them in that barely noticeable way of his that made him such an asset to the Home Office. “I hardly think, Miss Murray, you want to learn how Roxley was floored by a little girl.”
Harriet whirled around. Did everyone know about Miss Murray except her?
Apparently so.
“I was only ten,” the earl was protesting. “And I hardly expected a little girl to—”
Then everyone had to add their own version of the story.
Wasn’t that the first time you ever visited Foxgrove?
. . . summoned up for inspection and . . .
Harry’s temper . . .
Our mother was horrified.
“Whatever happened?” Miss Murray asked, stopping the flow of chatter and catching everyone by surprise with the authoritative tone in her voice.
“Nothing,” Roxley and Harriet said at once.
Miss Murray turned her smile toward Chaunce. “Will you tell me, Mr. Hathaway?”
Harriet hoped her dark glance at her brother told him all too clearly that Roxley’s long ago fate would soon be his if he dared open his mouth.
But being a Hathaway, Chaunce dared.
And while he did, Roxley remembered.
Kempton, Surrey
1792
“L ady Hathaway and her offspring, ma’am,” the butler at Foxgrove intoned in ominous tones. “All of them.”
“ All of them? ” Lady Essex muttered under her breath with a mixture of horror and indignation as she glanced around her perfectly ordered salon and then at the bustling mother hen—all ribbons and bows—who was shooing her brood into the room.
The mistress of Foxgrove was not happy, and her brows arched imperiously as she sent a withering stare down at her nephew, the Earl of Roxley.
He might be only eleven, well, nearly eleven, but Roxley knew the necessity of this visit was going to be counted against him.
Aunt Essex was most likely worried about her collection of china figurines or the chinoiserie vase she held in such high esteem.
Not that Roxley cared about a few painted shepherdesses or that ugly dragon of a pot. He was rather more dismayed by the horde of children lining up in front of him.
Six of them. All tall and rather strapping.
So this was what the doctor had meant when he’d told Aunt Eleanor that a summer in the country would help him catch up with the other boys his age.
Roxley gulped. What did he know of boys his own age? He’d lived with his various maiden aunts most of his life.
The aforementioned Lady Hathaway bobbed a curtsy to Lady Essex and launched into the long process of introducing the children, the names whirling off her tongue. “George, Chauncy, Benedict, Benjamin, Quinton, and my dearest, darling daughter, Harriet.”
The boys all chortled a bit, and then remembering themselves—that is, after a quelling glance from their mother—they straightened in unison.
Roxley looked down the line of Hathaways searching for which of them might be the girl.
He’d seen girls in the park and they were frilly affairs with fluffy petticoats and ringlets. From what he could see, the one at the end was wearing breeches and a patched coat. Certainly there was no sign of tidy ringlets in the dark strands of hair that stuck out at all angles. “You’re a girl?”
“I’m Harry,” she corrected. “My name is Harry.” A replica of her brothers, right down to the coal black hair and startling green eyes, she stepped forward, arms crossed over her narrow chest, her nose crinkled up as she looked him up and down. She sniffed and turned her gaze toward the suit of armor standing in the corner.
Roxley shifted. What the devil did he care if he’d been all but dismissed by a little girl?
But for some reason, what this little girl thought mattered.
He’d worry about the why later.
“You don’t look like a girl,” he told her, a statement which brought a hearty round of guffaws and laughter from her brothers.
“Well, I am a girl. And one day, Mama says you’ll want to marry me. With any luck, that is.”
A stunned silence filled the large parlor. Had this wretched little imp
Harriet whirled around. Did everyone know about Miss Murray except her?
Apparently so.
“I was only ten,” the earl was protesting. “And I hardly expected a little girl to—”
Then everyone had to add their own version of the story.
Wasn’t that the first time you ever visited Foxgrove?
. . . summoned up for inspection and . . .
Harry’s temper . . .
Our mother was horrified.
“Whatever happened?” Miss Murray asked, stopping the flow of chatter and catching everyone by surprise with the authoritative tone in her voice.
“Nothing,” Roxley and Harriet said at once.
Miss Murray turned her smile toward Chaunce. “Will you tell me, Mr. Hathaway?”
Harriet hoped her dark glance at her brother told him all too clearly that Roxley’s long ago fate would soon be his if he dared open his mouth.
But being a Hathaway, Chaunce dared.
And while he did, Roxley remembered.
Kempton, Surrey
1792
“L ady Hathaway and her offspring, ma’am,” the butler at Foxgrove intoned in ominous tones. “All of them.”
“ All of them? ” Lady Essex muttered under her breath with a mixture of horror and indignation as she glanced around her perfectly ordered salon and then at the bustling mother hen—all ribbons and bows—who was shooing her brood into the room.
The mistress of Foxgrove was not happy, and her brows arched imperiously as she sent a withering stare down at her nephew, the Earl of Roxley.
He might be only eleven, well, nearly eleven, but Roxley knew the necessity of this visit was going to be counted against him.
Aunt Essex was most likely worried about her collection of china figurines or the chinoiserie vase she held in such high esteem.
Not that Roxley cared about a few painted shepherdesses or that ugly dragon of a pot. He was rather more dismayed by the horde of children lining up in front of him.
Six of them. All tall and rather strapping.
So this was what the doctor had meant when he’d told Aunt Eleanor that a summer in the country would help him catch up with the other boys his age.
Roxley gulped. What did he know of boys his own age? He’d lived with his various maiden aunts most of his life.
The aforementioned Lady Hathaway bobbed a curtsy to Lady Essex and launched into the long process of introducing the children, the names whirling off her tongue. “George, Chauncy, Benedict, Benjamin, Quinton, and my dearest, darling daughter, Harriet.”
The boys all chortled a bit, and then remembering themselves—that is, after a quelling glance from their mother—they straightened in unison.
Roxley looked down the line of Hathaways searching for which of them might be the girl.
He’d seen girls in the park and they were frilly affairs with fluffy petticoats and ringlets. From what he could see, the one at the end was wearing breeches and a patched coat. Certainly there was no sign of tidy ringlets in the dark strands of hair that stuck out at all angles. “You’re a girl?”
“I’m Harry,” she corrected. “My name is Harry.” A replica of her brothers, right down to the coal black hair and startling green eyes, she stepped forward, arms crossed over her narrow chest, her nose crinkled up as she looked him up and down. She sniffed and turned her gaze toward the suit of armor standing in the corner.
Roxley shifted. What the devil did he care if he’d been all but dismissed by a little girl?
But for some reason, what this little girl thought mattered.
He’d worry about the why later.
“You don’t look like a girl,” he told her, a statement which brought a hearty round of guffaws and laughter from her brothers.
“Well, I am a girl. And one day, Mama says you’ll want to marry me. With any luck, that is.”
A stunned silence filled the large parlor. Had this wretched little imp
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