“They’d want to see the results, of course,” he said, taking another discreet step back as she coughed, sending up a swirling cloud of flour. “I don’t suppose you heard any laughter when the flour came down? Cackling, perhaps?”
She glared at him.
“Right.” He winced. “Sorry for that. Stupid joke.”
“It was difficult,” she said, so tightly he wondered if her jaw might snap, “to hear anything but the sound of the bucket hitting my head.”
“Damn,” he muttered, following her line of sight until his eyes fell on a large metal bucket lying on its side on the carpet, with a small amount of flour still inside. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
He reached out and took her head in his hands, trying to inspect her skin for bumps or bruises.
“Sir Phillip!” she yelped, attempting to squirm out of his grasp. “I must ask you to—”
“Be still,” he ordered, smoothing his thumbs over her temples, feeling for welts. It was an intimate gesture, and one he found oddly satisfying. She seemed just the right height next to him, and had she been clean, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop himself from leaning down and dropping a soft kiss on her brow.
“I’m fine,” she practically grunted, wrenching herself free. “The flour weighed more than the bucket.”
Phillip leaned down and righted the bucket, testing its weight in his hand. It was fairly light and shouldn’t have caused too much damage, but still, it wasn’t the sort of thing with which one wanted to be struck on the head.
“I shall survive, I assure you,” she bit out.
He cleared his throat. “I imagine you will want a bath?”
He thought she said, “I imagine I will want those two little wretches on the end of a rope,” but the words came out under her breath, and just because that was what he would have said—well, it didn’t mean she was as uncharitably inclined.
“I’ll have one drawn for you,” he said quickly.
“Don’t bother. The water from my last bath is still in the tub.”
He winced. His children’s timing couldn’t have been more on the spot. “Nonetheless,” he said hastily, “I shall see that it is warmed with a few fresh buckets.”
He winced again at her glare. Bad choice of words.
“I’ll just see to that now,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied tautly. “Do that.”
He strode down the hall to give the order to a maid, except that the minute he turned the corner, he saw that a half dozen servants were already gaping at them, and had in fact set up a betting pool on how long the twins would last before Phillip tanned their hides.
After sending them on their way with instructions to draw a new bath immediately, he returned to Eloise’s side. He was already dusted with flour, so he saw no harm in taking her hand. “I’m terribly sorry,” he murmured, now trying not to laugh. His immediate reaction had been fury, but now . . . well, she did look rather ridiculous.
She glared at him, clearly sensing his change of mood.
He quickly assumed a sober mien. “Perhaps you should return to your room?” he suggested.
“And sit where?” she snapped.
She had a point. She was likely to ruin anything she touched, or at the very least necessitate a thorough cleaning.
“I’ll just keep you company, then,” he said, trying to sound jovial.
She gave him a look that was decidedly unamused.
“Right,” he said, in an attempt to fill the silence with something other than flour. He glanced up over the door, impressed with the twins’ handiwork, despite the unfortunate results. “I wonder how they did it,” he mused.
Her mouth fell open. “Does it matter?”
“Well,” he said, seeing from her face that this was not the most advisable avenue of conversation, but continuing nonetheless with, “I certainly can’t condone their actions, but it was obviously quite cleverly done. I don’t see where they attached the bucket, and—”
“They rested it on the top of the door.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have seven brothers and sisters,” she said dismissively. “Do you think I’ve never seen this prank before? They opened the door—just a crack—and then carefully placed the bucket.”
“And you didn’t hear them?”
She glared at him.
“Right,” he said hastily. “You were in the bath.”
“I don’t suppose,” she said in a haughty voice, “that you intend to imply that this was my fault for not having heard them.”
“Of course not,” he said—very quickly. Judging from the murderous look in Miss Bridgerton’s eyes, he was fairly certain that his health and welfare were directly dependent upon the speed with which he agreed with her. “Why don’t I leave you to your . . .”
Was there really a good way to describe the process of cleaning several pounds of flour off one’s person?
“Will I see you at supper?” he asked, deciding that a change of subject was most definitely in order.
She nodded, once, briefly. There wasn’t a great deal of warmth in that nod, but Phillip reckoned he should be happy that she wasn’t planning to leave the county that night.
“I will instruct the cook to keep supper warm,” he said. “And I will see to punishing the twins.”
“No,” she said, halting him in his tracks. “Leave them to me.”
He turned around slowly, a bit unnerved by the tone of her voice. “What, precisely, do you plan to do with them?”
“With them, or to them?”
Phillip had never thought the day would come when he’d be frightened by a woman, but as God was his witness, Eloise Bridgerton scared the living wits out of him.
The look in her eyes was positively diabolical.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, crossing his arms, “I must ask. What do you intend to do to my children?”
“I’m pondering my options.”
He considered that. “May I depend upon their still being alive tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Alive, and with every limb intact, I assure you.”
Phillip stared at her for several moments, then let his lips spread into a slow, satisfied smile. He had a feeling that Eloise Bridgerton’s vengeance—whatever it might be—would be exactly what his children needed. Surely anyone with seven brothers and sisters would know how to wreak havoc in the most cunning, underhanded, and ingenious manner.
“Very well, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, almost glad they’d dumped a bucket of flour on her. “They are all yours.”
An hour later, just after he and Eloise sat down for supper, the screaming began.
Phillip actually dropped his spoon; Amanda’s shrieks had a more terrified tenor than usual.
Eloise didn’t even pause as she placed a spoonful of turtle soup between her lips. “She’s fine,” she murmured, delicately wiping her mouth with her serviette.
The rapid patter of little feet thundered overhead, signaling that Amanda was racing toward the steps.
Phillip half rose in his seat. “Perhaps I should—”
“I put a fish in her bed,” Miss Bridgerton said, not quite smiling, but nonetheless looking rather pleased with herself.
“A fish?” he echoed.
“Very well, it was a rather big fish.”
The tadpole in his mind quickly grew into a toothy shark, and he found himself choking on air. “Er,” he couldn’t help but ask, “where did you find a fish?”
“Mrs. Smith,” she said, as if his cook handed out large trout every day of the week.
He forced himself to sit back down. He wasn’t going to run to save Amanda. He wanted to; he did possess the odd paternal instinct, after all, and she was shrieking as if the fires of hell were licking at her toes.