of clothes. “We’ll use your shirts to dry you off. Come along, Jeremiah. You’re probably going to want to look in on Miss Portman.”
“We are?” Jeremiah looked confused as he scrubbed at himself with his shirt.
“Of course you are. You must report your history lessons to her, just as you did your earlier efforts regarding the fable of the heroic pismire.”
“Pismire!” Joshua exploded into peals of laughter. “You’re a pismire. Jeremiah Pis-a-miah Nicholas Grey!”
“Hush.” Ethan tossed Joshua’s shirt gently at the child’s face.
“Or you’ll thrash him silly,” Jeremiah suggested, not just smiling but grinning.
Ethan nodded gravely. “I’ll thrash him hysterical and change his name to Pismire Nicholas Grey.”
“Oooh.” Jeremiah pointed at his little brother. “Now who’s a pismire?”
“You’re both pismires.” Ethan did not smile, though it was a near thing. “And you make too much noise. Gather up your shoes, and let’s storm the fortress yonder. They’re bound to have some victuals for a couple of weary soldiers like yourselves.”
“I’m thirsty, too,” Joshua said, gathering up two shoes and his shirt. “I forget where my smalls are.”
“Here.” Jeremiah tossed them to him. “But they might have ants in them—pismires for a pismire.”
“Do they?” Joshua looked at his father worriedly, unwilling to touch the offending clothing at his feet.
“Hardly matters.” Ethan snatched up the tiny underclothes. “You aren’t in them. Now can we please move along?”
He shooed the boys into the house through the kitchen, pausing to make sure they got some lemonade and buttered bread, then had them stop off in the laundry for a quick, hot bath. Both boys occupied the same tub, to save time heating water and to encourage them to soak long enough to get some dirt off. By the time Ethan ushered them up the steps to their suite, they were both considerably more subdued than they’d been earlier.
“Shall we stop off to see Miss Portman?” Ethan suggested, knowing
“Let’s,” Jeremiah said. “She will want to know we went swimming, and saved the empire, and ate raspberries.”
“Not in that order.” Ethan did smile at the business of a boy’s summer day. “But she will want to know.”
They found her in her room, addressing a stack of correspondence. She was in her comfortable dress, her braid a little less tidy, her eyes tired but devoid of the choking worry Ethan had seen in them earlier.
“We’ve come to see how you fare,” Ethan said, “and to regale you with tales of the day.”
She smiled and sank onto her settee, patting the cushions on either side of her. “Come and tell me what has passed this day while I’ve languished for lack of the company of my dearest little gentlemen.”
The boys gamboled over like the puppies they were, leaving Ethan to lower himself to the delicate chair behind Miss Portman’s escritoire. Even on short acquaintance, his sons were comfortable with her. They tucked right up against her sides, cuddling in as if she were a favorite aunt—or uncle.
Absently, Ethan’s eyes strayed to the letters stacked on the corner of the blotter. There were a half dozen or so, addressed in a tidy, flowing hand. His gaze fell on the top one, and he wasn’t meaning to read, much less pry, but the name on the envelope was familiar to him.
So what, what in the bloody blue blazes, was Alice Portman doing writing to the private investigator kept on Nicholas Haddonfield’s personal payroll?
Alice was wearing a big, fat, cheery smile when she dragged the boys into the breakfast parlor. “Good morning, Mr. Grey! How fortunate to see you so early in the day.”
“The good fortune is entirely mine.” Ethan reserved the irony in his smile for Alice. “Joshua, Jeremiah, which of us will have the privilege of seating Miss Portman?”
Two little faces regarded Ethan blankly.
“Oh, very well.” He stepped behind their governess, treating himself to a whiff of lemons. “I’ve had my first cup of tea, so I will demonstrate, but I won’t be doing this every day. You fellows must occasionally pitch in. Miss Portman?”
She sank gracefully into her seat with a murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Grey,” for the benefit of their rapt audience.
“Where do we sit?” Joshua asked, frowning.
“In the other two chairs,” Ethan said. “Now, since I am taller than either of you, I will prepare your plates, lest you pull the entire sideboard over while you search out your preferences. Joshua?”
“Can I see it?” Joshua gestured to the buffet laid out just higher than his line of sight.
“Of course.” Ethan scooped him onto his hip. “Let’s inspect, shall we?” He explained each selection to his son, answered more questions than one typical breakfast buffet ought to engender, and reached compromises that created a breakfast of more than just jam and chocolate.
“Jeremiah, you aren’t going to let your little brother be the only one to eat well, are you?”
“I can see it,” Jeremiah groused, though he was only an inch or so taller than his younger brother.
Ethan came down on his haunches and whispered to his son, “How am I to cadge a morning hug without Miss Portman gawking at me?” Jeremiah’s dubious expression confirmed that Ethan was taking a gamble, but then the boy cracked his rare, dear smile and threw his arms around Ethan’s neck.
“Good of you,” Ethan whispered as he stood with Jeremiah on his hip then said in a louder voice, “If you want something that will last you until luncheon, you’d better tuck into some ham or bacon, or at the very least, get some butter on one of those scones.” He soon had Jeremiah sitting before a fairly impressive plate of food, then resumed his own seat.
Ethan sat back to his meal, a queer little hitch in his chest. He’d not had breakfast with his sons before, though they were nearly old enough for such an informal meal, and he’d not known they were joining him today. But here they were, being gently guided toward proper manners by their enterprising governess, and Ethan felt a spurt of pleasure in their company.
They really were good boys.
And what had been wrong with their mother, that she hadn’t seen that?
