The Earl is Mine (13 page)

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 pointy 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.”

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.