When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,17
tea. Mostly twigs. Well. At least it was hot.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Bartlett carefully knelt on the grate.
Messalina froze with the awful tea halfway to her lips. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Sweeping the hearth,” Bartlett said sturdily.
“But that’s not your job.”
“It is today.” Bartlett vigorously wielded a hand brush. “There’s no upstairs maids.”
“None at all?” Messalina frowned in concern.
Bartlett shook her head. “Only a young scullery maid in the kitchens, ma’am. She was too frightened to come to your room.”
Good Lord. She needed to hire maids right away. Bartlett already had a job that kept her busy.
“But there’s a cook?” Messalina waved the slice of bread.
“Aye, that we do have,” Bartlett agreed. “But no butler nor housekeeper nor even footmen. I’m afraid the house has barely a skeleton staff.”
“That is a problem.” Messalina took another sip of her terrible tea and was nearly startled into dropping the teacup by a shout.
“God save us,” Bartlett exclaimed, looking at Messalina. The voice was loud, but the words were incomprehensible.
Messalina slowly set the teacup on the table. “What—?”
Another shout, louder this time, accompanied by commotion.
Messalina rose and hurried to the door. The corridor was empty, but now she could hear crying coming from her right. She clutched her skirts and near ran in that direction. The weeping sounded like a child.
Near the end of the hall a door was open, and she rushed inside.
And then skidded to a stop.
Hawthorne stood glaring down at a small sobbing boy. The child couldn’t be older than eight.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Messalina demanded.
Hawthorne looked up and met her eyes. His were narrowed and so furious she nearly took a step back. “None of your concern.”
Messalina flinched, feeling as if she’d been slapped. She glanced at the boy. His face was red and tearstained, his thin shoulders hunched. Light-brown hair curled around his ears. He wore a ragged pair of breeches, shoes that looked too big for his feet, and a shirt that might once have been white.
He was pathetic.
Rage, hot and intemperate, raced through her. “I think it is my concern if you mean to bully children.”
“No, it isn’t.” Hawthorne turned his back on her as if the matter were settled. “Sam. Have you learned your lesson?”
Messalina realized for the first time that there were others in the room. Gideon’s man, Keys, stood to the side, his eyes watchful. Another, older boy was leaning against the wall, looking almost bored, and Bartlett was at Messalina’s elbow.
“Y-yes, guv,” Sam whispered. He straightened his shoulders. “I won’t never do it again.”
“Do what?” Hawthorne demanded, his expression still stern.
Sam swallowed. “Steal from you, guv.”
“Just from me?” Hawthorne growled. “Not good enough.”
Messalina scowled. “Hawthorne.”
No one paid the least heed to her.
“From anyone,” Sam said quickly, his high voice sounding panicked. “I won’t steal nothing from anyone at all!”
“Swear,” Gideon demanded.
“I swears!” Sam said. “On—on me mam, I do.”
“Your mother’s dead,” the older boy drawled.
Sam sobbed. “On me mam’s grave, I meant.”
Messalina’s heart turned over. How could anyone hear this and remain unmoved?
But Hawthorne stared down at the boy for a moment more, his face implacable—frightening—with that silver scar on his cheek. “Swear on your life. For if I ever catch you again stealing from me, your life won’t be worth a halfpenny.”
“I swears on me life,” Sam whispered.
Messalina was speechless with horror. What sort of man threatened to kill a little boy?
Gideon looked at the other youth. “Get him out of my sight and out of my home, Pea.”
“Aye, guv,” Pea said, pushing away from the wall. “Come on, you.”
He pulled the still-weeping Sam none too gently from the room.
Messalina burst out, “I’ve never seen such a revolting display.”
Gideon paused and then jerked his chin at Keys. The man nodded and walked to the door, ushering Bartlett out ahead of him. The door shut behind them.
Leaving them alone.
“You, madam wife, are sheltered.”
“What does that mean?” she demanded.
He turned and finally looked straight at her, the anger still blazing in his black eyes. “You’re an aristocrat.”
She was…not hurt. “You’re a cur.”
He stilled, his eyes blacker than sin, as he walked closer to her. “I’ve not let many men call me that—and live.”
For a moment she was frozen under his gaze, like something small and vulnerable in the sight of a wolf.
She drew a shuddering breath. His mood turned so swiftly.
So dangerously.
She would not fear him. “Then,” she said, keeping the tremble from her voice with effort, “it’s as well that I’m a woman.”