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That is,whomshe’d see, despite the early hour.
Lord Hawke didn’t seem to have the least idea how to behave like a proper dissipated earl. Perhaps when he was in London he spent every hour of his day like every other nobleman—that is,with sleeping, dressing and debauchery, but since he’d arrived at Hawke’s Run, he’d been astonishingly productive of a morning.
He didn’t appear at once, but the clock hadn’t yet chimed the quarter hour before he was striding across the stable yard dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, with a coat thrown over his shoulders, his dark hair mussed and bits of hay stuck to his boots.
She pressed closer to the window, so close the tip of her nose touched the cold glass, and braced her hand on the window sill, her breath held as the tall, broad shape approached the stable doors. He had something in his arms today. She couldn’t make out what it was from here, but it looked heavy—far too heavy to be merely a handful of treats—but it was certainly another offering to Hecate.
A velvet cushion, perhaps, or silk hanging for the sides of her pen? She pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a snort, but really, it wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed.
It had been the cream, the first time. She’d caught him out at that easily enough because he’d left the dish behind, but he’d grown cagier since that first morning, and she’d been obliged to paw about in the hay to find the remains of the morning’s treats.
Yesterday, it had been bits of salmon cutlet, though she might never have figured it out if Hecate, who was nothing if not discriminating hadn’t left the capers behind. The day before she’d found traces of what looked suspiciously like the pigeon pie they’d eaten for dinner the previous night. She’d even found a shriveled French bean, buried under the hay in a corner of the pen.
Cook would have a fit if she ever found out aboutthat. She was a bit sensitive about her French beans.
But it wasn’t just the treats. Each time she ventured into the stables after he’d gone, she found fresh hay spread over the floor of Hecate’s pen, with Hecate enthroned upon it, purring loudlylike a satisfied princess. For a gentleman who claimed to despise cats, Lord Hawke was awfully solicitous of Hecate’s comfort.
Strange doings, indeed.
She waited until Lord Hawke vanished into the stables, then flopped back down on the window seat. The maddening part was, as soon as daylight dawned, he was as aloof as he’d ever been, every inch the arrogant earl. If she hadn’t seen him herself, she never would have believed the demanding Earl of Hawke was the same man who was feeding bits of his dinner to a pregnant cat.
It was as if he were two different people.
It didn’t matter how much she poked and prodded, Lord Hawke wouldn’t confess a single word about his early morning visits to the stables. She’d brought him his tea for three afternoons in a row now, just so she might have a private moment to tease him into revealing himself, but no amount of hinting and wheedling would open the man’s stubborn lips.
She’d all but begged him to join her and the boys for another animal husbandry lesson, and even brought Hecate’s chart to his study in hopes of catching him out. In short, she’d given him every opportunity she could think of to admit he wasn’t the hard-hearted, cat-loathing man he pretended to be, all to no avail.
Why would he want to hide such a thing? It didn’t makesense, dash it.
Things that didn’t make sense irked her, and especially so inhiscase. No sooner did she make up her mind he was the most wretched man alive than she’d catch a glimpse of humanity under that snarling exterior.
Well, she’d had enough of it.
This morning would mark the final day of Lord Hawke’s sneaking about. Today, she was going to confront him with the evidence of his own kindness. Let him try and deny it when shepresented him with a handful of soggy bits of last night’s pork a la Boisseau.
The mantel clock had just chimed the five o’clock hour when Lord Hawke emerged from the stables, made his way back across the yard and disappeared into the castle. It would be ages yet before the boys rose from their beds. That left her plenty of time to sneak into the stables, paw about in the hay until she found what he’d brought Hecate, and then present him with the proof.
She abandoned her place in the window seat, hurried into her clothes and tiptoed down the dark staircase, pausing when she reached the bottom, but there was no sign of Lord Hawke, and his study door was closed. So, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen, let herself out the back door, and ran down the pathway to the stables.
Goodness, it was cold! She clapped her hands together to warm them, frosty clouds drifting from her lips and her boots slipping over the icy ground as she made her way to the stable door and slipped inside, pausing for a moment to listen.
Yes, there it was, the low, rhythmic buzz that had become so familiar of late.
It was Hecate, and she was purring. Loudly.
“What’s he brought you this time, you smug little thing?” She knelt in front of the pen, and stoked a careful hand over the silky orange fur. “You’re certainly pleased about something.”
Whatever Lord Hawke had left this time was well-hidden, however, and Hecate wasn’t telling his secrets. She scrambled about, pushing the hay this way and that, but either Lord Hawke had failed Hecate this morning, or the dratted cat had already devoured all the evidence.
What now, then? Dash it, there was nothing else for it but to wait until tomorrow, and try again. How excessively tiresome! But she couldn’t find what wasn’t there?—
Wait, what was that? A corner of something dark was sticking out from under Hecate’s right paw. Keeping an eye on the cat, she slid her hand underneath the furry body, and her fingertips landed on a thick, soft flannel.
There was something else, as well, something hard and warm, like…
No, it couldn’t be! How would he ever even think of it?
But it was. She lifted up the edge of the flannel, and there they were, arranged in a circle, the thick flannel over them to protect Hecate from their rough surface.