“As if John Nash would respect the designer of a dog cottage. He wouldn’t, I assure you.” Mr. Dawson’s cheeks were bright red.
“I—I had no idea you disliked Lord Westdale so.” Pippa’s heart was pounding so hard, she was afraid she’d faint. Suddenly, going to Paris with Mr. Dawson was a terrible idea.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Mr. Dawson said with fervent disgust. “He’s a lucky man to have your heart. He’s a lucky man to have his talent. And what do either you or his talent mean to him? Nothing.”
It hurt Pippa to hear him say that. But what if he were right?
“I know you must be tremendously fatigued,” she said in a soothing voice. “You mean well, but you’re frightening me with how savage you’re being toward Lord Westdale. Perhaps you should sleep.”
“No.” A stubborn, closed look came over Mr. Dawson’s face. “There’s no time to sleep. And by the by, if I had a chance to do it all over again, I’d not let John Nash take the leading role in the projects we worked on together—it would be I. Every time I see that folly, I lament that that’s how the world will remember me.”
“The world will remember you as a nice man, Mr. Dawson, who lost his wife and suffered a broken heart. It will remember you as a loyal consultant to John Nash, a position of great honor.” She laid a gentle hand on his knee. “Please, let’s stop at the next inn and get you a draught. You’re not your usual self.”
“I’m fine,” he said, and rubbed his eyes. “I do miss my wife. I miss her dreadfully.” He pulled out a handkerchief and ran his thumb over the worn embroidered initials on its corner. “And to think Lord Westdale would waste his chance for love. The man doesn’t appreciate what he has.”
“You’ve already said that,” she said. “And he appreciates me very much. I’m the one who’s been pushing him away.”
“You have? Whatever for? He’s a fine man. Don’t you recognize that?” He looked up from the handkerchief, studying her as if she were very odd, and her nervousness ratcheted up a notch.
He was clearly ill, not malevolent. She could barely keep up anymore with his contradictory statements.
“What did you mean when you said there’s no time to sleep?” she asked him.
He gave a short laugh. “Just what I said. There are sketches to be done. If young Lord Westdale won’t believe in his own talent, I’ll do it for him. I’ll keep you with me until he produces a decent design. I’d be the first to recommend him to Nash if he’d focus on the work and stop dithering.”
“Keep me with you? Aren’t we going to Paris?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve decided to take you to a place no one will know us. What would you rather do, Lady Pippa, cultivate your own dream—or get Westdale going on his? Don’t be selfish.” Suddenly the fanatical light in his eyes dimmed to a sorrowful one. “I sympathize with the lad. I was there one time myself—a genius who lacked confidence. I never evolved.” His eyes blazed once again. “But he could. He simply needs help.”
“But you just said if he really wanted to succeed, he’d follow through of his own volition.” Pippa sat ramrod straight, fear gripping at her every fiber. “And now you’re going to force the issue by kidnapping me?”
Mr. Dawson waved a hand. “That’s just talk. You know I’m not absconding with you. You wanted to leave Thurston Manor anyway. I’m only borrowing you to light a fire under Lord Westdale—and I’m also protecting you from him.”
“You’re doing a lot of things.” Her voice shook. “And none of them are in the least bit your business.”
But he didn’t look concerned one iota.
She prayed someone would notice they were gone. What about the driver? He couldn’t have been aware of Mr. Dawson’s state of mind when they’d left Thurston Manor.
If she could only get to him.
She intentionally yawned. “Are we stopping soon?”
“No.” Mr. Dawson shoved her hat at her. “Eat these biscuits if you’re hungry. I told you to drink tea but you wouldn’t.” He pulled out a flask. “Here’s some water if you need it. We won’t be stopping all night. I paid the coachman to keep driving. The carriage has lanterns.”
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t tell you that. But the farther we are from Thurston Manor, the better.”
Pippa felt the blood drain from her face.
“But you needn’t worry,” he continued. “It’s a cozy space—a folly I designed with an underground room. We’ll be safe there.” She was amazed at his totally unconcerned air, his ability to speak of their situation as though he were discussing plans for a picnic.
Her jaw clenched. “Please don’t make me go into an underground room.”
“There will be a candle. And a few blankets. I won’t leave you there long,” he said. “I’ll write Lord Westdale and tell him he can have you back when he draws something spectacular.” He slapped the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other, squeezing tightly. “And I do mean spectacular. I won’t accept anything but the best.”
“You’re not staying?”
“Of course not. How am I to mail my note to Westdale if I’m locked in a room with you?”
Pippa stifled a cry. “Locked?”
Mr. Dawson shook his head. “I thought you loved him. You shouldn’t be complaining so much.”
“Surely you don’t want to hurt me, do you?” she asked in a shaky voice.
“Of course not.” For a second, the Mr. Dawson she knew and loved gazed back at her.
“Then, please,” she said, “let’s find another way.” Tears stung her lids.
“There is no other way,” he replied gently. “Today’s fiasco proved that. Lord Westdale needs a good comeuppance. That will shake him out of his lethargy, Lady Pippa. Take heart.”
Chapter Twenty
Gregory could breathe again. Eliza and Dougal had stayed with him at the lake until he felt on solid ground, and together they’d walked back to the house talking about the fort, and then they’d moved on to life and its odd turnings, how it always seemed to manage to bring things full circle, no matter how hard one tried to avoid just that. They remarked, each in their own way, on how if people would stop running from whatever bothers them, they would see that the pain they feared would suffocate them was nothing compared to the agony of avoidance.
Gregory had been running ever since his mother died. The truth was, he was afraid his father wouldn’t love him if he knew what Gregory knew.
A boy needed his father’s love.
And so, it seemed, did a man.
Somehow, the three friends also managed to talk of the weather, their parents, the state of the economy, and how important it was for babies to get enough sleep. Grown-ups, too. At which point, Gregory realized he’d like nothing better than to crawl into bed and get a good rest. He already knew his sleep would contain no dreams, and that he’d wake restored, ready to start again—
For the first time since he was thirteen.
The irony was, everything seemed bleak right now between him and Pippa, and he was no closer to being a hugely successful architect than he was before. And he was still running from the fact of his origins.
But something had happened that morning with Dougal and Eliza. Learning their story had brought him a little hope that maybe Father wouldn’t hate him or resent him—or want to send him away—if he found out that he wasn’t Gregory’s natural parent.
It was only a small hope. He’d spent over a decade fearing the worst. He couldn’t simply let that deep-seated dread go.
And it didn’t matter anyway. Gregory couldn’t tell Father anything. He’d sworn to his mother he never would. And yes, he’d been very young when he’d made that promise, but it had been his mother. Even now, a lump rose in his throat at the memory of her.
He’d loved her desperately.
It had been her last wish.
He was still her protector.
What kind of son would ever betray his mother, especially
one who wasn’t here to defend herself?
Nevertheless, that little hope was there, a quiet, glowing ember in his heart.
He took Dougal and Eliza to see Prince, the piebald stallion, in his stable and told them how freely he’d galloped across the Thurston properties. They belonged together, Gregory thought, as he described Prince’s virtues—he and the horse of his dreams. Right then and there, he decided that in the morning, before his departure, he’d offer Lord Thurston a ridiculous sum to make Prince his own.
It was a small, first step, a direct flouting of his rule that he didn’t deserve to indulge his childhood dream.
Maybe he didn’t. But he would dare to, anyway.
Baby steps. Baby steps to facing the truth. If he only gained enough courage, he’d stare that enormous truth down.
But not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
Even as hope and doubt warred within him, he showed a little courage with his friends. Before he entered the house, he told Dougal and Eliza in confidence everything that had occurred the last couple of days, including the fact that he loved Pippa and was desperate to marry her—but that he worried he’d made a hash of things.
Eliza was, of course, teary-eyed with concern that her old friend Pippa was hurting and promised Gregory she’d talk to her about Walter and assure her on that account. She also sheepishly said she’d ask Pippa’s forgiveness for using her that day in her garden as a decoy while she and Dougal sneaked off to kiss. And finally, she laughed thinking of Pippa dressed as Harrow and was surprised she hadn’t recognized her.
Glad for his friends’ support, Gregory left them and looked for Pippa inside the house, but no one knew where Harrow-the-valet was. He wasn’t worried—yet—because he knew that she was the type of person who would need to walk or ride off her troubles. So he headed to the stables to find her, but she wasn’t there. It frustrated him that he couldn’t locate Oscar or one of Lord Thurston’s stable hands, either, but a quick walk past the stalls showed him that all the horses were present, at least the ones he remembered. But it was a vast stable, and several stalls on the far right were empty. Had they always been so? He wasn’t sure. A quick check of the equipment showed no sidesaddle missing, however. He distinctly recalled there being three of them.
He made a quick jog back to the folly. But no Pippa. His heart started racing and his breath sped up, but it was still far too early to panic, he told himself. He dashed through the woods calling her name, but only birdsong greeted him.
Jogging back to the house, he felt he’d missed something, and then realized what it was. The gray carriage was gone from the motley collection in the stableyard. He remembered noticing it because it was drab. He’d made an offhand remark that it was a shame someone didn’t paint it a pretty, glossy black, and a stable hand had told him that the servants took it to church, that it was the master’s spare, rarely if ever used by members of the family.
Gregory went straight to the kitchen entrance. “Does anyone know where the gray carriage went?” he asked Cook, her assistant, the kitchen boy, and the two footmen who were seated at a table, succulent slabs of meat pie before them.
Shock registered on all four faces. He knew houseguests never set foot in the kitchen. For a moment, no one spoke.
“I only want to find Harrow,” he said. “Please do feel comfortable speaking.”
“I thought he was your valet,” the kitchen boy piped up. “I liked him, I did, even if several of the footmen didn’t.”
“That’s enough, Richard,” Cook admonished the boy, then looked at Gregory. “Harrow stole all the biscuits off the plate in the drawing room—put them in his hat, he did. But he was helped by none other than Mr. Dawson.” She huffed. “I don’t go making biscuits for people to snitch them all, Lord Westdale. If you’ll pardon my saying.”
“I don’t mind your saying that at all.” He placed a hand on the kitchen boy’s shoulder. “And Richard, what do you mean, you liked Harrow? Is he gone?”
Richard nodded his head. “He and Mr. Dawson left.”
“Where did they go?” he asked.
The kitchen boy gazed round the assembled company with his brows lofted, and as one, the four of them shrugged.
“They left so fast, no one knows,” said Cook. “I just heard Lady Thurston calling for Mr. Dawson, and Mr. Jones—our esteemed butler—had to tell her he was gone, that he’d taken a carriage while all the stable crew and our guest drivers are helping the overseer clean out the woods on his property. He’s offering in return a hearty meal, some ale, and fiddle playing.”
“Isn’t that nice?” said her assistant, sighing.
“Yes, indeed,” said Cook. “And Lady Thurston was furious Mr. Dawson recruited her favorite footman to drive him and vowed he’d have to explain himself when he came back.” She pursed her lips and gave a knowing nod, enjoying her role as informant of such goings-on. “Until he does, Mr. Jones is in the doghouse for not alerting Lord and Lady Thurston right away, but how could he? They were at the folly with their guests, you included.”
“Right, thanks.” Gregory swept past them to the stairs leading up to the first floor.
“I don’t begrudge Harrow the biscuits, my lord,” the kitchen boy called after him. “He was a right ’un. And I’m proud to say that this house can provide a traveler with sustenance when—”
But Gregory didn’t hear the rest. He was already taking the steps three at a time. He’d no time to look for Dougal, but he told Mr. Jones to find him immediately.
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
“Yes, Harrow is missing. Along with Mr. Dawson. Do you know why they left?”
Mr. Jones’s eyes widened. “No, but I hope you find them soon. Mr. Dawson was acting a bit odd.”
Gregory’s hands turned to ice. “Odd?”
“I didn’t think anything of it. Harrow’s just a valet, but I got the impression Mr. Dawson was upset at him. Or at something. Harrow was a bit agitated himself, so I don’t even know that he was aware of Mr. Dawson’s pique. I didn’t give it another thought after they left.”
“I wish you had. Harrow was my valet.”
“Right, sir. I should have checked with you.” He scratched his head. “The truth is, I was glad to be rid of him. He was too—”
“Don’t tell me he was too cheeky.”
“That’s exactly what—”
“When you find Lord Morgan,” Gregory interrupted him in steely tones, “tell him to gather the men immediately and send out parties looking for the gray carriage carrying Mr. Dawson and Harrow. They’ll have to saddle their own horses as the stable is empty of help.”
“Very good, my lord. I’ll get on that right away.”
And then Gregory ran to the stables himself and saddled Prince, lamenting every second he wasted fumbling with the straps and buckles but talking to Prince the entire time, telling him that he knew he’d lead him to Pippa.
* * *
Pippa couldn’t hurt Mr. Dawson, no. He’d obviously snapped. Somewhere in between the wise, sweet companion she’d instantly liked and this agitated stranger sitting before her now, grief and regret had broken his spirit, stolen his good health, and sent him to this dark place. He was ill and needed a doctor.
But she could stop the carriage.
She guessed they’d been on the road almost two hours, and she was praying the whole while that Gregory would find her.
Please, she said over and over in her head. Please come.
But there were several directions a carriage could take from Thurston Manor. How would he know which one to choose?
She couldn’t simply stand by and wait for Gregory. This desperate adventure had to end as soon as possible, and it wasn’t all Mr. Dawson’s fault that she was embroiled in it. He’d given her excellent advice: She should have told Gregory she loved him before she left.
She’d been foolish. Impetuous. She should have spoken to him honestly from her heart and been willing to listen to what he had to
say. And now she only hoped she’d get the chance to do so again. He might want nothing to do with her at all. She’d made a big mess of things, from the beginning. When Hawthorne had attacked her, she should have gone straight to Uncle Bertie.
What had stopped her from asking her beloved uncle for help? Why didn’t she make him understand that nothing and no one could stop her from going to Paris?
Of course, it was expectations that had driven her every move. Pippa hated not to please people—was afraid to push back at her family’s and society’s notions of what was best for her. And look where her own dithering had gotten her—into a carriage with an ill old man who wanted to put her in an underground chamber, of all places.
She could no longer afford not to assert herself and would start now. “I have to get out of this carriage immediately,” she told Mr. Dawson. “Nature calls, and I can’t wait.”
He drew in his chin. “We can’t stop.”
Pippa stomped her foot. “We must. Do you hear me, Mr. Dawson? We must.”
He glared at her and shifted in his seat. “Don’t cause any trouble.”
“You’re the one causing trouble,” she said. “Either you stop this carriage now, or I’ll jump out.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, yes I would.”
He glowered. “Very well. I’ll get the driver to stop. But only for a minute, and don’t think to run. I handed him two loaded pistols and told him to use them if you tried to escape.”
“How dare you?” A great fury rose in Pippa’s chest. “What kind of man are you? And what kind of footman would go along with you?”
But she remembered the sly faces of Cockney and Square-jaw and was sure the driver was one of them.
Mr. Dawson was more agitated than ever. “Shut up, Harrow.” He wrung his hands together. “Forget what I said. We’re not stopping.”
Pippa ripped off her wig. “Look at me, Mr. Dawson.”
He did, and his eyes widened—but then he averted them.
“I’m not Harrow.” She took off her spectacles, threw them on the seat, and began ripping the pins out of her hair. “I’m Pippa. You remember. I told you. I’m Lady Pippa Harrington.”
The Earl Is Mine Page 22
