The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  Someone who looked the exact opposite of cantankerous—a sweet, older man—ventured into the taproom then. He had silver hair receding at the temples and intelligent eyes. His clothes were neat but unexceptional, though the expensive cut of his jacket and the fine supple leather of his boots revealed that he was a man of some means.

  “Get Mr. Dawson anything he wants.” Marbury spoke with unnecessary harshness to the barman. “And do you take good care of your dogs here? I don’t approve of people who don’t.”

  He stole a quick glance at Mr. Dawson, who apparently wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He was eyeing the inn yard, where the branches of an enormous tree swayed heavily in the wind. Pippa exchanged a bemused look with Gregory.

  What an odd thing for Marbury to say, especially as three dogs lay in a heap, legs before the fire, contentedly snoozing.

  The barman, who’d probably seen everything under the sun when it came to human nature, wiped his hands on his apron and looked only mildly askance at Marbury. “We take excellent care of our dogs here. Anything else, sir?”

  “Just that we don’t have all day.” Marbury’s tone was cold and aloof.

  Many people seemed to treat their servants that way, Pippa noted, but Gregory, whenever he was at Uncle Bertie’s, never made a request of the house and stables staff without being gracious at the same time.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, and remembered with a shock that they weren’t bound and that Gregory had known that and explored her there as if she were an undiscovered treasure.

  He’s not for you, she reminded herself. He might be kind to servants, and he does know how to make your body exquisitely happy, but he’s bossy and difficult and not—I repeat—not for you.

  “We’ll eat in the private dining room,” Marbury said to Dawson, his confident tone implying tacit approval of the plan. “Nothing but the best for a cousin of Lady Thurston.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” the older man said. “The weather being as it is, I’m content to sit by the fire out here and have some tea.” He looked at the barman. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not a bit, sir.” The barman turned away to do his job.

  “I’d prefer to be alone for a few minutes,” Mr. Dawson said to Marbury. “I’ve reading to do.”

  “Of course you do.” Marbury was the epitome of bored politeness. “So do I. The history of the Thurston line. I hear it’s quite noble.” But when Mr. Dawson walked past him, Marbury turned to Gregory and made a disgusted face.

  What a rude man he was! Pippa felt immediately sorry for Mr. Dawson, who wended his way through the tables and chairs to the fire, oblivious to his traveling companion’s slights. She could tell Mr. Dawson was a nice man, like Uncle Bertie—and Gregory, when he felt like it—although he didn’t fill the room the way those two seemed to do.

  Uncle Bertie was a proper baronet—and proud of his place in society—but once a year from the time she’d turned thirteen, he’d taken her on a regional tour of all his theaters. He called it their “annual adventure,” and it was always a special time, one that spawned many heart-to-heart talks as their carriage rumbled down the roads leading from one bustling town to the next. Pippa knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Uncle Bertie wanted her to lead a life of freedom, a life he himself had prepared her for. If she managed his theaters properly, she’d always have an income and a certain level of independence—and with that a chance to indulge in her own dreams.

  Which was why his insistence that she and Gregory marry made no sense.

  The popping sound of a new keg of ale being opened by the barman brought her to the present, and she watched as he poured two pints and passed them to Marbury and Gregory.

  “I leave after one pint,” Gregory said.

  “Oh, come now. What’s happened to the London partygoer?” Marbury jeered in his grating nasal tone.

  “I can drink you under the table, Marbury, as you well know.” Gregory stated it as an inconsequential fact. “Would you like something … Harrow? Valets get thirsty, too.”

  Pippa realized he was looking at her. Oh. She must be Harrow! “Uh, no, thank you, my lord.” He was her jailer, essentially, and she wanted to be as rude to him as Marbury was, but she couldn’t—not in her role as his valet.

  That was a clever identity to take on, but she’d never tell Gregory so.

  Marbury leaned against the bar and met her eyes for a moment before going back to speaking with Gregory about the latest goings-on in Town. He’d looked through her as if she were invisible, which was typical of the upper classes—not to mention a good thing in her case.

  “So,” Gregory said to him, “you’re attending the same house party I plan to get to—eventually.” He tossed a quick glance at Pippa.

  Why should she feel guilty? She nearly stuck her chin in the air but thought better of it. Valets wouldn’t dare.

  “You’re attending?” Marbury winced, then he jerked his head away from Gregory to observe a comely barmaid washing glasses.

  At least Pippa thought it rude. Perhaps gentlemen did things like that all the time in each other’s company.

  Marbury slurped his ale and took his time returning his narrowed gaze to Gregory. “You might want to extend your stay with your friends in Plum Valley.”

  “Plumtree,” Gregory corrected him.

  Marbury waved a hand. “I hear the goings-on at Thurston Manor will be terribly dull.”

  There was a slight arch to Gregory’s brow. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  Oh, really? What had he heard? Pippa bristled. Was he going to enter upon a seduction campaign at the house party, too, with some other unsuspecting young lady—or ladies?

  “Lady Thurston is purported to be full of surprises,” Gregory said. “One never knows whom to expect among the company.”

  Marbury gave a droll laugh. “It’s no secret Lady Damara’s coming. I hear she’s anxious to see you. I’d give anything to—”

  And then he began to describe what he’d do to Lady Damara if he could get her alone and naked. Pippa’s eyes widened, and her stomach churned with disgust at the thought that any woman would be subject to Marbury’s pawings.

  “Enough.” Gregory cut him off testily, and it was a good thing he did. She nearly had steam coming out of her ears. “You’re speaking of a lady.”

  Marbury’s own eyebrows shot up. “That hasn’t stopped you before. I heard the rumors. The new Lady Morgan’s firstborn looks a bit like you, so they say.”

  The new Lady Morgan was Eliza! A ringing started in Pippa’s ears at those shocking words, and her heart—her heart began to beat so fast, she had to put her hand on the back of a chair.

  But Gregory moved faster. He grabbed one of Marbury’s jacket lapels and yanked him up and toward him. “I advise you,” he said through gritted teeth, “not to repeat rumors.” And then he shoved him away.

  Marbury almost lost his footing but recovered it by grabbing onto the bar. “God, man! I never said it was fact.”

  “Let’s go, Harrow,” Gregory said, and began to move toward the inn door.

  Good for him! Pippa couldn’t help but feel a small surge of satisfaction as she watched him stride away with an assured gait, his broad shoulders imposing, his general air unassailable. There wasn’t an ounce of guilt in that walk. None.

  She couldn’t believe it of him—that he’d gotten Eliza with child.

  Absurd. There was no way that baby was Gregory’s. Much as she knew he’d enjoyed his share of women, this accusation was beyond the pale.

  Marbury had gotten what he deserved.

  Pippa was relieved that no one seemed to notice the feud between two gentlemen that had erupted in the taproom. The noise level remained constant—and life went on. Thank goodness. The farther she was from conflict in any shape or form, the better. No one could notice the valet …

  It was her new mission. That and escaping Gregory.

  Marbury’s lips twisted above his po
inty chin, and he took a gulp of ale. “I’ve always called him a high-and-mighty jackass to his face,” he muttered at Pippa, “just to annoy him, even though he’s not. I wish it were utter hell, working for him, but I doubt it is.”

  “It is sometimes,” she said. “But only when he insists on shooting pistols two-fisted. He’s a crack shot. We’ve gone through at least a hundred wine glasses in the past month alone. Makes a devil of a cleanup for me.”

  Marbury scoffed, but she could tell he wasn’t sure if she was jesting.

  Let him wonder. Pippa had never seen Eliza’s new baby—had only corresponded once with her schoolmate since she’d gotten married, and it was only in response to Eliza’s letter. She’d sent a small gift—some baby socks she’d knitted—but she preferred to cool the friendship as much as possible without being overt about it. And it was only because Eliza had never apologized for what she’d done—which was use Pippa as a diversion for Gregory that day in the garden.

  If she had, Pippa wouldn’t be so willing to walk away.

  Gregory paused, his hand on the inn’s front doorknob. “Harrow? Are you coming?”

  She felt a desperate urge to follow him and turn her nose up as she walked by Lord Marbury. But then she remembered such a pleasure—aligning herself with the better man, the victorious man—would be short-lived.

  She had a greater purpose: to elude that same man and get out of England.

  Paris awaited, as did Monsieur Perot, although he had no idea his perfect student was coming his way: the student he’d surely longed for, one who shared his vision and his passion, who wanted to become a master sugar sculptor—

  By hook or by crook.

  “I’ll be there in a moment,” she called to Gregory in her best and lowest man’s voice, and then pointed a thumb over her shoulder. Surely at an inn of this caliber there was a room to refresh one’s self somewhere on the premises. “I have to go—somewhere.”

  She hoped he understood her meaning.

  “See you outside shortly,” he said, his gaze direct and expectant—shorthand for Be there, or else—and strode through the door, not bothering to shut it behind him.

  She looked behind her for an escape, but Lord Marbury stood, straightened his coat, and glowered at the front door, blocking her view of the rear of the room.

  “Follow that annoying master of yours and get out,” he told her.

  “I—I can’t. Not yet.” Perhaps there were woods behind the inn in which to hide. It had been raining too hard earlier for her to notice, but she had to try something, didn’t she?

  “If you’re looking for a place to piss, go find a tree.” Marbury laughed at his own rudeness. “Leave now, or I’ll accuse you of making lewd jokes about the barman’s daughter. See her over there in the corner?”

  “Yes, I see her.” The unsuspecting girl was still washing glasses. “That’s not very nice of you.”

  “Who cares about being nice?” He shot her a look of scorn. “Your coat is rumpled. You’re a pitiful excuse for a valet.”

  Pippa looked down and smoothed the front of her coat. Hmmph, she thought, and you’re a pitiful excuse for a man. She eyed him with contempt.

  “Take off that smashed hat,” he said, “you lout. Don’t you realize you’re only drawing attention to your bald spot? For that’s surely the reason why you wear it inside.”

  “I was on my way out—that’s why I’m wearing it.” She curled her lip in distaste. “At least I don’t have too much hair like you. In your ears, that is.”

  He tried to grab her arm, but she was too nimble and found herself separated from him by a table.

  “I could beat you to a pulp,” he said.

  “You’d never catch me to do it.” She turned swiftly on her heel and made for the door, pushing her hat down for good measure. No telling how windy it still was out there.

  “You’d better watch your manners,” he called after her, “and your back!”

  She ignored him and slowed her steps, not just to rile him but because she felt as if she were marching off a gangplank with a pirate at her back into shark-infested waters. Even with Gregory’s assurances that he would take care of things when they returned to Plumtree, she knew he would leave again.

  And she’d be right back where she started.

  Out in the inn yard, he was clearly waiting for her, his black curls blown around his forehead by a steady wind. “Please get into the carriage.” His tone brooked no nonsense.

  She glowered at him, but she did get into the carriage. There was a part of her—as much as she was angry at him—that understood his reasons for returning her home and couldn’t fault him for it. Society would say it made perfect sense.

  But dreams don’t always make sense, she thought. Hot tears stung her lids, and she blinked them back, listening as Gregory told Oscar to return to Uncle Bertie’s. She sniffled a bit, noticing that fortunately the carriage no longer smelled of damp as Oscar had removed all her wet things. But suddenly Marbury’s strong cologne assailed her nostrils in the worst way.

  He’d stuck his head in the carriage door. “Forget what I said before,” he said without preamble in that scratchy, cold voice of his. “I need you.”

  “What for?” Pippa asked, and not at all politely.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “To shine Mr. Dawson’s boots, and you will do it. There’s not a soul here who’s not either elderly, female, a bratty child, or drunk—and that includes the stable hands.”

  “I refuse,” she said, crossing one ankle over the other knee in a decidedly masculine fashion that made her feel brave and reckless. “You didn’t ask nicely. And I think that’s terribly important.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her again. “Just what kind of servant are you?”

  When Gregory appeared at the carriage door, his eyes were icy and his jaw, square and hard. “What do you want with my valet?”

  “I refuse to help him, my lord.” Pippa held her breath and looked straight ahead, her belly taut as a bowstring. “He said I have a bald spot. He accused me of having a rumpled coat. And he called you a high-and-mighty jack—” She turned to look at Gregory, then back at the wall. “I can’t say it.”

  “What’s going on, Marbury?” Gregory put his hands on his hips. “Did you get into it with my valet in the taproom?”

  “No,” Marbury insisted. “Well, yes. I did.” He scratched a temple. “Look, Westdale,” he said in what Pippa thought should have been a sheepish tone but was more a pedantic one. “I came across as a boor in the taproom. To both of you. But I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have repeated that rumor. Or threatened to beat your valet to a pulp.”

  “You did that?” Gregory’s tone was deadly.

  “Yes,” said Marbury. “But if you only knew how provoking he was! Seldom in my life—in fact, never—have I ever been so provoked by a servant. He’s downright disrespectful, completely cheeky—”

  Gregory held up a palm. “Stop right there.”

  “I’m not cheeky,” Pippa blurted out.

  “See?” Marbury put up his hands and let them flop at his sides. “I’ll admit I was in a terrible mood after being assaulted by you, Westdale. How dare you throw me like that, by the way: I, your old friend Marbury.”

  “Right,” said Gregory. “My old friend.”

  “And it’s not often that I’m expected to be nice, of all things, especially to a servant.” Marbury put a hand over his heart. “What peer has to be nice? It’s—”

  “It’s how we behave in the country,” Pippa interjected.

  “He’s talking again.” There was a threat in Marbury’s tone.

  “So he is.” Gregory put an edge of menace to his own words, much to Pippa’s gratification.

  Marbury sighed in obvious surrender. “Good God, what I’m trying to say is, let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?”

  Gregory merely stared at him, his lips thinned.

  “You and I have a long, checkered history,” Marbury went on doggedly. �
�But we’re mates in the end, aren’t we? Someday, we’ll sit in Parliament together. Surely you’ll grant your dear old friend Marbury another chance.”

  Dear old friend. Hah!

  But something in Pippa gave a little. The odd man was amusing in his own way, and he was certainly trying. He’d obviously grown up used to getting what he wanted and didn’t know how to deal with strong wills other than his own. She wished she could lean forward in anticipation of what Gregory would say to that little speech, but she sat as far back as she could on her seat, her two feet now flat on the floor, and tried to act disinterested.

  As for Gregory’s response, Pippa suspected that as a gentleman, he really had no choice in the matter. She saw in his eyes that he realized it, too.

  Crossing his arms, he said, “What do you want, then?” Which was as close to an acceptance of Marbury’s apology as the repentant scoundrel would get.

  “Not much.” Marbury’s reply was brisk. “My own valet fell ill as we left London. He’ll follow in a few days. But he was to take care of both me and my friend. Now Mr. Dawson needs his boots polished before we resume our journey. Do me a favor and lend me your man, unimpressive as he looks. It will only take a half hour—if he’s any good.”

  Gregory made a frustrated noise and leaped into the carriage, taking the seat opposite Pippa. He looked down at their unhappy visitor. “I’ll allow bygones to be bygones. But I’m afraid you’ll have to find another flunky to polish your friend’s boots. We have a schedule to keep. Not to mention a little pride. When you ask to borrow a valet, you don’t insult him and then assume his employer won’t object.”

  “Dammit, man.” Marbury braced his hands on the carriage doorway. “Didn’t you hear me in the taproom? Roger Dawson is Lady Thurston’s cousin.”

  “Good for him.” Gregory kept his tone perfectly bland, Pippa was glad to see. “Is there a further point?”

  Marbury gave a sputtering laugh. “Surely you can understand why I want to stay in his good graces.”

  “Enlighten me,” Gregory said dryly. “You seem quite anxious to. Old friend.”