Ruth Langan by Blackthorne

much so that he ordered her to prepare it every night of his life.”
    “Then tell her to feed it to my grandfather. And tell her also, if she serves mutton again tomorrow, she may well be joining my grandfather in his grave.”
    “Aye, m’lord. I’ll tell that churlish, boil-brained harpy myself.” The housekeeper turned the full weight of her anger and embarrassment on the innocent servant. “Take this maggot-pie back to the scullery and feed it to the animals. That’s all it’s good for.”
    Shocked, Olivia looked from Lord Quenton to the housekeeper. “You can’t mean that. You wouldn’t feed this to the animals.”
    Quenton glowered at her. “And why not?”
    “Because the servants are probably making do with little more than bread crusts and gruel.” The words were out of her mouth before she could snatch them back. Too late, she remembered where such a seed had been planted. By the servant Edlyn. “They would probably consider such a meal as this heaven-sent.”
    The housekeeper’s jaw dropped. In her entire life, no one had ever dared to speak to the lord in such a manner. She looked toward Lord Quenton, whose dark gaze was fixed on the young nursemaid with such intensity, everyone in the room could feel the heat.
    “Are you suggesting that my mutton should be given to the servants?”
    “Your mutton, my lord? I thought you said it was Cook’s mutton? Did you not suggest you would have Cook’s head if she should dare to fix it again?”
    Bennett, whose plate was heaped with food, and who had yet to taste a bite of it, swiveled his head to stare at his brother. His eyes seemed too big in his pale face.
    Behind Lord Quenton, Pembroke stood stiff as a fence post, his face showing no emotion. But he was watching this battle of wills with great interest.
    “It may prove to be Cook’s head. Or...someone else’s,” Quenton said pointedly. “But I’ll remind you it is my food, Miss St. John. And I’ll say who will eat it and who will not.” He pounded a fist on the table. “Mistress Thornton.”
    The housekeeper cowered as she moved closer, anticipating an explosion.
    “Is it true that the servants are eating bread and gruel?”
    “N-nay, m’lord. Well...that is, rarely. Only when Cook’s in a snit over something said by one of the servants. But they have meat and soup at least thrice a week. Ofttimes even more than that.”
    His lips thinned. “Then they are better fed than if they found employment somewhere else?”
    “Oh, aye, my lord. All in the village are eager to serve at Blackthorne. It has been thus since the time of your great-grandfather.”
    “Thank you, Mistress Thornton. Take this to the servants’ quarters.” Though he was speaking to the housekeeper, he kept his gaze fixed on the insolent nursemaid. “Tell them I hope they enjoy the mutton.”
    For a moment Mistress Thornton was speechless. Then, recovering, she gave the serving wench a shove. “Go on with ye, now. Ye heard Lord Stamford. Tell all those yeasty, clay-brained mammets to be grateful for his lordship’s generosity.”
    As the servant stumbled from the room the housekeeper snatched the arm of another servant and pushed her forward. “Perhaps ye and yer brother would like some fowl, m’lord.”
    For the space of several more seconds he glowered at Olivia. Then, dragging his gaze away, he helped himself to a joint of fowl and motioned for the wench to serve the others.
    Olivia glanced at Bennett, who had not eaten a thing. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”
    Quenton spoke through gritted teeth. “Have you no care for his feelings, Miss St. John? I told you my brother cannot speak.”
    “So you have said. But there is nothing wrong with his hearing, is there?” She turned toward his brother. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”
    The young man glanced up at her, then looked away, before giving a slight nod of his head.
    “I’ll fetch Minerva,” the housekeeper muttered nervously. “She’s a