Miss Wilkinson emitted a short, annoyed breath. “Wonderful. What a wild goose—or a wild cat—chase this has been. I’ve less than twenty-four hours to come up with a substitute for Mr. Wertigger’s traveling zoo, Lord Evans, and I’m no closer than I was when we were in the kitchen. What in God’s name am I going to—”
“Merrow!”
Poppy had returned and was staring up at them from under the chair. Clearly, she wanted him to follow her—but he was not a cat.
He sighed and struggled out of his coat.
“Lord Evans, what are you doing?”
“Preparing to dig through this pile of things, Miss Wilkinson. Would you be so kind as to hold this?” He handed her his coat.
Her brows slammed down into a scowl as she took it. “We do not have time to waste looking for . . .” She waved her hand at the jumble and then glanced back at him. “What are you looking for?”
“I have no idea. Pardon me.”
Miss Wilkinson stepped back, his coat clutched absently in her hands, as he moved Isabelle over to lean against the cabinet.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“I don’t believe so, but I might be mistaken.” He eyed the chair. He couldn’t see anything leaning up against it now, but he didn’t want to move it and send the whole pile crashing down on Poppy.
But then cats had nine lives, didn’t they? And he’d wager Poppy had more lives than most. He was confident she’d find a way to avoid getting crushed.
“You might want to wait outside, Miss Wilkinson. This could get messy.” He sneezed. And dusty. Likely there were two centuries’ worth of dirt behind that chair.
Of course the woman ignored him.
Well, there was nothing for it. He grasped the chair’s arms. Lord, they knew how to make furniture two hundred years ago. The thing was incredibly heavy.
He wrestled it out of the way.
“Lord Evans, we really do not have time for this. You said we’d discuss the fair. I’m counting on you to help me come up with a plan.”
“I think that is what I am doing.”
He might have heard her grind her teeth.
He surveyed the clutter he’d uncovered. There was a small table with water stains marring its surface; a chipped pitcher and several chipped bowls; a broken mirror; and a cushion that looked like it might be hosting a family of mice.
Or had been hosting. One hoped Poppy, being a cat, had encouraged the rodents to move along, if she hadn’t made them her supper.
“Lord Evans, please. The clock is ticking.”
And the cat was growling. Where was she?
Ah, he saw the tip of her tail sticking out from behind a stack of boards someone had propped against the outside wall. He moved the table and other things aside—fortunately, no mice fled the cushion—and carefully picked his way across the room.
He squatted down to peer into the shadowy space between the boards and the wall. Poppy looked back at him—as did a pair of lifeless eyes.
He must have made some sound, because suddenly Miss Wilkinson dropped his poor coat on the floor and rushed toward him.
“Lord Evans! What’s amiss? Are you all right?”
He shot up to his full height. “Careful! You’ll trip.”
Which is exactly what she did, of course. He’d only a split second to brace himself before he took her full weight.
“Oof!”
He wasn’t completely certain which of them had made that sound. Her momentum had propelled him backward so he’d collided forcefully with the wall—fortunately or they would have ended up sprawled on the ground, he on the bottom, likely impaled by a splintered table or discarded candlestick, and she on top.
His brainless cock ignored the impalement part of that story, focusing instead on the notion of Miss Wilkinson’s feminine curves pressing against it. It started to swell with excitement.
He took a calming breath—and breathed in Miss Wilkinson’s scent. Blast.
His unruly cock grew larger.
“Oh.” Miss Wilkinson gaped up at him, clearly stunned by her sudden change in position and—fortunately—unaware of his body’s reaction. If she’d noticed, he felt quite certain he’d be gasping in pain now, her knee having taught his cock proper behavior.
If I lean forward just an inch or perhaps two, our lips will—
Zeus! Was he losing his mind? He grasped her elbows to move her away just as she planted her hands on his chest to do the same. She stepped back—and stumbled again.
He reached for her, but she was able to recover without his help.
“What did you see? You made a noise, as if you were . . . startled. Was it something”—she swallowed—“alive?”
Not anymore.
No. If the thing had been alive and was now dead, it would stink.
“I was startled—and I’m not certain what I saw. I’ll have another look, shall I?”
He started to squat, but Miss Wilkinson put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Are you certain it’s safe?” She glanced down nervously.
Poppy, sitting by the opening, interrupted her grooming long enough to look up at them.
He laughed. “Poppy apparently thinks so.”
Miss Wilkinson did not let go. “Poppy is a cat. She may not realize the danger.”
What did she think might be lurking in that shadowy space? If it was indeed dangerous, it would have already . . . what? Darted out and nipped their toes? “Are you afraid, Miss Wilkinson?”
She bristled. “Of course not.” Her jaw hardened. “I’ll look myself.”
“No, you won’t.” He certainly wasn’t about to let her take any risk, if there was one. That would not be at all chivalrous.
She squared her shoulders. “This is my house, Lord Evans. It’s my responsibility to see that it’s kept up properly.”
Oh, Lord, he’d only meant to tease her. “But consider my mortification, Miss Wilkinson, should word get out that the Earl of Evans had a female, ah—”
That was the wrong thing to say. Miss Wilkinson’s eyes snapped and she opened her mouth to blister his ears. Time to change course.
“And the floor’s very dusty. My clothes are already covered in dirt. No point in getting your dress soiled as well.”
That stopped her. “Oh.” She frowned. “Yes. Well, I suppose, when you put it that way, you have a point.”
Of course he did, but he didn’t waste any more time arguing. He squatted down again and peered into the shadows. The thing was still there.
Poppy butted her head against his arm to encourage him.
Very well. It was time to show some courage. He reached gingerly into the space—
And laughed.
“What is it?” Miss Wilkinson asked anxiously. “What have you found?”
Chapter Three
“A puppet!”
“A puppet? What’s a puppet doing here?” That came out sharper than Jane had intended.
At least she was feeling more herself. She’d been off balance there for a bit—literally, of course, but also emotionally.
Silly. Being pressed against Lord Evans’s chest, having his arms around her, should not have affected her. She’d stumbled; he’d caught her. His actions hadn’t been amorous. They’d been reflexive. He’d have reacted the same way were anything thrown at him.
And yet, after the shock of tripping had abated, she’d felt . . .
The closest she could come to describing the emotion was home. She’d felt as if she was finally where she was meant to be.
Which was the stupidest notion. The Spinster House was her home. When the tenancy had opened up in May with the sudden, surprising marriage of Miss Franklin to the now-Duke of Benton, she’d known immediately that she wanted to be the next Spinster House spinster. The vacancy had been the answer to a prayer she hadn’t had the audacity to utter. When she’d lost the Spinster House lottery, she’d schemed to get Cat and then Anne wed—to men they loved, of course—and out of the hou
se. And now she was here.
She’d never been happier. She had no one—except for Poppy—to answer to.
She loved her brother, but she loved him even more now that she wasn’t living with him.
Lord Evans held the puppet out to her. “Take this, will you? I want to see if there’s anything else of interest back here.”
She examined the puppet as the earl resumed his rummaging. The gold-and-red-striped outfit, floppy legs, little arms, and wooden head with its big hook nose and red, conical hat were all very familiar.
“It’s Mr. Punch!”
“Yes.” Lord Evans stood, a puppet in each hand and a large smut on his cheek. “And here’s his wife, Joan, and the baby.”
His dishevelment was oddly appealing.
What is the matter with me?
Yes, she’d admit Lord Evans was far more attractive than any of the men in Loves Bridge. He was even more attractive, in her opinion, than her friends’ husbands, the duke and Lord Haywood.
And it wasn’t just his physical appearance that was so pleasing. It was his smile, the way his eyes lit with mischief when he teased her, the way—
No. She was beginning to sound infatuated. She was not. Lord Evans was merely a friend—at least she hoped he was a friend since their paths were certain to cross frequently over the years.
“You’ve dirt on your face.”
He laughed and pulled out his handkerchief. “I said the floor was dusty. See what I saved you from?”
She bit back a smile. “Thank you. And the spot’s on the other side.”
She might not be interested in a husband—not that Lord Evans had shown any sign of wanting her as a wife—but she was still a living, breathing female. There was nothing wrong with admiring a handsome man. She’d admire a handsome horse as well.
“And you have a large piece of fluff in your hair.” She reached up without thinking and brushed it away, her fingers tangling briefly in the silky strands.
That might have been a mistake. His eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening.
She flushed and looked down at Punch.
“Thank you, Miss Wilkinson.”
His voice sounded deeper, oddly intimate.
“Y-you’re”—she swallowed—“welcome.”
She was behaving like a complete widgeon. How many times had she laughed to herself when other girls turned into simpering cabbageheads around an eligible male?
“It looks as if one of the Spinster House spinsters was a devotee of Punch.” Lord Evans’s words broke the odd tension that had sprung up between them.
“No, not a spinster,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “A tailor—Mr. Denton. We used to have a puppet show at all the fairs when I was a child. My father said Mr. Denton made everything himself—the puppets, their clothing, even the stage and scenery.”
Papa had thought the puppet shows very funny, especially Mr. Punch’s antics, but Mama had not been at all certain they were appropriate for children. They’d argued, and Papa had won—as always—leaving Mama to stand next to him and Randolph and Jane, wringing her hands—and laughing, too, from time to time.
“We haven’t had a show since Mr. Denton died years ago. I’d forgotten all about them. I wonder what the puppets are doing here.”
“Likely someone concluded this was the perfect place to store them. The Spinster House is right on the green and has only one occupant.” He put the puppets down. “I’m going to investigate those boards. Unless I miss my guess, we’ve found what Poppy dragged us up here for.”
Poppy must have agreed that her work was done, because she darted out the door and disappeared down the stairs.
“But what are three puppets going to do for us?”
“Three puppets and a stage, Miss Wilkinson.” He grinned. “You can replace Mr. Wertigger and his sad excuse for a traveling zoo with a puppet show.”
Was the man daft? “Lord Evans, you are missing the point. We might have the puppets. We might have the stage. But we do not have Mr. Denton, unless you or Poppy can conjure him from the grave. Who is going to put on the show?”
The impudent man bowed. “I am, Miss Wilkinson.”
* * *
Jane stood on the green early the next morning and watched Lord Evans set up the puppet stage. She’d hardly slept a wink the night before.
She liked to be in control of things, and she was not in control now.
“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”
He paused long enough to give her an annoyed look.
Perhaps she had asked that question one—or several—times too many.
“It’s just that I feel responsible.” She wished she could put on the show herself, but she knew that would be a disaster.
“I don’t know why.” He tested the stage, pushing on the sides to be certain it was stable.
“Because I was the one who dismissed Mr. Wertigger.”
His brow arched up. “Do you think the other members of the fair committee would have wished him to stay?”
“N-no. But I didn’t ask their opinion.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were the one confronted with the issue. You didn’t have time to assemble the committee.”
“True.” She wanted to believe him. She did believe him—and appreciated his support. But she couldn’t stop worrying. “Perhaps the children would have liked to see a kangaroo, even a stuffed one.”
“Perhaps.” He stepped back to survey his handiwork. “But remember the parrot. I can’t imagine their mothers would wish them to hear the parrot.”
Lord Evans was correct about that. She should stop fretting and believe what he said. But still . . .
“You’re certain you know what you’re doing?”
The earl came as close to rolling his eyes as she’d ever seen a man come. “Miss Wilkinson, how many times must I—”
“If it isn’t Lord Evans!”
They both turned to see Randolph coming toward them.
Perhaps it was the angle of the sun or because she wasn’t sharing a house with him any longer, but Jane was surprised to see how thin her brother’s hair had got and how thick his middle. He’d just turned thirty-three this year.
“I heard you were here when I stopped by Cupid’s Inn for my breakfast, Evans.” Randolph looked at Jane. “Now that my sister has moved into the Spinster House, I need to take my meals out.”
“You could pay Mrs. Dorn more,” Jane said. Mrs. Dorn was Randolph’s unpleasant maid-of-all-work. “Then she would make you your breakfast.”
Randolph pulled a face. “You know Mrs. Dorn’s food is barely edible.”
That was very true. And every meal came with a grumble and a dark look. Quite disturbed one’s digestion.
“Well, you could learn to cook.”
Randolph’s eyes widened in shock—and then he laughed. “Oh, no. Cooking is women’s work”—he looked at the earl—“isn’t that right, Evans?”
She expected the earl to agree, but he didn’t.
“The Prince Regent is quite happy with his male French chef, Wilkinson,” the earl said, smiling. “In fact, French chefs are quite the thing among the ton these days.”
Randolph made a dismissive gesture. “The French! They are a different breed, are they not?” He looked back at Jane. “But where’s the kangaroo, Jane? I thought you said there’d be a kangaroo this year. I came over early to have a look at the beast.”
Oh, dear. This was exactly what she’d feared. People would be so disappointed. “It turned out to be stuffed, Randolph. You can be sure I sent the zoo proprietor away with a flea in his ear.”
Randolph looked crestfallen. “That’s too bad. A kangaroo would have been splendid. What are you going to do instead?”
One would think Randolph might have taken note of the tall wooden structure literally at his elbow, but he’d always been one to focus only on things right under his nose, and then only when he had on his reading spectacles.
“We found M
r. Denton’s puppets and stage. They were stored in the Spinster House.” She smiled in what she hoped was a confident fashion and said brightly, “Lord Evans is going to put on a performance.”
“Oh.” Randolph frowned and then stepped round to examine the stage more closely. “By Jove, that is Denton’s. I remember it well.” He looked at the earl. “Do you know what you’re doing, Evans?”
The earl did not strangle Randolph—he laughed instead. “Your sister has been asking me that very question, Wilkinson. Several times in fact.”
Randolph nodded. “I should think so. She is on the fair committee and apparently sent the prime attraction packing.”
Anger and anxiety battled in Jane’s stomach.
“It’s not as if I had a choice, Randolph.” She took a deep breath and struggled to speak more calmly. “Besides the stuffed kangaroo, the man had a very rude parrot.”
Randolph’s eyebrows shot up. “He did, did he?”
“Yes. He’d got it from a brothel.”
Randolph pressed his lips together as if he was struggling not to laugh. “Yes, I suppose I can see why that might not be suitable.”
“Might not!? Randolph, the bird, er,”—she hoped she wasn’t blushing—“flirted with me.”
Randolph snickered, but recovered quickly. “Pardon me. The image of a randy parrot . . .” He shook his head. “I do wish I could have seen your face.”
“It was not amusing.”
“Jane, you could do with a sense of humor.”
“I have a perfectly good sense of humor. This wasn’t funny.”
Randolph opened his mouth to retort, but fortunately the earl interrupted.
“It looks like a crowd’s gathering. I think now would be a good time to start the performance.”
“Do you know what you’re doing, Evans?” Randolph asked.
“Actually, I do. I took an interest in puppetry when I was at university and had some lessons with a professional performer.”
“You’ll remember there are children present?” Jane asked. Puppet shows could be as ribald as the Worm’s parrot, especially if one were used to a university audience of young, rowdy males.
“Of course, Miss Wilkinson. Don’t worry. I’ve entertained youngsters. My nieces are very fond of puppet shows and cajole me into performing whenever they can.”
When to Engage an Earl Page 4
