Page 5 of Tremaine's True Love
Tremaine left Lady Nita the unlit lamp and his handkerchief and made his way to the house. Nita Haddonfield was an earl’s daughter who understood the practicalities, and she didn’t dress her sentiments up in tedious dinner conversation. She was easily Tremaine’s favorite Haddonfield of the lot.
What a pity he’d have no time to get to know her.
* * *
In Nita’s experience, the best intelligence officers in any big family were found among the younger siblings. They began their careers while small, nonthreatening, and unobtrusive. By adolescence, they developed formidable powers of observation and recollection, to say nothing of an ability to lurk at keyholes and befriend the servants.
Thus, Nita started her morning with a visit to Della’s room. Her youngest sister liked to sleep late, a habit Della claimed would stand her in good stead when she made her come-out in the spring.
“Wake up, Baby Sister,” Nita said, exchanging a look with the chambermaid adding coal to the hearth. “It’s a new day and breakfast awaits.”
“Spring?” came from the tangle of pillows and blankets.
“Not yet, but Nicholas and George will eat up all the oranges if you tarry abed, and Kirsten will swill every last drop of chocolate.”
Nicholas, Kirsten, and George would gobble up every crumb on the breakfast sideboard given the opportunity. Ethan and Beckman were similarly fond of their victuals—as was Nita.
“Tray.” A croak that nonetheless sounded imperious.
“Leah permits only tea trays in the bedrooms in the morning,” Nita said, climbing onto Della’s bed. “She thinks we should join each other for the morning meal.” A fine theory, though Nita typically made it a habit to come down earlier or later than her siblings.
“Hate you.” Della’s dark crown disappeared beneath the covers.
Nita took an orange from her pocket and began to peel it while she waited for the maid to leave.
“I have a few questions, and I’m willing to bargain for the answers,” Nita said when privacy was assured and the peel stripped from the orange.
“Go away, Nita.”
“I’ll bargain with fresh sections of a sweet, juicy orange.”
Della flipped the covers down to peer at her sister. “Fiend. What do you want to know?”
Nita held out a bite of fresh fruit, which was like dangling a bit of haddock before a barn cat. “Tell me about Mr. St. Michael.”
Della took the piece of orange. “He’s here to transact business with Nicholas, at least nominally. Something about the woolly sheep Papa bought from the King all those years ago. This is a divine orange.”
Nita helped herself to a bite. “It’s quite good. You’re sure Nicholas isn’t matchmaking?”
“He might be, or maybe Leah is,” Della said, pushing to a sitting position and accepting the rest of the orange. “Kirsten was convivial at dinner, and Mr. St. Michael made Susannah blush.”
“Kirsten was convivial in a pleasant way or a Kirsten way?” For Kirsten was beset with a restlessness that could make her a difficult conversation partner for the average, unsuspecting gentleman.
Della munched philosophically on another section of orange. “Kirsten behaved, which was interesting. Mr. St. Michael spouted some poem about a mouse, and Susannah was impressed.”
Nita was impressed with Mr. St. Michael as well. For starts, he hadn’t had a fit of the vapors when she’d put up her own horse last night. Men, particularly gentlemen, were prone to the vapors, in Nita’s experience. Mr. St. Michael had instead helped when Nita had asked it of him.
How lovely, to meet a man whohelpedrather than fussed and scolded.
Nita had also been impressed with Mr. St. Michael’s voice, which had blended beguilingly with night shadows and winter-brilliant stars. His burr hinted of far-off hills and the canny competence of a man who’d bested life on his own terms, rather than through hereditary advantages. He spoke slowly, though Nita had no doubt his mind was as nimble as a baby goat.
Despite his canniness, Mr. St. Michael’s company in the frigid little gazebo had been restful. He didn’t presume or put on airs. He smelled good, and he was of a size with Nita’s brothers while being far less inclined to share his opinions uninvited.
His features were not refined, having already acquired a weathered quality about his eyes, and yet his looks would change little as he aged. He’d become distinguished, and he already managed to be formidable, for all his unassuming ways.
Nita could not see Mr. St. Michael spouting poetry though, much less about a mouse. Shrewd of him, to realize literary matters were dear to Susannah’s heart.
“I’m glad Mr. St. Michael trotted out his poetry for Susannah,” Nita said. “He’ll remind Suze that the list of eligibles does not begin and end with Edward Nash.” Though the present list of suitors for Susannah’s hand did.
