A Wicked Gentleman by Jane Feather Page B

china.”
    â€œFair enough,” Livia agreed. “Let’s see what else we have in the way of china.”
    â€œI’m going to explore the cellar,” Cornelia said, slipping the thimble into her apron pocket. “Do you have the key, Morecombe?”
    â€œAye, mum. Haven’t been down there in a while,” he said, pulling his broomstick out of the chimney, bringing a fine cloud of soot with it. “Lady Sophia weren’t much fer wine. She took a small glass o’ port of an evening, but that was about all.”
    â€œIs there anything worth drinking down there?”
    â€œOh, aye, reckon so.” He pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of his britches and fumbled through them, holding each one up to his eye for closer inspection. “The old earl, Lady Sophia’s brother that was, kept a good cellar.”
    â€œHow long ago did he die?” Cornelia asked somewhat doubtfully.
    â€œOh, twenty year at least,” the old man said, and shuffled across the kitchen to the door that led down into the cellar.
    â€œGhoulies and ghosties,” Cornelia said with a mock shiver. “If no one’s been down there in twenty years, what do you think I’ll find?”
    By evening they had the kitchen functioning, cooking fires lit, and the twins were engaged in some form of cooking although Cornelia and her companions had little confidence in the outcome of their efforts. But at least the children had been given a supper that met with Linton’s approval, and they were ensconced in the nursery suite in relative warmth.
    â€œFire’s lit in Lady Sophia’s parlor, Lady Livia,” Morecombe announced, coming into the kitchen where the three women were taking stock of their achievements. “And I’ve opened a bottle of that burgundy you wanted brought up, m’lady.” He nodded towards Cornelia.
    â€œDid you fill the decanters too?” she asked.
    â€œAye,” he said.
    â€œThere was a butt of quite passable sherry down there,” Cornelia said, as they left the kitchen. “And a pipe of port, barely breached, and another cask of Madeira. The old earl knew what he was about. At least we’ll be able to warm the cockles even if we don’t get anything palatable to eat.”
    â€œI wonder what they cooked for Aunt Sophia,” Livia commented as she opened the door to the only room in the house that had borne any signs of recent habitation. “I don’t think she left this room in years.”
    It was an overstuffed, shabby parlor at the rear of the house, and that morning it had had the rather unpleasant aroma of old dusty fabric, overlaid with an odd stale flowery perfume, candle wax, and ashes from the cold grate. A day with the windows open had freshened the air, and the grate had been black leaded, the furniture polished with beeswax, and the carpets and upholstery subjected to a vigorous carpet beater. It was not a room one would ever call elegant, or even warmly comfortable, but it was a tolerable refuge.
    Cornelia poured sherry, and the three of them sank down into sagging armchairs with small groans of relief. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in my life,” Livia remarked. “I ache from head to toe.”
    â€œI would love a bath,” Aurelia murmured, taking a long sip of her sherry. “But it’ll take far too long to heat the water, then who’s going to lug it all the way upstairs. Morecombe doesn’t look as if he could carry a tray, let alone enough water for a bath.”
    â€œWe’ll tackle that issue tomorrow,” Cornelia said, kicking off her shoes. She stretched her feet to the fender and wriggled her toes in the fire’s warmth with a little whimper of pleasure. “And talking of tomorrow, Liv. Will you receive the uncivilized viscount? I wouldn’t,” she added. “I’d send him off with a flea in his ear.”
    â€œDon’t