She took a calming breath. Everything would be fine. Only superstitious cabbageheads believed in curses, but even if there was a curse, legend had it that it would be broken when a duke married for love, which this duke most certainly had. It was rather nauseating watching him and Cat together, they were so besotted.
In fact, love, like a miasma, had settled over the village. Just days after that wedding, Jane’s other close friend Anne Davenport tied the knot with the duke’s cousin, the Marquess of Haywood.
An odd, hollow sensation formed in Jane’s stomach. It wasn’t envy, was it?
Nonsense! She was merely hungry. She had got exactly what she’d wanted from those weddings: the Spinster House. For the first time in her twenty-eight years, she was living all by herself.
Well, if you didn’t count Poppy, the Spinster House tricolored cat, but at least Poppy was a fellow female. She didn’t leave cravats festooning chair arms or crumb-filled plates on every horizontal surface like Jane’s brother Randolph did.
She turned her attention back to Mr. Waldo W. Wertigger. She had wanted to see a kangaroo—a live kangaroo—so she had supported the Boltwoods’ suggestion that they bring this . . . this charlatan to Loves Bridge.
If curses were real, she’d curse this humbug.
“Your advertisement claimed your kangaroo could jump over several grown men standing on one another’s shoulders.”
“And my kangaroo could”—he cleared his throat—“when it was alive.”
Jane took another deep, calming breath and tried not to shout.
She did not succeed.
“We wanted a live, jumping kangaroo, you despicable mountebank.”
The Worm tugged on his waistcoat. “Now, now. There’s no need to call names. My poor kangaroo, sadly, may no longer be able to jump—”
“Or breathe!”
Mr. Worm Wertigger ignored her. “But I have other attractions. See my rare onager?” He pointed to a creature tethered to the back of his cart, contentedly grazing on the grass.
“That’s an ass.” As are you.
“An Asiatic ass.”
Jane snorted derisively.
“And I have Romeo, the talking parrot.” He wrestled a cage draped with a blanket out of his wagon and removed the covering with a flourish.
A gray parrot with a dark reddish tail cocked his head at Jane and gave a loud, rude whistle. “Hey, sweetheart—”
The Worm quickly dropped the blanket back over the cage.
“Sir! That parrot is not appropriate for a village fair.”
The miscreant shrugged a shoulder. “Well, he did come cheap. I got him from a brothel that was closing.”
“A brothel?!”
She was shouting again. Fortunately, Poppy appeared at that moment to rub against her ankle, calming her—
“May I be of assistance?”
A jolt of some unidentifiable emotion shot through her at the sound of that male voice. It couldn’t be the Earl of Evans, could it?
Of course it can’t. Lord Evans left Loves Bridge almost two months ago.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Lud! It was the earl. He looked . . . rough. Not quite civilized. His dark blond hair edged over his collar, and his face was weathered, making his eyes appear even bluer.
That’s right. He’d gone off to walk the Lake District.
“What are you doing here?” She flushed. She was afraid that had sounded rather unwelcoming. She hadn’t meant it to. She liked the earl and was actually happy to see him. She just hoped he didn’t think to swoop in and save her from Mr. Wertigger. She could handle the Worm all by herself.
Lord Evans’s right brow arched up and his firm lips twitched into a brief smile. “I’m delighted to see you, too, Miss Wilkinson.”
“Pardon me.” She gestured toward the Worm. “I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment.”
“So I see. What seems to be the difficulty?”
The Worm’s expression brightened at the sight of a fellow male. “The lady is being most unreasonable, sir.”
“Unreasonable?!” She’d show him unreasonable.
“And emotional.” The Worm leaned toward the earl as if sharing a male confidence. “But that’s the way women are, isn’t it? A rational, calm, male head is needed to do business properly.”
Jane hissed—or maybe that was Poppy.
The Earl of Evans laughed. “You’d best look to your head, sir. I believe Miss Wilkinson would like to sever it from your neck and kick it all the way to London.”
Mr. Wertigger glanced nervously at Jane and then back to the earl. “Since you know the lady, perhaps you can explain matters to her.”
“I do know the lady and have found her understanding to be superior.” Lord Evans turned to Jane. “Can you explain matters to me, Miss Wilkinson?”
She did like Lord Evans. He was one of the few reasonable men of her acquaintance.
“This, Lord Evans, is Mr. Waldo Wertigger. The fair committee thought his traveling zoo would be a splendid addition this year because of its exotic animals”—she narrowed her eyes and was gratified to see the Worm tug at his collar—“specifically its kangaroo”—she pointed to the sad, stuffed creature propped against the wagon—“which Mr. Wertigger advertised as able to jump thirty feet in the air.”
Lord Evans pulled out a quizzing glass—she’d never seen him use one before, but he wielded it with great effect—and examined the kangaroo. “Jump, you say?”
“It did, milord.” The Worm tugged at his collar again. “Until it met its untimely end. Apparently the English climate did not agree with it.”
Jane suspected the Worm had not taken proper care of the animal, but since she had no proof of that—and it was beside the point anyway—she didn’t dispute his theory. “He says that sad-looking donkey is an onager.”
“It is,” the Worm insisted.
She couldn’t disprove that either, so she moved on. “And his parrot learned its conversation in a brothel. It’s completely unsuitable to be exhibited at an event with young children and sensitive ladies. People would be shocked and distressed.”
“Were you shocked and distressed, Miss Wilkinson?” Lord Evans asked, his eyes glinting with what might be suppressed laughter.
“Yes.” Though not so much by what the parrot had said as by the realization that the entertainment she and the fair committee had arranged—and which she herself had so looked forward to—was a complete and utter disaster. And the fair was tomorrow! What were they—what was she—going to do?
There was no question—the Worm and his menagerie would have to go. She looked the man directly in the eye and said firmly, so he could not misunderstand, “We shall not have need of your services, sir. Please leave at once.” She wouldn’t put it past the fellow to lurk about and cause trouble.
Mr. Wertigger frowned. “I’ll leave after I’ve been paid.”
“Paid?! What do you mean, paid? You won’t be paid a single farthing, sirrah!” The gall of the fellow.
His jaw hardened. “I will be paid. You can’t drag Waldo W. Wertigger out to this sorry excuse of a village without paying him for his trouble. I’ve come quite a distance at considerable expense.”
“And under false pretenses!”
He looked at Lord Evans. “Milord, you are a man of experience. Explain to this woman, if you will, that she cannot contract for services and then decide at the last minute that she does not want them.” He paused to scowl at Jane. “We had an agreement.”
Jane could not believe what she was hearing. “Yes. That you would provide a live kangaroo and a zoo that was suitable for a village fair—a fair that would be frequented by families, not by light skirts and libertines and . . . and other people of ill repute. You did not do that.” She crossed her arms. “Thus you shall not be paid.”
The Worm took a threatening step toward her.
“See here!” Lord Evans started to reach for him, but Poppy was faster. She jumped in front of Jane
, arched her back, and hissed.
The Worm paused. “Madam, control your cat.”
“Poppy is not my cat, sir, but even if she were, she has a mind of her own. I would caution you to stay back if you don’t want your boots—and your flesh—slashed.” She said that last part with great relish.
The Worm looked at Lord Evans. “Milord, please.”
“I’m afraid Miss Wilkinson is correct, Wertigger. Poppy can be quite dangerous. She attacked the Marquess of Haywood’s boots on several occasions, and I’m sure she would not hesitate to do the same to yours.” He smiled. “Her teeth look very sharp as well, don’t they?”
Poppy hissed again to underline Lord Evans’s observation.
The Worm stepped back. “Very well, I’ll complain to the authorities then.”
“You can complain to anyone you want,” Jane said. “You are still not getting any money from me.”
“I’ll get it from someone.”
Her hands flew to her hips. “I shall be happy to watch you try.”
His hands curled into fists. “I will be paid, madam.”
“No, you won’t.”
Lord Evans sighed and reached into his pocket. “Enough. I find you a complete bore, Wertigger. Oblige me by taking yourself off.”
“You can’t pay him,” Jane said, but it was too late. The earl had already tossed the man a coin.
The Worm snatched the money out of the air and looked at it. “It’s only a quid.”
“And far more than you deserve,” Jane said, and then glared at the earl. “I can’t believe you gave that dastard anything.”
“I want him to go away, Miss Wilkinson, and this seemed the fastest way to accomplish that goal.” He looked back at the Worm. “I advise you to cut your losses, sir, and leave at once. My friend, the Duke of Hart, whose principal seat is here, and his wife—Miss Wilkinson’s good friend and another member of the fair committee—are unlikely to be sympathetic to your position.”
The Worm scowled, and for a moment Jane thought he’d take issue with Lord Evans, but then he let out a long breath and his shoulders drooped. “Very well. But don’t expect Waldo W. Wertigger to ever come back here.” His jaw hardened. “And I’ll tell my friends to avoid the place too.”
Jane very much doubted the scoundrel had any friends, but if he did, she certainly didn’t wish to meet them. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, but the earl laid his hand on her arm to stop her.
“You must do as you think best,” Lord Evans said, and then he turned his back on the miscreant, smiling down at Jane. “Shall we repair to Cupid’s Inn for a bracing cup of tea, Miss Wilkinson?”
She glanced over at the Worm to be sure he was indeed leaving.
He was, but he treated her to a very nasty look.
She might be independent, but she wasn’t stupid. Now that the fury of the moment had passed, she was happy to have the large, obviously fit earl at her side. Men could sometimes be dangerous. It was extremely annoying that women were at such a physical disadvantage.
“Merrow.”
Well, yes, Poppy had helped rout the fellow too.
She turned her attention back to the earl. If he wanted to put his nose in her business, he could help her solve her problem. The fair was tomorrow and the main act was departing.
If we go to the inn, we’ll get interrupted constantly. Everyone will want to know what he’s doing in Loves Bridge.
What is he doing?
Likely visiting the duke. His travels were none of her concern. The fair, however . . .
“Let’s go to the Spinster House instead. You can help me come up with a replacement for Mr. Wertigger.”
Chapter Two
Jane shut the Spinster House door after the earl and Poppy entered, closing out the bright August afternoon and the drone of village life: the birdsong, the buzz of insects, the distant murmur of voices—
Suddenly, everything was dark and quiet and . . . intimate. It was a little hard to breathe.
Ridiculous! Lord Evans hadn’t grown nor the house shrunk. The man wasn’t even standing next to her. She should not be feeling crowded and, well, a bit overwhelmed.
Or, worse, expectant. Still and heavy like a summer day before a storm.
She leaned against the reassuringly solid door for a moment to steady herself and glanced at Poppy.
The cat looked oddly pleased before blinking and turning her attention to cleaning her paws.
Poppy never looks pleased unless I’m obeying her rare demand for petting or offering her some tasty tidbit from my dinner.
Truth be told, Poppy made her a little nervous. There was something vaguely supernatural about her, as if she’d once been a witch’s familiar or something—not that Jane believed in witches or any other supernatural foolishness, curses included.
Lord Evans had moved farther into the sitting room and was examining a large, faded square on the wall. “Didn’t care for the picture that hung here, I see.”
She took a deep breath and shook off her peculiar feelings. “I did not.” She started toward him, but stopped a few feet away. She didn’t want to get too near—
Oh, for goodness’ sake, the man isn’t going to bite!
She forced herself to close the gap between them. “It was hideous. Haven’t you seen it?”
“No, this is my first time in the Spinster House.” He lifted a brow. “What was it of? Some very un-spinsterish bacchanal?”
He was teasing her again. She’d missed that. No one else—especially no other man—was as much fun to match wits with.
“It was a painting of a hunting dog with a dead bird in its mouth. Quite, quite bloodthirsty—and ugly. I don’t know what Isabelle Dorring was thinking when she hung it there.”
He frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d say Miss Dorring was a bit bloodthirsty herself to have cursed the Duke of Hart’s line as she did. She caused centuries of anguish”—his frown turned to a scowl—“and is still cutting up the current duke’s peace.”
“And Cat’s peace, too.” Cat’s baby was due in just over six months’ time. If it was a boy—
No! Curses aren’t real. They’re as make-believe as witches and fairies—she glanced at Poppy who had moved on to grooming her private parts—and supernatural cats.
“The third duke was a scoundrel to get poor Isabelle with child and then marry another woman,” she said.
She’d always thought that duke a terrible villain—all the village girls had—but in a fairy-tale sort of way. She’d never considered how Isabelle’s curse would affect a real person until she’d met the current titleholder.
Lord Evans’s scowl deepened. “I’ll grant you that wasn’t honorable of him, but he didn’t force Miss Dorring, did he?”
“No.” Rape had never been part of the story.
“And Miss Dorring wasn’t some naïve young miss. The stone in the graveyard says she was twenty-four. Surely you knew how children were created when you were twenty-four?”
She flushed. “Of course.” She’d never had a man mention procreation to her. It was . . .
Freeing. Lord Evans was speaking to her as if she was an intelligent equal, not some fluffy-headed virgin who needed to be shielded from the world.
“And if I have the story right, her father was a wealthy merchant who left her this house and his fortune. She chose to invite the third duke into her bed. I’d say she bears some responsibility for the outcome.”
“Well, yes, but—”
Both brows went up. “What? Is independent Miss Wilkinson going to tell me that poor Isabelle was a meek, spineless creature who couldn’t make her own decisions?”
“No, of course not.” To be honest, she’d never understood why Isabelle had been so reckless. She’d had her freedom. Why had she squandered it? “Perhaps she was overcome by love.”
Gaah! Had she really just said that? But it was true. From her observations, love all too often disabled a woman’s good sense.
Lord Evans
snorted. “Or perhaps she was overcome with a desire to be a duchess.”
That surprised her. The earl had a sharp wit, but he wasn’t normally caustic. “So cynical!”
“Sadly, Miss Wilkinson, it is not cynicism. I have observed such machinations firsthand.”
Of course he had. He was handsome, intelligent, amusing—and an earl. The London ladies must trip over one another to catch his attention.
She felt an odd mix of sympathy for him, anger at the ladies, and . . . jealousy?
No. Surely not.
“Do they hound you unmercifully, then?”
“Me?” His brows shot up in surprise. “What do you—oh. No. You misunderstood. I was referring to Marcus—the duke. Society women dragged him into the shrubbery on many occasions in the hope they could force him into marriage.” He smiled. “Though I’ll admit his last trip to the vegetation ended well.”
“You aren’t suggesting Cat was angling to be a duchess, are you?” Jane felt insulted on her friend’s behalf. “Cat went through with the Spinster House lottery just the day after she visited the trysting bushes with the duke, if you’ll remember.”
“Yes, I know, Miss Wilkinson. I’m not lumping her in with the Society misses.” He grinned. “I know Loves Bridge women are not at all like them.”
She would take that as a compliment. “I’m quite certain Cat loves the duke. And more to the point, the duke loves her.”
If the Duke of Hart hadn’t married for love, then the curse wasn’t broken.
If there was a curse.
Lord Evans nodded. “I agree.” He looked back at the empty square on the wall. “I suppose we’ll know for certain soon enough.”
Worry twisted in her chest again. “You don’t believe in the curse, do you?”
“No.”
Ah, thank God.
But her relief was cut short by his next words.
“But Marcus does, at least on some level.” He frowned. “And there are those five dukes before him.”
“Yes.” Lud! If only they knew.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
The weight and warmth of his touch were surprisingly comforting. She let out a shaky laugh. “How did you know I was worrying?”
When to Engage an Earl Page 2
