Page 12 of The Lady’s No Angel

“You’d best make a clean breast of it,” he said, echoing her words from earlier.

This made her laugh, and she glanced up at him from under thick, sooty lashes. Hart’s breath caught. Lord above, but she was lovely. He hoped she wasn’t truly in any trouble, or running from anything. The realisation that he would do what he could to help her whatever the situation was somewhat unnerving.

“I suppose I am,” she said, raising her head, her chin jutting somewhat defiantly.

“That makes two of us,” he replied, sitting back in his chair, one arm slung carelessly over the curved back as he regarded her frankly. “Why are you really going to Eynsford? And don’t give me that guff about an aunt. Are you meeting a lover?”

To his surprise and gratification, she blushed. It was like watching sunrise on a summer’s morn, the colour rising from a pale touch of rose to a deep apple red. “Certainly not! How dare you insinuate—”

“I didn’t insinuate,” he corrected with a chuckle. “I asked outright. Now don’t fly up into the boughs. I’m glad to hear it, but I thought I’d best ask. A fellow likes to know if he’s stepping on another fellow’s toes, or liable to get his nose broken for no good reason.”

She stared at him, opened her mouth, and closed it again.

Hart snorted. “Yes, I know. I’m a terrible fellow. Uncouth, my sire tells me, but no amount of thrashings has ever improved me. I mean no harm, though.” He put up his hands in a nonthreatening gesture until she let out a huff of laughter.

“I cannot believe you asked me that,” she muttered, shaking her head, but her good humour seemed to have returned.

The door, which Milly had left ajar, opened, and a maid hurried in and began laying the table for their meal. A round of coarse wheaten loaf, cut into thick slices and accompanied by a jar of dripping, were set down in the centre of the table. A dish of cabbage and another of carrots followed, before a platter of roast beef—rather overdone to Hart’s eye—appeared to complete the meal.

Milly returned with Toby, whose wet hair suggested the back of his neck had been scrubbed alongside his hands. The maid looked ill at ease sitting down to dinner with her betters, and so Hart exerted himself to entertain her and prove himself easy company.

This he did with little trouble. He had never had difficulty conversing with people of all ranks. Only his razor tongued grandmother could make him uncertain of himself, and only then because she was a deal sharper than he was. He was fond of her despite her scoldings, or maybe because of them. His father simply thought him a fool and a scapegrace, but Hart found he cared less for the old man’s opinions as the years passed.

Though he was belatedly aware of the foolhardiness in having left Little Valentine completely unprepared for this escapade, Hart was not one to borrow trouble. He had sufficient funds for now, his name carried weight enough to put things on account—if he could do so without Miss Baxter noticing—and, if it came to it, he could pawn something or find a card game. So, despite their protests at his lavish treatment of them, he ordered a bottle of wine and saw both ladies’ glasses were filled.

Toby inhaled his food at a speed which even Hart could not match. By the time they had dispensed with the cheese and a rather splendid apple pie, the lad was itching to lose his winnings.

“It might be best if you saved that. Take care of the pennies and the pounds take care of themselves,” Milly cautioned him, giving the lad a stern look which he imperiously ignored. “A little Tyburn blossom, that one,” she said, watching him go with a worried frown.

“Oh, no. Toby’s a good boy. He only wants a bit of fun,” Miss Baxter chided gently. “He’s seen little enough of that commodity in his life, poor lad.”

Her expression was one of regret, and Hart found his admiration for the girl growing. Though some of the well-born ladies he knew had their charitable foundations, he could think of none who would treat a boy in their employ with such indulgence. She was kind, he realised, and the knowledge was like a little glow of warmth as it settled beneath his skin.

“Where did you find him?”

Miss Baxter opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again. Obviously, she thought the information would give too much away. More cautiously she said, “Toby’s father was a widower. A fisherman. He drowned. Toby needed work, and I knew I could make use of him.”

“You hail from the same village, then?” he asked, wondering if she would let some bit of information slip, and why he was so desperate to glean everything he could.

“Town,” she corrected.

“Ah, where—”

She gave him a pointed look that suggested he give up and Hart sighed.

“It was worth a try,” he said with a shrug.

Hart watched the maid surreptitiously elbow her mistress, no doubt reminding her of the impropriety of being here dining with him. To his amusement, Miss Baxter scowled a little, but she was no match for Milly’s determination to guard her reputation.

With a somewhat resentful sigh, she set aside her napkin and stood up, forcing Hart to do likewise. “Thank you, Mr Cleaver, for another delightful meal. I pray you will allow us to pay for ourselves, however. You have already been too kind, and I dislike feeling beholden to you.”

Hart frowned, moving around the table to face her. “I will do no such thing. You were my guests tonight, and your company has been all the repayment I ask. You have paid any debt in full, I assure you.”

Miss Baxter looked doubtful and appeared to be about to dispute the fact when Hart reached out, taking her hand. She still wore no gloves, those items resting on the table, and her hand was warm and soft, and terribly small in his far larger, roughened grasp. A strange sensation swept over him, a desire to be chivalrous, to slay dragons or throw his coat down over a puddle. For a moment it muddled his brain and he could do nothing but stare at her delicate white hand.

“Ahem.”

Once more, Milly brought him back to his senses, and he looked to Miss Baxter. She was staring up at him, her dark eyes very wide, her cheeks as pink as they’d been when he’d mentioned the existence of a lover.