visitor, “is what prompted you to look. Did not Mrs. Rushworth convey my message?”

“She did.”

“Then you should be relieved. You and...Mrs. Goode are free to return to your lives in town.”

Mr. Oliver shifted his weight. “Lady Manwaring, you mean.” The mirror version of his face was oddly misshapen, impossible to read. “She told me you knew—that you’d known one another forever.”

“Did she?” But of course she had. The pair of them had probably enjoyed a good laugh over the idea of a grown man still clinging to childish dreams.

“Come, come, Stalbridge.”

The familiarity of his address rankled. Kit jerked about to face the younger man. “What is it you want, sir?”

Mr. Oliver looked remarkably unperturbed. “The chance to make things plain. Tomorrow will see the arrival of your niece and nephew and, if you don’t look sharp, the departure of the person best able to make your dreadful old house into a home.”

“I suppose now you’re referring to Mrs. Goode?” Kit had had enough. He took three steps across the floor, prepared to push past Mr. Oliver if he must. “I grow weary of this conversation, sir. I’ll bid you good night.”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps I’ve misjudged,” he said, in the mocking voice of a man who fancied himself never wrong. “But your affection for the lady seemed quite genuine to me.”

“I’ve loved Tabetha Holt for as long as I can remember,” Kit growled, grabbing the younger man by his perfectly starched, elaborately knotted cravat and pinning him to the door jamb. “And I’ll love her, and her alone, till the day I die. Don’t try to claim you can say the same, Mr. Oliver.”

“Actually,” he replied with a smirk Kit was tempted to wipe away with his fist, “it’s Manwaring.”

In spite of himself, Kit’s grip slackened, allowing his prisoner to slide free.

“And I believe I can say the same,” he went on. With a few fastidious flicks of his wrist, he straightened his coat and fluffed his rumpled linen. “Well, perhaps not the ‘her alone’ bit. A young man must be allowed to sow his wild oats.” He winked, then sobered. “But rest assured, I do love her.”

“Manwaring.” The name on Kit’s lips sounded garbled, like he’d had one too many pints at the village pub or taken a shot to the jaw. “As in...”

“Comma, sixth viscount. Yes. Pleased to meet you, Stalbridge.” He extended a hand with a flourish, and Kit was too bewildered to do anything but shake it. “And yes, Lady Manwaring is my stepmama, a part she has performed admirably for, oh...” He made a show of calculating, first in his head and then on his fingers. “Twenty-one years, seven months.”

“Your stepmother. Not your—”

“Paramour?” He gave a rueful chuckle. “You did a poor job of disguising your suspicion, Stalbridge. But after Mrs. Rushworth conveyed your unceremonious dismissal, I grew convinced your reservations about my stepmother had been compounded by another matter. Either misplaced jealousy, or...”

“The Mrs. Goode charade.”

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Kit saw a spark in the other man’s eyes, a hint that behind the façade of indifference and insolence lay something else entirely, something about which he cared a great deal. “It isn’t a charade. Mrs. Goode is a testament to the true importance of what is so often dismissed as women’s work. Men bloviate about politics and business, oblivious to the very stuff that holds the fabric of our society together, the dinners over which wars are begun and contracts negotiated, the balls at which dynasties are formed or broken, the homes to which we all long to retreat at the end of the day. Her book is an acknowledgment that homekeeping is both art and science, proof that its skills can be taught, and a reminder that such knowledge ought not to be the province of only a few.”

“Well said.” Kit’s grudging nod of respect sent a flare of surprise across Manwaring’s face. “But that sounds a great deal to put on the shoulders of one woman.”

Manwaring hesitated. “Mrs. Goode is...more an idea than a person, I suppose you might say.”