An Earl For The Shy Widow

Lady Petra smiled. ‘I have always had an interest in plants. How about you, Lord Longhurst?’

He grimaced. ‘I enjoy eating what the land produces, my lady, but my knowledge beyond that is severely limited. But not for long, I hope.’

The little maid carried in an assortment of dishes, including a magnificent roast of beef, assorted vegetables and puddings.

Having carved the roast and made sure each lady’s plate was full, Ethan got down to eating his own meal with a will. Food like this had not been coming his way recently.

The conversation, led by Lady Marguerite, revolved around the weather, the need for a church roof and some information about other families in the neighbourhood.

Finally, Ethan, put down his knife and fork. ‘That was the best meal I have had in months, if not years.’

Lady Marguerite looked pleased. ‘Surely you exaggerate, my lord.’

‘Not at all. Everything was cooked to perfection. Your chef is to be complimented.’

‘Actually, she is not our cook,’ Lady Petra said. ‘We hired her for the day.’

He frowned. ‘Do cooks hire themselves out by the day?’

‘Not as a general rule, but she is looking for a permanent post near to Westram. We do not need a full-time cook, unfortunately.’

Everyone needed a full-time cook if they could afford one. Again, his irritation at Westram’s niggardliness with his sisters raised its head. But it was none of his business. Indeed, he had no idea why he would care.

‘Perhaps you would like to hire her,’ Lady Petra suggested idly. Too idly. He narrowed his eyes on her face. Why was she so interested in his household arrangements? The sort of arrangements that would normally be within a wife’s purview. Was she seeing herself in that role? No doubt she thought an earl would be a very good catch.

Even so, the thought of having meals like this on a regular basis was so tempting as to make Ethan’s mouth water.

‘Are you sure I would not be depriving you of her services, if I hired her?’

‘Oh, no,’ Lady Petra said airily. ‘Becky manages our everyday needs and, since we rarely entertain, we do not have need of a cook. Mrs Stone comes highly recommended. Indeed, she used to work at Longhurst Park years ago, so she should fit right in. And it would mean she could live at home with her family.’

The lady did protest too much. He frowned. ‘Did you invite me to dinner so I might be convinced to hire this woman?’

Lady Marguerite looked embarrassed.

‘Is it so terrible?’ Lady Petra asked. ‘Is it not our duty to help our neighbours and friends? Besides, what better way to know if she will suit than to sample her skills?’

She looked a little disgruntled. What? Had she not expected him to see through her ploy? Was she like so many others, including his father, who thought him lacking in intelligence because of his size?

Indeed, he also felt a little disgruntled. He had thought—well, perhaps vaguely hoped—she had invited him because she valued his company, but it seemed that it had been an attempt to manipulate him into hiring a cook. A very fine cook, to be sure, but he did not intend to be manipulated by any woman ever again, especially after his lucky escape from Sarah.

The maid entered with a tray containing desserts. A fruit compote, an apple pie and a lemon mousse. Everyone served themselves. Ethan partook of the pie and a little of the mousse.

Any idea of resistance immediately disappeared. Mentally he shook his head at what he knew would next be coming out of his mouth. Complete and utter surrender. ‘Ask the cook to report for duty as soon as she is able.’

Both ladies seemed happy with his pronouncement, Lady Petra exceedingly so, blast the woman. O’Cleary would be delighted in the extreme. Ethan, however, could not quite shake his earlier sense of being ambushed once again.

From now on it would be best if he avoided Lady Petra completely.

Chapter Four (#u0ecbcbdd-3d44-5eaf-bcd6-f10ffc4d963c)

As was their usual wont on a Thursday, Petra and Marguerite walked to the village of Westram. Their first stop was the post office.

‘Quite a few letters for you today, Lady Marguerite,’ Mr Barker, the postmaster, said. ‘And one for you, Lady Petra. Franked, they are.’ He beamed, his red wrinkled cheeks looking like apples left too long in the sun.

All the letters had been franked by Westram or by Lord Avery’s father—a duke, no less. Their connections to the nobility seemed to thrill Mr Barker, as if somehow the more noble the frank, the higher it lifted those who lived in the village.

‘Thank you, Barker,’ Marguerite said, stuffing the letters into her reticule after a glance at the sender’s name and address.

‘One is from Lord Westram,’ Mr Barker said. ‘Will he be visiting you any time soon?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Marguerite said, handing over her outgoing letters and opening her purse.

Perhaps Lord Longhurst will be good enough to frank them for you?’ he said, gesturing to the window with his chin.

Across the road, Lord Longhurst was talking to the Vicar’s wife, Mrs Beckridge. ‘That will not be necessary,’ Marguerite said.

Marguerite hated asking anyone for anything. She was determined they would be completely independent. While she had not said anything at the time, she had been quite disturbed when their sister-in-law, Carrie, married so soon after they moved to Westram. Disappointed, Petra had thought, though Marguerite had hidden it well. It had certainly made their task of living independently a little more difficult, despite the fact that Carrie’s new husband did all in his power to assist.

Their mail dealt with, they went back out into the street. Mrs Beckridge waved them over. Petra would have preferred to ignore her, since she tended to pry. Also, the thought of meeting the Earl made her feel hot and cold by turns. There was something about the man that fascinated her, she had discovered at dinner the other evening, and the strength of those feelings made her uncomfortable. However, since Marguerite was already crossing the street, she could hardly put her head down and walk the other way.

‘Lady Marguerite, Lady Petra,’ Mrs Beckridge gushed. ‘How lovely to see you.’

Longhurst bowed. ‘A pleasure, Lady Marguerite, Lady Petra.’

Petra curtsied. ‘Lord Longhurst.’

‘I was right at this moment telling His Lordship about the gypsies who have taken up residence in Crabb’s Wood at the edge of his land. I am sure you ladies will agree with me when I say something really should be done about them.’ She made the pronouncement in a voice of doom as if predicting the end of the world.

‘What sort of something?’ Petra asked.

‘Why, chase them off, of course. We don’t need the likes of them around here, stealing babies and washing off the line.’

Marguerite frowned. ‘Whose baby did they steal?’

‘No one’s as yet,’ the Vicar’s wife admitted. ‘But as I mentioned to my dear husband this very morning, it would be preferable not to give them the chance.’

‘Utter rubbish,’ Marguerite said with a shake of her head.

‘The Vicar thinks I should chase them off, does he?’ Longhurst asked.

‘Well, it is your land they are sitting on. Disgraceful people. Next, they will be knocking on doors selling charms for warts or lucky heather. Most un-Christian behaviour.’

‘A gypsy band used to camp near Danesbury when we were children,’ Marguerite said.

‘Our papa always hired them to help with the harvest,’ Petra added. ‘It was why they came back year after year. We certainly never had any trouble with them. Why not offer them the job of cutting your hay, Lord Longhurst? I wouldn’t be surprised if a previous earl used their services and that’s why they set up camp on your land.’

Mrs Beckridge made a sound of disapproval. ‘Not with my husband’s approval, I assure you, Lord Longhurst.’