difficult not to interpret her expression as triumphant. Spots of blood spread on Ethan’s white stocking. “Get someone to see to that,” Alec told him. “And Ethan?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If that cat bites you again, you have my permission to kick it.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Sir Alexander returned to the study, and Ethan allowed himself a grin. He hadn’t really minded bathing the cat, or blamed it for objecting. It—she, Callie—was only being true to her nature. And washing a writhing alley cat was actually better fun than arranging china and silver in proper table settings or opening the door to visitors, or any of his London duties, really. The “treat” of coming up to London was not a treat to him. He wished his mother had not pulled her strings to get him sent. Oh, he was good at his job and most likely would have been included this year. But others in the household had dearly wanted to come. A shame not to let them. His father would be just as angry when he got back home.
Ethan moved toward the back stairs and winced. That cat had a good set of fangs on her. She’d bit deep. The laundress would give him a rare tongue-lashing about the stained stocking, though it was hardly his fault this time. He went down to the basement and, limping more than was strictly necessary, into the kitchen. There, he found an ample audience for his afflicted ankle. “Miss Lizzy’s new cat,” he said, exhibiting the bloodied fabric.
The cook, housekeeper, kitchen maid, and second footman needed no further explanation; they’d heard all about the latest addition to the household. Witnessed her yowls from the scullery, too. “Bit me right in front of a caller,” Ethan added. “Sir Alexander, too.”
“That animal bit Sir Alexander?” Sparks practically shot from Mrs. Wright’s eyes. The housekeeper did not tolerate such breaches in her rule.
“Lord have mercy,” said Cook.
“No, bit me in front of Sir Alexander.” Ethan put on a pathetic expression. “Need a bit of nursing, I do.”
The kitchen maid, a likely lass, stepped forward.
“I’ll take care of it, Sally,” said Mrs. Wright. “No doubt you have work to do. And if you don’t, I’m certain I can find…”
“Sally could hold my hand while you patch me up,” Ethan teased.
The housekeeper, who had known him since he was two years old, gave him a look. “You may have grown up tall and handsome, but you’re not as charming as you think, Ethan Trask.”
“Yes I am.” He gave them the smile that had melted female hearts since he was fifteen. Well, fourteen if he counted Alice Ackerly, which he certainly did.
It swayed them, and made his fellow footman James grin in appreciation. “Away with your devilment,” said Mrs. Wright. She shooed him toward the door. “Come along. I’ll bind it up. And find you a new pair of stockings, I suppose. Or…” She paused in the doorway. “You kept the one that wasn’t ripped in your fool ‘cricket match’?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Ethan quickly. Some things were best glossed over.
“Good. Fetch it then, and we’ll make up a pair.”
“All the way to the top of the house on my wounded leg?” he moaned.
The housekeeper snorted. “And count yourself lucky I don’t make you learn to knit. Stockings don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Twenty minutes later, Ethan was bandaged and back in the kitchen, where luncheon trays were being readied. Sir Alexander had chosen to go out. As he carried a tray up to Miss Cole’s sitting room, Ethan wondered how this spring in London would turn out. Miss Anne’s illness had turned the household topsy-turvy. With her sister gone all pale and tired, Miss Lizzy was jumpy as… as her new cat. And Miss Cole, who used to be steady as a rock—Ethan remembered this—twitched and squeaked if you came on her unawares. Which you couldn’t help doing, because she was lost in a fog half the time, and what with the apologizing and worrying she’d have palpitations like his gran… well, he was just glad it wasn’t his problem. Sir Alexander would figure things out; he always did. Bit of a brooder, but smart as a trained ferret.
Ethan’s family had been intertwined with the Wyldes for generations, in one capacity or another. The same age as Richard Wylde, Ethan had shared some games—and played some pranks—with the younger brother in their early years. Alexander, already off at school, was just an older boy—more serious and distant than his brother. But