Page 60 of While You Were Spying

“My lord,” Pocket tried again, wringing his hands. “Although these Dashings are somewhat rustic, I am told that theydodress for dinner. I hope you will reconsider.”

Opening the letter, Ethan shook his head. “There’s no need. I won’t go down to dinner.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I would go to the hospital.” He would have to speak to her father again tomorrow. Francesca couldn’t be allowed to remain in the hospital after dark. He knew she could be stubborn, but she was coming into the house if he had to drag her, kicking and screaming.

“But isn’t the hospital a sort ofkennel, my lord?”

Ethan looked up. Pocket’s face had gone white, his hand clutching his throat. “There must be quite a bit of fur and-and animal hair about the place, my lord.” Pocket cast a protective eye over the clothes he’d lain out.

“She keeps it very clean,” Ethan assured him, sitting down at the small desk chair.

Pocket gave him a dubious look, bestowed a last forlorn glance upon the clothing, then reluctantly began to place it back in the wardrobe. Ethan turned his attention to Alex’s missive, but with all of Pocket’s sighs and banging of drawers and cupboards, he couldn’t focus.

“Pocket.” He barely managed to keep the exasperation from his voice.

“My lord?” Pocket paused in mid-slamming of the wardrobe door, his tone all innocence.

“I need a favor.”

“Of course, my lord.”

His stomach rumbled, and he grasped at the first thought that came to mind. “Go to the kitchen and have the cook prepare a second tray to take to the hospital.” He dropped the letter on the desk and did a mental double check of the plan now formulating in his mind. When Pocket was already at the door, he added, “On second thought, forget the tray. Tell the cook to put enough for two in a basket.” He smiled. “And a bottle of wine. And tell him I’ll be down in a moment to take it to the hospital myself.”

Pocket was too well trained to allow his jaw to drop, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from bulging. “Apicnic, my lord?”

“Exactly.”

“Indoors?”

Ethan crossed his arms. “You have some objection?”

“Not at all, my lord.” But the valet continued to stare at him as though he were a piece of lint marring a coat. “It is—it seems—”

Ethan arched an eyebrow.

“Romantic,” Pocket muttered.

What the devil did that mean? “Icanbe romantic, Pocket.” Not that his idea had anything to do with romance. It was purely for appearances. Had nothing whatsoever to do with romance—or the knowledge that Francesca had at one time pined, and might stillbepining, for him.

“Of course, my lord.” The valet looked skeptical. “You are most romantic.”

Ethan frowned, beginning to question the whole idea, not to mention his sanity.

Pocket stepped forward. “If I might make one suggestion, my lord.”

“Go ahead,” Ethan said with a sigh.

His seventy-year-old valet had romantic advice to impart. What next?

“Gingerbread, sir.” Pocket said with a bob of his head.

Ethan blinked. “Gingerbread?”

“Yes, my lord. Miss Dashing adores it. Apparently, the only dessert she prefers to gingerbread is—” He scowled, trying to remember. “Ah! Chocolate tarts.”

“You’re a fount of culinary information, Pocket.”

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