“Lady Perpetua.” The patiently condescending tone might have come from Bakeley. That tone had dogged her through all of her growing up years.

Fox’s hands went to his hips. He had a laborer’s hands, too wide and too strong for a man wielding a dainty paint brush. The movement stretched the almost sheer cloth of his shirt over a chest equally too wide and too strong, while damp, dark locks dangled over his forehead and dripped over the scruff on his cheek,

Warmth uncurled in her chest, as if she were fourteen again.

She fought down the madness and dipped her head slightly. “Mr. Fox.”

The curl of his lip sent a quiver through her.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Years ago, she had followed him around like a bird-witted puppy—no, a foal, he had called her, on account of her height and her long skinny legs.

He’d seen them, when she’d fallen out of a tree spying on him.

Her face glowed hotly. The memory had mustered a blush.

She lifted her chin. “What the devil are you doing in my house?”

He blinked and went still. “Your house?”

“Yes.”

Fox stirred and moved closer.

She crossed her arms over her chest. He matched the move, looking her up and down and glancing at Jenny. His mouth quirked at one corner and his eyes softened.

A smile being pushed down—she’d seen that look so many times. He was holding back from laughing. One didn’t laugh at the daughter of the countess who was one’s patroness.

He’d actually said those words to her once.

“I repeat—”

“There’s no need to repeat yourself, Lady Perpetua. I heard you the first time. I’m painting.”

That familiar accent, so flat and American, still jarred her.

He’d been painting in London when she’d stumbled across a landscape in a stationer’s window. Surprised to find him in London, still painting, still alive, she’d discovered his lodgings and commissioned a chalk design for the ballroom floor at Bakeley’s wedding celebration.

And then he’d appeared at that ball and danced with her, more than once.

She shook off the memory. Why was he here? Was he here at Father’s behest? Or…was he spying on the Earl of Shaldon?

“Since I am here, Mr. Fox, you must leave.” He must, mustn’t he?

Or…if she sent him away, would he go straight to Father and report her?

He waved a hand. “In this weather?”

“You are already wet.”

“As are you.” His gaze moved to her bosom in a way that made her hot again.

Irritating man. He was just like all the rest. “You must go back to your room at the inn, or wherever you are staying.”

A smile lit his face and her annoyance spiked. Most assuredly he was not taking her seriously. Which no one ever did.

“I expect this rain will go through the night.” He moved closer, extending a hand. “Come, Lady Perpetua. I assume you’ve brought a carriage? I’ll help you unload, we’ll get the horses to shelter, and then we can talk. Why should the animals suffer?”

The horses.

Heat rushed her again. Of course, there were no grooms here to dash out and see to the horses. He’d poked her in a sensitive spot.

She ignored his hand and brushed past him. “Come Jenny, Chestnut needs you again.”

Fox toweled himself down, pulled on a dry shirt, and walked to the window. The lugger that had been out at sea was gone.

And no wonder. The sea was enraged, battering against the cliff that supported this cottage, gray fog blending with the sharper swirls of the water, spongy foam tipping to white. He committed the shades to his memory and found his spare waistcoat.

His only coat and his freshest neck cloth were in the kitchen drying, along with Perry and her maid and their clothing. He’d built the fire high for them to change out of their wet things and warm up, and left them there, the maid shivering, Perry fussing at him to leave.

In spite of the miserable weather, it was the first complaining Perry had done. While the storm unfurled sheets of rain, she threw herself into the unloading and unharnessing. Mud up to her ankles hadn’t deterred her. Her dress, not a particularly delicate weave, drat it, had still managed to cling to her form, confirming all the measurements he’d taken at Bakeley’s ball. The little foal was still taller than all the women and many of the men, and she’d filled out quite nicely with ample breasts and, below that small waist, hips that a man could hold onto.

His body stirred, and he cursed it, looking around at his notebooks and canvases. He’d need to keep her out of here until he could burn these.

He took the stairs down one level. The carved door of the suite of rooms belonging to the mistress of the house was closed, but not locked, he knew. He’d peeked in upon his arrival, inspecting the house, but he’d not crossed that threshold, not on this visit, not on the one ten years earlier. This was Felicity Everly’s bedchamber and it was fitting that Lady Perry should sleep here.

The Holland cloths came off the furniture easily. Stripping the counterpane exposed bare ticking, so he pushed through the door to the dressing room and rummaged through cabinets, throwing one set of bedding on a cot for the maid. Clutching the other linens, he went back to the main chamber and began laying out sheets.

His damned artist’s mind reared, seeing her here, imagining her wheat-colored hair spread upon the pillows, envisioning her stretched between the four posts, long legs extending under a rucked-up, sheer cotton nightdress.

He stood tall and took a deep breath. Hell, that wasn’t the artist in him—that was the man.

Yes, Fox, and you might as well torture yourself dreaming it because you’ll never get closer than this.

Hopeless colonial. He laughed, finished the bed-making, and went to pull the board off the fireplace. This close to the sea, the nights were chilly, and she’d been shivering today. She’d be needing a regular fire. He would have to haul up some wood.

Downstairs, at the door to the kitchen, he knocked, heard a muffled “Come in,” and pushed the door open. Damp warm air, scented with woman, made him take a step back.

“For heaven’s sake, come in and close the door. You’re letting in a draft.”

Chuckling, he obeyed.

Ye Gods, the sight of him sent a tremble through her that had nothing to do with the air. He’d changed out of the clinging shirt that had plastered him, but he was still only partially dressed. His shirt front flapped at the neck, revealing tanned skin, scattered dark hair, and a neck corded with muscles. He was as sinfully handsome as one of the sculptures of the blasted gods gracing the British Museum.

He’d never been one for painting such myths, though. She’d discovered him that year eking out a living selling landscapes. But years ago when he came to Cransdall, he was known for his paintings of horses—that skill had caught Mama’s interest—and his portraits.

Oh, yes. She’d learned more of his subjects much later: rich Cits, well-kept mistresses, and one very rich widow who’d kept him for months as a guest.

An unladylike growl rumbled out of her.

Truly, it had been the horses that brought him to Cransdall. After painting Godolphin’s progeny, Fox had stayed to do all of the human portraits—her mother’s, Bakeley’s, Charley’s, and hers. It had taken him months. He’d left behind four portraits—five counting the horse.

And he’d left with one priceless masterpiece he’d lifted from the wall in her mother’s rooms, just before Mama’s death.

Bakeley said it wasn’t so. He’d said it when Mother died, and he’d said it again a few months ago, before the ball held to celebrate his and Sirena’s marriage.

Perry had seen no proof of innocence. She’d so wanted to question Fox about the subject on the night of the ball, but he’d slipped away quietly, and when she’d had a chance to sneak off and visit his rooms, he’d left London entirely.

Fox tugged at his loose collar. “You’re warm enough, I see.”

She swallowed against the tickle in her throat. “And you are half-dressed. Where is your coat? Your neck cloth?”

He waved a hand in the general direction of clothing-draped chairs. “Are they dry yet?”

He’d found a fresh shirt and waistcoat in this house. “Have you more clothes at the inn?” she asked.

“No, Lady Perpetua.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling.

Irritating man.

Jenny bustled at the rough-finished, old-fashioned kitchen dresser.

At least she assumed it was old-fashioned. Bakeley made sure Cransdall had the newest of everything, but she had no idea how other houses compared. In truth, her social calls and house parties did not include visits to the kitchens.

“The bread is a bit soggy, my lady, but the cheese is good,” Jenny said.

So soggy bread and cheese for dinner.

Jenny opened another parcel and whooped. “None of the eggs broke neither. And we’ve got ham here, a fresh joint, and some carrots and turnips. T’would make a good hot stew, those last bits, and these apples for a dessert.” She looked up at Fox. “Sir, does the woman who cleans for you also cook?”

He blinked.

Taking his time to answer. If he’d been one of the lordlings she met at house parties and fêtes, she’d chalk his silence up to the shock of being addressed by a servant. But this was Fox. He’d always measured out his words in dribs and drabs.

“The woman who cleans for me,” he said, finally.

Jenny lifted a shoulder. “Well, the house, sir, it does seem very clean, excepting where you’ve left some dishes and such.”

His dark eyes glimmered. The corners crinkled again. “I wasn’t expecting company. No one’s been in to clean during my stay. The house was closed up so tight no dust was allowed in.” He lounged back against a worktable. “I expect someone comes in now and then. I don’t expect a visit any time soon.”

She blinked. He didn’t expect a visit? He had no plans to leave?

She turned away. “Bread and cheese and a bit of the ham tonight, Jenny,” Perry said. “There’s a knife on the board behind you.”

“Saints, I hope it will keep. I hate seeing a good joint be spoilt.”

Fox readjusted his leaning, pulling Perry’s gaze to his long-muscled legs. His head all but touched the low ceiling. “Just cook it up, Miss Jenny.”

He shot Perry a look that said to hell with your aristocracy. Oh yes, Fox was thoroughly a republican, even though he’d been born too late for the American revolt, and out of the country for the last war with the colonials. If not for horses, he’d never have come into the Earl of Shaldon’s sphere.

But…a memory jolted through her. Bakeley’s wife, Lady Sirena, had whispered that Father and Bakeley had actually approved Fox’s attendance at Bakeley’s wedding ball.

And had she not herself seen Father at the ball, speaking to Fox in that way that meant he was not just an arrow in Father’s quiver, but might be something more?

The man who had stolen a priceless painting?

She clenched her fists on the back of a chair. No one would tell her anything, not even Charley.

“Grab a pot from the pantry, Miss Jenny. I’ll haul in fresh water.”

Jenny pressed her lips together. “I’m just Jenny, sir. Not Miss Jenny. And I’m a maid, not a cook.”

Under his steady gaze, she squirmed. “I mean, I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to cook?” The words burst from Perry’s mouth. She had assumed—but then why had she assumed? They hadn’t discussed this. Jenny grew up on the streets, probably stealing pies when she was overwhelmed with hunger.

“And you don’t know how to cook.” Fox was looking directly at her, that gleam still lighting his eyes.

He’d turned the tables on her, damn him. She needed him out of this house. This was her house—would be her house, someday, when she married. If she married. If she could not get that ridiculous clause out of her mother’s will.

Never mind, she intended to go on as if she had. She intended to claim this as her very own house for as long as she wished. Bakeley would have to come himself and haul her out.

She pushed herself up from her chair and looked around for the door to the pantry. “I’ve seen bread made, and bread toasted, but otherwise I’ve not had occasion to learn.” As he well knew. The family had always had excellent cooks. “But I shall muddle through. And you will help me, Jenny.”

Fox crossed to her and took both of her hands in his large ones, sending her nerves rattling.