A little chuckle burst from Pippa’s throat.
“Your valet can’t have just laughed.” Marbury stared at her, his expression incredulous. “If so, he should be fired on the spot. And why is he riding with you? He should be on the box.”
“He’s got dyspepsia.” Gregory shot Pippa a warning look. “And his behavior and where he sits is my business, not yours. Go on, tell me what you want to say about Dawson. But you’d better hurry. We have to bloody well be on our way.”
Marbury looked quickly behind him—there was no one nearby, listening—then back at Gregory. “Were you by any chance asked to design a dog cottage for Lady Thurston?” he asked in low tones. When Gregory nodded, he continued. “And you and I are both at this house party. I wonder if other up-and-coming architects will be there, as well.”
“And your point is?” Gregory sounded bored, of all things.
“Lord and Lady Thurston are close friends of John Nash—”
“England’s premier architect,” Pippa said, and nudged Gregory.
He flashed her a look of annoyance. “I know that. Everyone knows that.”
Marbury came dangerously close to wiggling in his excitement. “It’s said that he is a huge lover of dogs, and they’ll be consulting with him on the plans for the cottage, with him choosing the best design.”
Pippa had to fight not to squirm in her seat and maintain a cheerless expression—she supposedly had dyspepsia, after all. But Gregory shouldn’t sound bored. A cottage for dogs was rather absurd, but if John Nash were involved, this was important. It could mean his future.
She coughed and looked right at him. But he ignored her, so she coughed again.
“Quit the coughing, Harrow.”
“Sorry.” She grunted, but her eyes said it all: This is it—your opportunity.
He merely scowled and looked back at Marbury. “So Nash will help choose a design. Why would he be interested in an architect who designs for dogs?”
A slow burn began in Pippa’s middle. Fine. If he didn’t want to take advantage of an opportunity, she would find a way.
“Sounds bizarre,” said Marbury, “but evidently he and Lady Thurston know each other and have both bred dogs their entire lives. While a separate cottage may seem preposterous to you and me, we must remember that there are many whose behavior with their dogs can’t be explained.”
Pippa’s and Gregory’s eyes met. Uncle Bertie.
“So this competition, if you will,” Marbury went on in a condescending tone, “is our opportunity to lay our talent at the feet of John Nash. And whether I have the opportunity to show him plans for a fortress or plans for a doghouse, I won’t pass it up. Nash has private consultations with Prinny, you know. The opportunities abound. Whomever he and Lady Thurston choose will surely have a fantastic start on a stellar career.”
“How do you know these rumors are true?” Try as Gregory might to hide it, his interest was piqued.
Silly of her, perhaps, but Pippa could tell by the way he grabbed the hand strap on the wall on her side of the carriage and hung from it. The pose was casual, and from behind, she was embarrassed to note she found it highly attractive—exposing the merest fraction of his shirt and top of his pantaloons on the left side—but his fingers as they gripped the hand loop were almost white.
“I’ve only heard rumblings,” Marbury said. “But why else would four of us attending this house party be tasked with designing this cottage? And why would Lord Thurston’s personal secretary drop me a note and request that I give Lady Thurston’s cousin a ride in my carriage?”
“Perhaps his is out of service,” Gregory suggested.
“Grasping at straws is poor comfort when the truth hurts.” Marbury sent Gregory a pitying smile. “Lord and Lady Thurston obviously have a particular eye on me. And that’s a long ride from London. Dawson and I have bonded. I’m sure I’ll have my foot in the door ahead of anyone’s.”
“Yes, and that ride from London was also ample time for you to shoot yourself in the foot,” said Gregory equably, and settled back in his seat—his knee splayed and almost touching Pippa’s. “Cheers, Marbury. See you in a few days.”
“Come now, Westdale.” Lord Marbury actually slapped the door. “I just groveled before you, then shared some valuable information I didn’t have to—”
“The groveling was appropriate. And as for the valuable information, I’d have discovered it myself at the house party”—Gregory sounded testy again—“especially as so-called rumors abound, according to you.”
The tension was ratcheting up again. Pippa felt too hot in her coat.
“You know timing is everything.” Marbury’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Now you’ll be sure to get to Thurston Manor earlier than you’d planned, thanks to me. So have pity, and lend me your valet. How hard is that? And you’ll only win favor with Dawson by doing so.”
“I doubt that,” Gregory said. “I suspect that somehow you’ll work it so that you do. Besides, you’ve already bonded with him, remember? Why should I even try? Not to mention that mere minutes ago, you were doing your best to dissuade me from attending the house party, no doubt because you want one less rival there.”
“Do you blame me?” Marbury hiked both his shoulders up and put his palms out. “This is a competitive world. But the truly ambitious know when to cooperate.”
“And when to move on,” Gregory said. “It’s only a pair of boots, after all, and Dawson’s only a man—not a god. For the last time, good-bye.”
He pulled his door shut at the exact same moment Pippa leaped out her own door and landed—blast it all!—directly in a puddle. Without taking time to worry about the fact that she’d also gotten wet for the umpteenth time that day, she rounded the back of the carriage as swiftly as possible in her muddied shoes and tipped her hat at Marbury.
“I’ll be glad to be of service to Mr. Dawson,” she gasped in passing, and ran toward the inn’s front door at full speed.
Behind her, Gregory’s door slammed shut. “Harrow!” he called in murderous accents.
Inwardly, she cringed, but she burst through the inn door, calling, “Mr. Dawson? Mr. Dawson? I’ve grown up with corgis! And I’ve heard lovely things about Lady Thurston.” She turned and heaved her shoulder against the mammoth front door to shut it behind her, but the wind made it impossible. With no time to spare, she gave a final shove only to have the door pushed open by Gregory. They locked eyes for only a split second before she slung a chair in his path and looked wildly around the room.
Where was Dawson?
“What is it with these strange city folk?” said one apple-cheeked lady to an old man sitting next to her, his pint of ale frozen in the air.
“There you are!” Pippa cried.
The object of her search was still by the fire, one booted foot crossed over the other, a sheaf of papers in his hand. She arrived at his side exactly one second before Gregory did.
“I’m Harrow, valet to Lord Westdale, and I’m here to shine your boots,” she proclaimed breathlessly.
“But they don’t need shining, dear fellow,” Mr. Dawson said in the sweetest manner. He really was a lovely old gentleman.
“No, they don’t.” Gregory folded his arms over his chest. He looked like a dangerous bull about to charge, but who was he angry at—Pippa or Marbury?
Maybe both.
Marbury entered the taproom at a more leisurely pace, looking like the cat who’d just downed the canary.
“Your boots may not need shining now,” Pippa told Mr. Dawson, “but they will. In fact, I’ll be happy to serve as your temporary valet at Thurston Manor.” She shot Gregory a just-try-to-stop-me look.
“Pulling valets out of hats is only one skill in my repertoire of tricks,” Marbury purred as he approached and grinned at Mr. Dawson, who pointedly ignored him.
“My valet’s not going to the house party.” Gregory looked directly at Pippa when he said that. “In fact, we’re leaving now.”
“Wel
l, which is it?” Mr. Dawson peered up at Gregory and Pippa. “Are you coming or going?”
“Coming!” Pippa said.
“Going,” Gregory announced at the same time.
And it was as if their opposing words cast an unfortunate spell. At that exact moment, a large, dark shadow passed before the window, followed by a massive, earthshaking thud, the screech of splintering wood, and the whinnies of frightened horses.
Chapter Ten
Oscar.
Gregory ran straight out the inn door.
The gigantic oak tree that had shaded half the inn yard lay on the ground. One of its huge limbs rested on top of a stranger’s carriage that sat upon splayed wheels, its roof crushed to smithereens. Two trunks lay on the ground, their contents spilling out of them.
There were no horses attached to the carriage yet—a good thing.
To the right, Gregory’s own carriage was in perfect order, although his new pair were jumpy, their haunches rippling and their eyes still white. Oscar, thank God, had them well in order, although inside his dark coat with the gold Brady buttons, he was paler than usual.
“Everyone all right?” Gregory called to him, vastly relieved.
“Fine, sir,” the coachman said. “No one was hurt. We’re lucky. Not so the owner of that carriage. I do believe it was Lord Marbury’s.”
Upon closer inspection of the crest on the broken door, Gregory saw that it was, indeed.
A heavy weight settled on his chest. He couldn’t leave just yet. He’d have to see to it that Marbury and Dawson got on their way. It was the right thing to do. But it shouldn’t be difficult. They were at a posting inn, after all, with horses and carriages readily for hire.
What was going to be difficult was getting Pippa back into the carriage to go home.
That upstart—volunteering her services to Mr. Dawson! He’d admire her gumption any other time—but not when she was under his care and she was doing the opposite of what he needed her to do.
By this time, everyone else had left the inn to view the gigantic tree’s demise and to exclaim over the coach. The bespectacled Pippa had mashed her hat low on her head to prevent it from being blown off by a random gust of wind and was deep in conversation with Mr. Dawson while she went about the business of picking up garments from the ground around the coach. Two children joined her.
But where was Marbury?
Already out back, Gregory surmised, trying to find new transportation. At least the man should be. Gregory would go looking for him, see if he could help.
He caught another glimpse of Pippa and Mr. Dawson, and couldn’t help thinking she was extremely fetching in her man’s clothes. She seemed perfectly content to stay there with the older man by the crumpled carriage, folding garments and speaking avidly about something.
But then Gregory saw her visibly slow down and act more like a man. And like a servant.
Good.
The falling of the tree had brought out her nurturing side. For a moment, at least, she’d forgotten about the fact that Gregory was taking her home.
But no sooner had the relief come than it went away. A sick feeling gripped him. They needed to leave, and it was getting harder and harder to do so.
He’d resist panic. They need stay only a few more minutes. And after he’d finished being polite assisting Marbury, he’d head back to Bertie’s with Pippa in tow.
Marbury was in the side yard talking to two stable hands sitting upon a tree limb so large Gregory couldn’t have spanned it with his arms. The two laborers were drinking ale, and according to them, Marbury’s driver was asleep in the hayloft.
“Is he drunk?” asked Marbury.
“He won’t be of any use to you for at least half a day,” one said. “When you arrived here, he was near drunk already, not that we can blame him with this rough weather.”
“Damn that useless bastard.” Marbury groaned. He glanced up as Gregory came closer, then added in a surly tone, “I mean that useless, handsome bastard of a servant. Is that nice enough, Westdale?”
Gregory didn’t dignify the question with an answer. “You can hire a driver,” he said instead, then looked at the stable hands. “But what about the horses and a carriage?”
He noticed for the first time how close the stables had come to being wrecked.
“We’re going to have to get the horses out the rear door,” said one stable hand. “The front one’s blocked.”
“And the carriage you’re going to provide me?” Marbury asked.
The other hand laughed, but it was almost a sob, really. “’Fraid that won’t be happening. The two we have are blocked inside. We’d have to saw out a wall to remove them.”
“Gawd, it’s going to take weeks to get rid of this limb alone,” said the other, patting the branch.
Marbury cursed. “You two are as helpful as rocks. Is there any place nearby we can hire a carriage?”
“Not for at least another eight—no, maybe nine—why, I think it must be eleven miles!” The first stable hand heartily scratched an armpit and grinned, pleased with his wealth of knowledge.
“What about the next coach?” Marbury’s neck and ears were turning red.
“Not until tomorrow afternoon, and in these muddy roads, it could be two days,” the second stable hand said smugly.
“You can always ride to Thurston Manor,” Gregory suggested to Marbury.
“Not a chance.” Marbury raked both hands through his frizzy hair. “Dawson’s an old man; that’s too rough a business, especially with all the mud on the roads. He needs cushy transport. If he had some flesh on his rear, of course, he’d be fine. He’s got the appetite of a flea. You need to take us, Westdale.”
“Oh, no,” Gregory said, “I’m not going to the house party—yet.” And he turned to make the short trip back inside the inn.
“You were going anyway,” Marbury urged him from behind.
“Later.”
“Just go now. Your friends can wait, can’t they? Or will they cry?”
But Gregory didn’t answer.
“What’s wrong with you?” Marbury demanded to know. “This man could mean everything to your future. I never took you for being all looks and no brains, but maybe you’re better off being a prissy future marquess who cares more about his dance slippers than using his God-given talents.” He sniffed disparagingly. “Not that you really have any. I just said that because you’re one of those people who’s easily flattered.”
“Believe me, the last thing I want is a compliment from you.”
“You’re making no sense, Westdale. None at all.”
“Maybe not to you,” Gregory threw over his shoulder.
Marbury managed to catch up with him, and with a sigh of resignation, Gregory held the door because something in him liked Marbury almost as much as he wanted to throttle him.
The short, roly-poly earl crossed over the threshold and looked back and up at him. “This whole business stinks to high heaven. You. Me. Going to the same house party.” He chuckled. “As if anyone would willingly put us together. It’s a plot. I know it.”
“Say it a tad louder, why don’t you?” Gregory muttered.
Marbury rolled his eyes and moved into the room with his usual swagger. It appeared everyone had congregated again, this time for a round of ales on the house.
The barman was wiping tears away from his eyes. “We’re ruined,” he announced to the general company.
There were lots of sighs and commiserating murmurs all around.
“No you’re not,” Pippa assured him loudly, a tankard of ale in her hand. “You’ll clean up the tree—someday—and until then, you’re still the Old Oak Inn. No one ever said the tree had to be standing. And then when you’re done cutting it up and hauling it away, you’ll rename the place—.”
“The New Stump Inn!” Marbury called out scornfully.
Pippa narrowed her eyes at him then smiled at the barman. “Don’t worry, you’ll come up with just the right name. I’m
sure of it.” She raised her tankard.
He put the flats of his hands on the bar and frowned at Pippa. “We’ve been the Old Oak Inn for nearly four hundred years, young man.”
She swallowed hard and glanced around. “It’s time for a change, then. Think how excited everyone will be to see the new name above your door.”
Marbury leaned toward Gregory. “I’ve never known a valet to be so forward. So ridiculous. And his coat fits dreadfully.” He raked Gregory with a shrewd glance. “Yet you look all right.”
Gregory was underwhelmed by the compliment. “That’s all that matters in a valet, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Dawson seems to like him,” Marbury noted.
“They apparently bonded at the site of your broken carriage,” Gregory said dryly, and joined Pippa at the bar where she sat next to Dawson, who was lifting his own tankard of ale.
“Right, Harrow,” Gregory said, already dreading her response. “Let’s go.”
It was time. He hoped she realized that she’d reached the end of the line.
She looked up at him with her large hazel eyes still somewhat hidden behind those awful spectacles—and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. She was up to something. He could tell.
“Really, my lord,” she said, “we don’t need to travel to Plumtree. Feel free to go directly to the house party at Thurston Manor.”
Gregory threw her a brittle smile. “Thank you, Harrow, for telling me, your employer, where I may or may not go.” The flash in her eyes told him there was an especially hot place she’d like him to go. “Of course we must travel to Plumtree.”
“But you’re a man who refuses to think of himself.” Her tone was earnest. “You’re only going to Plumtree so that I may see my dying grandmother.” She looked at Marbury. “The fact is, she’s always almost dying. Last year, she was this close”—she put her index finger and her thumb together and turned slightly so Dawson could see—“to dying of a fever that was so hot, you could fry an egg on her forehead.”
“Really,” said Marbury. “Let me get out my violin.”
The Earl Is Mine Page 11
