His bow and the attention it drew to his clothing told her everything she needed to know. This man was no crime lord. He was of her father’s ilk. Her ilk, when she was playing the part of Lady Juliana in Mayfair drawing rooms. His dark coat fit snugly over broad shoulders, his cravat was snowy white against bronze skin, and his breeches strained quite nicely over muscled thighs…
She tried to speak over the pounding of her heart. “You will forgive me, sir, if I do not recall having met you before.” She hadn’t met him. If she’d met him, she would not have forgotten.
“My lady,” he said in a deep voice, “it is you who must forgive me.” He had a cultured British accent with no hint of the Spanish or Italian that must run in his blood. “I’m sorry to call on you without notice. I do, however, have letters of introduction from your father and mine.” He reached in the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small packet of papers. He handed them over smoothly, his hand gloved hand brushing hers. Her heart thudded again, and she looked up at his face. He was perfect, so handsome that he did not seem real. If he’d asked her to dance a waltz, she’d have said yes and suffered her father’s displeasure. What she wouldn’t give to press against his strong, muscled body.
The man cleared his throat and raised his brows. Julia realized she had been staring too long and hadn’t offered him a seat.
“Where are my manners?” she said, keeping her eyes down. He must think her a complete ninny. And she was! If she looked at him again, she’d probably start drooling. “Please sit. I should offer you tea, but my cook just—” Quite suddenly she remembered the bread and the oatmeal.
“Oh dear God.” Dropping the letters, she hurried toward the door. Why hadn’t she smelled the smoke earlier? Her bread was burning!
Unfortunately, her guest blocked the door, and she swerved to the side to avoid colliding with his shoulder. That sudden motion brought her hip in contact with the table near the door, which held the box of rats. She’d placed it precariously close to the edge—that was her fault—and at the collision, it tumbled toward the floor. Uttering a shriek, she bent and caught the box, but one of the rats—Mark, she thought—managed to catch his little paws on the edge and began to climb out. Julia shoved the box under her arm, caught the little creature before he could escape, tucked him in the small silk pocket tied under her gown, and raced for the kitchen.
Behind her, the visitor muttered, “What the hell?”
Julia didn’t have time for explanations. She spotted Robbie’s concerned face peering out of the dining room. At eleven, he was one of the older orphans and had stick-straight, brown hair framing a long, amply freckled face. The children’s din had quieted now, as they had probably smelled the smoke as well and realized their breakfast was in jeopardy.
“My lady! I smelled—” Robbie began.
She raised a hand. “I am on my way, Robbie.”
She burst through the door to the kitchen. Smoke filled the area near the oven, its acrid smell making her nostrils burn. She placed the box of rodents on a chair near the worktable and grabbed the first towel her hand landed on, a thin one for dish drying. Wrapping her hand, she used the towel to open the oven door. More black smoke poured out. Waving the towel to disperse the smoke and coughing so hard her lungs burned, Julia reached in and took hold of the bread. As soon as she had it free of the oven, she realized the towel was scant protection from the heat of the charred bread.
“Ow!” She tossed the bread in the air, catching it again so it would not land on the floor, just in case it was salvageable. She quickly dumped it on the worktable and frowned at the charred loaf.
“May I be of some assistance?” her too-handsome guest asked, stepping gingerly into the kitchen.
Julia refrained from moaning. She had no time to mourn the loss of the bread. She might still save the oats. A quick glance at the hearth showed the oats bubbling over the big black pot. Mindful of her raw hand, she took a moment to locate the thick, quilted mitten, slip it on her hand, and pull the pot away from the fire. She lifted the large spoon hanging nearby and stirred the oatmeal. The top layer of mush ceased bubbling onto the floor, but the oats at the bottom stuck fast to the pot. Breakfast had been burned.
Tears stung her eyes.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” the visitor asked from the door.
She heaved out a sigh. “Not unless you can repair burnt oatmeal or bake bread.”
“I confess I have no talent in either arena. Was that the children’s breakfast?” Abruptly, the man took a step back. “Uh, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you have a mouse in your pocket.”
She looked down to where Mark’s head poked out. “It’s a rat,” she said. Think, Juliana. There must be something else you can prepare.
If only she had restocked the larder, but the shelves were all but bare.
“My mistake.”
Mark had wriggled to the edge of her pocket, and she caught him before he could make a bid for freedom. There had to be more oats, and she knew there were potatoes. Potatoes took so long to cook, though…
“Here.” She held the rat out to her visitor absently. He took a large step back, his gaze telling her exactly how daft he thought her.
“Will you hold him for a moment?” she asked in exasperation. “I need to search for something to cook.”
“No, I will not.”
“Oh, don’t be missish. He’s harmless.”
“Missish?” His blue eyes narrowed.
She shoved Mark into the visitor’s hands. The visitor made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a curse, but he held the animal securely while she searched cabinets and shelves.
“If that was breakfast,” the visitor said, “perhaps you could have the cook start on the noon meal. It’s nigh eleven.”
“I don’t have a cook,” she said, the feeling of hopelessness growing as she found nothing but empty drawers and bins. “She quit this morning.”
Silence.
“Then perhaps your lady’s maid—”
“She quit last week.”
“Your manservant then. Allow me to send the man to fetch bread or pies from one of the street vendors.”
She rose, wishing she could disappear, just for an hour, back to her Mayfair life, with its scones and drinking chocolate. “I would,” she said with a sigh, “but I don’t have the coin to spare.”
“Then allow me.”
She whirled to face him. “I cannot do that, sir.”
“I would gladly pay the price if it meant I could relinquish my role as rat holder.”
She almost laughed. “I do apologize.” She took Mark from him and placed him in the box that served as the rats’ cage. “My manners are sorely lacking this morning.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” His gaze met hers, and she found it hard to breathe with those Mediterranean Sea eyes so focused on her. Had she ever known a man this handsome? She didn’t think so, and she had known many handsome men. She’d had her share of Seasons and beaux over the years. She realized she’d once again stared at him too long when he lifted a brow.
“How many more of those are you wearing?” he asked with a nod at the box of rats.
“Just the one. There are three in total.” She lifted the box so he could see, but he didn’t even lean forward to catch a glimpse. “Their names are Matthew, Mark, and Luke,” she said, knowing she was babbling now and wishing she would simply shut up.
“What happened to John?”
“We don’t discuss John.”
His eyes almost smiled at her then, though his mouth remained tight. “I understand. Give me a quarter hour, and I’ll return with warm food.”
“Really, Mr…sir. I cannot allow you to do that.”
“Lady Juliana,” he said, already starting for the door. “You cannot stop me.” He paused and looked back at her. “And you look like you need all the help you can muster.”
With that, he was gone. She sank into the chair and would have cried, except that she did need help and just the knowledge this man would take care of breakfast was one small weight off her shoulders. But that weight was quickly replaced by a glance at the state of the kitchen. It was in shambles, and without the cook here, she would be the one to clean it.
“My lady?” Robbie stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Robbie?”