Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Mungo went to his room after leaving Eliza Downing in hers, which was directly above him. He stripped off the clothes he’d dampened with sweat, washed, and pulled on clean ones. His body finally felt warm.
He then sat on the side of the bed with his head in his hands.
Mungo was good at hiding what he was thinking or feeling, but Miss Downing had seen through him when he’d walked into that room at the watchhouse.
And he’d just threatened her after she’d saved him from that cell today.
She’d not deserved that from him, but he was right in what he’d said.
He didn’t know her and had no plans to change that, but perhaps he could have delivered that speech better.
Would a person of bad character put themselves out for you like she did?
“I’m an untrusting bastard,” Mungo muttered as he stomped his feet back into his favorite boots now that he had the left one.
Looking around the room, he saw a place of order, just as he liked it. Nothing sentimental, just a few books on a nightstand and clothes neatly folded. His bed was made with no wrinkles.
Control was important to Mungo and had been since his childhood when he’d had little of it being the youngest son.
The creak of a floorboard had him looking up. She was above him, and he would know when she was in her room. Wonder what she did. Shutting off the thought, he left the room and closed the door quietly behind him.
He stepped out into the hallway and made his way downstairs.
Eliza Downing was beautiful, but that was only part of the problem. There was now a connection between him and the governess, no matter how much he told himself otherwise. He’d saved her and she him, and that should counteract any feelings of obligation on either of their parts. But it didn’t.
The minute he’d seen her, he’d known she would be a problem.
Trouble in those dark eyes and rosebud lips.
Her skin was pale and would be smooth to the touch, and the body under that severe deep gray dress buttoned to her neck would be lush.
This he knew, as he’d seen what lay under that coat when she’d removed it.
The sweet curves that he’d had no right to want.
He was a man, and he responded to a beautiful woman like anyone would. He had sought out many for selective and secret rendezvous, but there was no time in his life for a permanent woman, and he doubted there ever would be.
Distance, Mungo thought. He would keep his distance from her, which wouldn’t be easy, seeing as they both lived here, but if anyone could manage it, it was him. He was a master at shutting people out.
The truth was, Fenella leaving had unsettled him. He missed her and the connection to a past he wasn’t sure he’d ever return to. She’d given him a small window into the life he’d left and what those he’d left behind had become.
“Any woman would unsettle me at this time,” he muttered, rationalizing this interest he felt for Eliza Downing.
“What’s this about a woman?”
Mungo bit back a curse as he looked at the man at the bottom of the stairs.
“What?”
“You said, ‘It would be any woman,’” Ramsey Hellion paraphrased.
“Why are you still here? Go home to your wife.”
Some said he was handsome, but Mungo was definitely not one of those people.
Though the man was charming and debonair, he in fact annoyed Mungo just by breathing most of the time, even if he respected him because he had married into the Nightingale family.
Flora, Ram’s wife, was cousin to the Nightingales.
Eloquent, well-dressed, and loved by everyone he met, especially women, Ram was everything Mungo was not, but he was also someone who had come to get him out of that watchhouse without hesitation, which was humbling. Not that he’d ever tell the man that.
He was also an excellent conversationalist, another black mark, as far as Mungo was concerned, because Ram continually debated until he got his point across.
“What woman were you talking about, Mungo?”
“I wasn’t talking about anyone.”
“You were.” Ram watched Mungo descend, hands in pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels as if he had all the time in the world to stand there bandying words and hadn’t stormed the watchhouse just an hour ago.
“I heard it clearly, and while I’m sure being locked in that cell has you on edge and likely addled the few wits you have—”
“I’m not on edge!”
“On edge,” Ram continued. “So if you are talking about a woman, and Miss Downing is up those stairs, it must be she who has you in this condition as well as those other things I just spoke of. After all, it was she who rescued you, really. Bandying about titles helped, but it was what she said that secured your release from that cell.”
Mungo tamped down his anger. “If I had wanted you to be part of the conversation I was having with myself, I would have spoken directly to you. As I did not, it does not concern you.”
Ram smiled that slow, easy one that told Mungo he had him exactly where he wanted him. They were always playing some kind of invisible game of one-upmanship.
“I’m pleased you are home, Mungo, and sorry you suffered in any way,” Ram said suddenly, his face now somber. “You are very important to all of us.”
“Shut up,” Mungo muttered, color heating his cheeks as he brushed past Ram, the man’s laughter following him.
He headed to the kitchen where Bud and Mr. Dumple were preparing a tea tray for the family—two trays, he amended silently—laden with food and a pot big enough to provide tea for a battalion.
“Well now, it lightens my heart to see you again, Mr. Mungo,” Mr. Dumple said as if he’d been gone for seventeen hours instead of a few. “Horrid business, but I’m mighty pleased Miss Downing arrived when she did to help secure your release.”
“I suppose the entire close knows?” Mungo bit back the need to growl like a rabid dog.
“Of course,” Bud said. “Eliza seems nice,” she added, buttering scones furiously, like she did everything.
The woman was always busy and seemed to have boundless energy.
“After all the chaos of your arrest and her being the one you saved that night—which you didn’t tell us about—she’s clearly of a steady nature if she didn’t run screaming from the house. ”
“You’ve only spoken a handful of words to her, so you can’t know anything about her. I don’t want to discuss what happened to her or me again, and you can tell the rest of them outside the door that too.”
She lowered the knife and looked at him. “The residents of Crabbett Close care for you, and unlike you, I’m not untrusting on first sight and could tell Eliza was a lovely lady. But even if I didn’t know her, I know what she did for you, and that’s enough for me.”
Mungo stomped down the guilt those words made him feel over how he’d spoken to Eliza Downing.
“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Mr. Dumple said.
He was short and round, with a shock of gray hair, and the minute he’d entered the Nightingale house for his interview, he had fit right in.
This family were in no way traditional society people.
They were loud, messy, never took direction, and did whatever pleased them.
Mungo knew this hadn’t always been the case.
In fact, they’d been one of society’s favorite families before Bram’s brother had ruined their reputation and then taken his life.
“I’m making Yorkshire pudding with beef this evening, Mungo,” Mr. Dumple said.
“Beef on the platter, brown as a boot,
Juices a-drippin’, gravy to suit!
Yorkshire’s puffed like a lord’s new hat—
Golden and proud, just look at that!”
As far as he could see, the man’s only fault was that he liked to make up songs for everything. The others in this household loved it, Mungo constantly had to fight the urge to stuff something into his mouth.
He grunted, then went to open the back door, as a knock had sounded on it.
And this is just what I needed, he thought.
Plummy was the local constable who patrolled their streets, but he was often found in Crabbett Close and at their back door because he was in love with Bud, who in no way returned his devotion.
Neat as a pin, the man was dressed in his blue tailcoat, white armlets, and gloves, just as the men who had arrested him had been, which was a memory Mungo didn’t need or want.
Just looking at the fool made Mungo’s teeth grind, but then patience wasn’t something he was known for, and it was in even shorter supply today.
“Oh, you’re back, Mr. Mungo. I just ran into Mr. Peeky, who told me everything. I was heading to the watchhouse to offer my insights into your character and ensure your release.”
“Of course you were,” Mungo said even as he doubted the man’s words because he’d actually never seen him lift a finger to stop a crime. “We’re busy, so make it quick, Plummy.”
“Well now, I know some visiting this household have had dealings with the Baddon Boys, and Detective Fletcher will likely tell you all, but there’re bad things happening with them.”
“What bad things?” Mungo folded his arms and glared, which usually intimidated the man enough to have him leaving.
“Rumors is all.”
“Which means what?” Mungo demanded.
Plummy touched his nose and winked. “Can’t say more than that.”
“Well, it’s a relief to us all that you’re on the job, Plummy,” Bud said. “Here, you take this scone and be on your way.” She nudged Mungo to one side and handed it to the man. “We won’t keep you from protecting Crabbett Close.”
Plummy smiled like a fool in love, stammered out a compliment about Bud’s eyes being the color of sunset even though they were brown, and left.
“Do they know who was behind you being taken away in irons, Mungo?” Mr. Dumple asked.
“Aye, they know.”
“Right then, we’ve work to do, so this conversation can wait,” Bud interjected. “Carry that tray, and I’ll bring the other, Mungo.”
He was soon following her out of the kitchen as Mr. Dumple started singing about vegetables behind them, and they headed for the parlor.
His bed was hours away, but right then he was tired enough to fall into it and sleep for a week.
But Mungo was stronger than that. If that jail cell had not broken him, then he could work for a few more hours before he found his bed.
Even if he doubted his slumber would be restful, knowing who slept above him.