Chapter 2 #3
“Our sister,” another triplet announced.
“I see.” Four sons and a daughter. Lord X had quite a family to care for. “Well, I thank God I’m not Mr. Winston. And that your aim is faulty.”
“We’re truly sorry, sir,” the older boy said penitently. “We don’t usually do this sort of thing. If we hadn’t been expecting the gentleman from the newspaper—”
“I’ve come in his place,” Ian broke in.
“Then you’re a writer like Lissy?” one of the triplets asked.
“Not exactly.” Inexplicably, he balked at lying to the child. “Your sister’s a writer?”
“Oh, yes, she writes all sorts of things,” the triplet continued eagerly, “but—”
“Be quiet,” the older boy told his brother firmly. Then he cocked his head to stare at Ian. “I could tell you’re not a writer.”
“Could you?”
“All true writers have ink stains on their fingers. And you don’t.”
Ian examined his hands with mock solemnity. “I believe you’re right.”
“Lissy has ink stains on her fingers,” one triplet offered. “‘Cause she writes—”
“I told you to hush, Georgie,” the older boy said sternly. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. Lissy says it’s not ladylike for her to write stories.”
Ian bit back a smile. He could easily imagine their sister, a budding novelist of fifteen or so, trying to imitate her father’s profession while also clinging to her training in “proper” female behavior.
The housekeeper suddenly appeared at the top of the next floor. When she saw the children, she called out, “Stop bothering the gentleman, lads!” As she hurried down, she caught sight of the rapidly melting pile of snow, around which they were ranged like surgeons around a troublesome patient.
White brows furrowing, she shouldered the boys aside. “I suppose you children got this from the balcony, eh? I swear, Father Christmas shall bring you naught but lumps of coal in your stockin’s this year, ’specially if he has a word with your sister.”
The panicky looks that the triplets cast each other roused Ian’s rusty protective instincts.
“Actually, a footman came in and shook a great amount of snow off his coat,” he remarked, hoping there were footmen around somewhere.
“I might have slipped in it if the boys hadn’t hurried down to warn me.
” When their grimy faces lit up gratefully, he tempered his sudden burst of feeling with a stern glance.
“I’m sure they’ll clean it up for you. They’re very helpful lads. ”
“Yes, we’ll do that, won’t we, boys?” the older one ordered his brothers.
“Oh, yes, we want to help—”
“Let us do it—”
“We’ll do it right away—”
“Very well, lads,” Mrs. Box said, the edges of her thin lips twitching from the urge to smile. “You may clean it up. James, run and fetch a mop. Georgie, you can use that bucket you happen to have handy.”
She faced Ian, her smile breaking out over her face. “Thank you, sir, for bein’ so understandin’. They’re wild boys sometimes, but they can be dears when they want.”
He tried to imagine that and failed. “I gather they don’t like Mr. Winston.”
“To be honest, sir, none of us do. And speakin’ of that, the article ain’t quite ready, but you can go on up and wait for it.
” She glanced back to where the boys were spreading more snow than they picked up.
“Do you mind findin’ your way yourself, luv?
If I don’t keep an eye on them, they’ll have the whole foyer slicker than a cow’s spit by the time they’re through. ”
“It’s no trouble.” It might give him a chance to glimpse Lord X unobserved.
“The first door to your right upstairs.” Mrs. Box pointed up to the next floor. “Go on in. It’s open.”
“Thank you.” He hurriedly mounted the stairs.
When he found the room, he started to enter, then halted in the doorway.
He must have misunderstood the housekeeper’s directions.
This room contained a woman, a petite young thing standing before a desk with her profile to him.
He studied the profile with interest. She had a strong jawline and dramatic coloring, all russets and burnished ivory instead of the shell-pink and alabaster so popular among young ladies these days.
She must be the boys’ sister, Lissy. Judging from her size, she was probably only half his age, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Her hair was what drew him, a welter of cinnamon curls haphazardly piled atop her head and held in place by two crossed knitting needles.
He’d never seen a female so unconcerned about her appearance.
Indeed, the hem of her azure dress was soiled and her shoes could use a cobbler’s services.
Then she bent to open a desk drawer, and his mouth went dry.
My God, what a derriere, its sweet curves perfectly outlined beneath the thin muslin of her gown.
It was perverse of him to look, but how could he not?
She might be young, but she already possessed the well-proportioned figure of a courtesan. No wonder Mr. Winston gawked.
It took all his self-control to wrench his gaze away and scan the hall for another open door. There was none. Thinking to ask the young woman to direct him, he cleared his throat.
Just as he registered the fact that she was writing something with the ink-stained fingers described by her brothers, she said without turning, “Come in, sir. I need only to make this one little correction, and then you can take it.”
Two things hit him at once. One, her calm, assured voice indicated she wasn’t as young as he’d thought. And two, she was obviously expecting a visitor.
Mr. Winston.
Bloody hell. He chided himself for his slow-wittedness. Lord X was a woman.