The Indebted Earl

before I take my leave.” He reached into his coat pocket, color climbing his cheeks, and withdrew his fist. “I fear I gave in to impulse last night—”
The front door banged open, and footsteps clattered in the hall. He stopped, his fist resting on the edge of the table.
Frowning, Sophie pushed back her chair. The captain rose to his feet, placing his hand back into his pocket and then withdrawing it. More footsteps echoed on the flagstones, and loud voices.
“I’ll see who it is. Please finish your meal.” Only her mother would barge into the house as if she owned the place, though by the sounds of it, she’d brought an army with her. Sophie girded up her mind for the confrontation.
But it wasn’t her mother storming through the hall. A man and a woman stood there, eyeing the murals, running their hands along the banister, shaking the newel post. The woman’s bonnet framed her face, crowding her curls around her cheeks as if she’d been stuffed in there, and she carried a furled parasol under her arm like a baton. The man, thin of legs and arms but portly about the middle, had a bit of duck about his walk, exuding self-importance.
What on earth? Who had the temerity to barge into the home of strangers?
“May I help you?” Sophie crossed the hall.
Before they could answer, a herd of children banged the door open again, sending it rocketing back to smack the wall, and pelted into the house. Shouting, half wrestling, they tumbled to an ungainly halt of arms and legs.
“He hit me.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“You hit me first.”
“You there,” the man said, flicking his finger at Sophie, speaking over the melee. “Are you the housekeeper?”
“She’s clearly the parlor maid,” the woman in the impressive bonnet said, her tone as lofty as a belfry. “See her black dress? Though she should be properly attired with a cap and apron. Things truly are more lax in the country, aren’t they? Well, we will soon raise the standards.”
The boys continued to tussle, elbows and shoulders flying.
Sophie stood still, bemused. This rather uppity couple and their wild band of offspring were clearly in the wrong house.
“Boys, if you don’t stop …” The mother put her hands on her hips. “Go outside before I give you the rough side of my tongue.”
They ignored her. One pair fell to the ground, grappling like angry stoats, while the tallest pointed to a painting of a Richardson forbear and laughed. “He looks like he just sat on a thistle. Pucker face!”
“The décor is dreadful. It will all have to go. And this flooring. Nobody has stone anymore. It looks like it belongs in a monastery.” The woman ran her hand along the top of a gate-legged table. She inspected her white glove, but there was no dust there that Sophie could see. Still the woman sniffed. “This furniture is awful. So out of fashion.”
“I’m more interested in the grist mill and the farm. And the bank accounts. Once I know the balances, we can talk about renovations.” The man narrowed his eyes, as if calculating sums. He seemed to remember Sophie at that point. “You there, young woman. Go fetch your mistress. We’ve much to discuss.”
Stunned at their brazenness, Sophie didn’t move.
The man and woman exchanged an arch look. “I say, if this is the standard of obedience for servants in the country, they will be put on notice immediately. Woman, do as you are told, or you’ll find yourself turned out without a character. When I issue an order, I expect to be obeyed forthwith.” He punctuated each word with a tap of his cane on the flagstones.
Stung, Sophie stepped forward. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but you are seriously in error. I am not a parlor maid, but even if I were, your behavior would be shameful. Barging into a stranger’s house and ordering people around. This is the house of the late Baron Richardson and his mother, Lady Mamie Richardson. This is her home, and you are not welcome here. You may keep your opinions about the décor to yourself as you go.” Sophie didn’t know whether to be satisfied or aghast that she sounded so much like her mother at that moment. I’ve learned from the best how to give a setdown.
The man harrumphed, and the woman blinked, stepping back a pace and shaking her head, as if stunned by such an outburst.
“Well, you can hardly blame us for the mistake. You’re dressed like a parlor maid.” She sniffed again, stacking her hands on the handle of her parasol.
The brawling boys rucked up the rug and nudged a table, causing the vase atop it to totter. Sophie reached for the flower arrangement at the same moment footsteps sounded behind her.
The captain strode into the fracas, grabbing youthful collars and hauling the boys upright.
“Ow, say, what’s this?” The eldest of the children rubbed his shoulder and scowled. He managed to get in a sly kick to the next youngest boy.
“Batten your hatches.” The captain straightened the youngest two, who appeared to be twins. “This is not Gentleman Jack’s boxing establishment, nor is it a dockside pub for brawling in. Now, stand there and don’t make a sound.”
His voice held such authority, Sophie found herself straightening. He managed to sort the melee into four separate boys.
Captain Wyvern turned to the adults. “Sir, madam, I do not know the customs where you are from, but I was to understand that it is common practice in these parts to knock and wait to be invited inside before barging into a home. And it is also advisable to control one’s young when visiting another’s residence. You have neither introduced yourselves, nor have you respected the privacy of this household. Surely you could not have missed the black crepe on the door? This is a house of mourning, and it would behoove you to remember that. Lower your voices, state your business, and then be on your way.”
He