Page 3 of The Soldier
“I am not a gentleman,” the child ground out, standing on the sofa cushions and swatting at the earl’s hands, “and I do not want tobea gentleman.”
“Then you can be a pirate,” the earl reasoned. “But if you are eating my food, you shall do so with clean fingers.” He made a deft grab for the scruffy britches, yanking them down over narrow hips and bony knees with a swift jerk.
The child stood up on the sofa, naked and indignant.
“I am not a gentleman. I do not want to be a gentleman!”
“Jesus, God, and the Apostles!” The earl swiftly wrapped the child in his shirt and stood panting in shock. “You are a benighted damned female!”
“Do I still have to take a bath?”
***
“What is a benighted damned female?”
They were dining in the breakfast parlor because the earl refused to put his staff to the trouble of a formal evening meal for one person, and the breakfast parlor was closer to the kitchen. “You will forget I said that,” the earl instructed. “Elbows off the table, and what is your name?”
“Brat,” the child replied, elbows slipping out of sight. “My mama used to call me Winnie, but everybody else calls me brat.” The earl raised an eyebrow, and his dinner guest dropped her gaze. They called her worse than that, but he knew she wasn’t about to share it with him—yet.
“I will call you Miss Winnie. Where is your mama?”
“In heaven. May I have some more peas?”
“You are an unnatural child,” St. Just said as he spooned more buttered peas onto her plate. “Children abhor vegetables.”
“I like what comes out of the garden.” Winnie tucked into her peas as she spoke. The earl suspected, watching her consume her food with single-minded focus, she liked what came out of the garden because she could help herself to it all summer long.
“Then you will like apple tarts.”
“Do you like them?” Winnie didn’t take her eyes off her peas as she asked.
“No talking with your mouth full. I am very fond of apple tarts, particularly when made with lots of butter, cinnamon, and a brandy glaze. For pity’s sake, child, nobody is going to steal your peas.”
“Not if I eat them first.” Winnie tipped her plate to scrape the butter sauce onto her spoon.
“None of that.” The earl put the plate back down on the table. “You need to leave room for your apple tart.” He signaled a footman. “Miss Winnie will be having some very weak tea with her apple tart.”
“Of course, my lord.” The man bowed and began collecting plates, stoically ignoring the look of longing with which Winnie watched his departure.
“So tell me, Miss Winnie, did you enjoy the lavender bubbles?”
“They smelled like lavender but they weren’t lavender colored.” Winnie eyed the basket of rolls and the butter, the only food remaining on the table.
“You wanted purple bubbles in your bath?” St. Just almost smiled. “Fine earl you’ll make.”
Winnie’s chin came up. “I am Helmsley. My mama said so.”
“You can be Helmsley all you like, as long as you take your baths, say your prayers, and behave yourself. Who looks after you?”
A sly look came across the little girl’s features, or it would have been sly were it not such an obvious prelude to dissembling.
“A lady. She lives in a house down by the river.” The Ouse flowed past the western boundary of the property, so the earl concluded that like all good lies, this little tale was somewhat grounded in truth.
“Is she a nice lady?” the earl asked, wondering when the damned apple tarts would be arriving.
“She’s old, but she bakes pies and cakes and they smell ever so lovely, especially in winter. She has two cats, and they are hugely fat from eating cheese.”
The earl stifled another smile. “And what are their names? Scylla and Charybdis?”
