Authors: Charis Michaels
“A week or so?” she parroted his words, watching him look around for a place to sit. Unable to locate a free chair, he remained standing in the center of the room.
“They are due in England in seven days?”
“Or so.” He grinned a rat’s grin, happy in the cheese tray.
“I . . . I wish I had known of your timing. The lawyer sent no word.”
“Oh, his legal practice has come to an untimely end, I’m afraid.”
Her head shot up. “Mr. Merek was one of Papa’s oldest friends, Edward. What did you do?”
“No,” said Eddie loudly, spitting cake. “What did you do? An unmarried young woman may not relocate herself to another country and buy up a house; I don’t care how rich her father was or who his friends may be.”
Piety felt the blood drain from her face, but she remembered the marchioness’s warning. Composure. Confidence. It was Eddie who looked foolish. She would not be bated by his theatrics. “It’s regretful that I didn’t know about your journey,” she said calmly. “The house, as I’ve said, isn’t ready to comfortably host guests.”
“Oh, Piety, spare me the carrying on, as if you are cock of the walk.” Eddie laughed. “The house will be easier to sell if you haven’t rebuilt it to your own foolish, impractical specifications.” He took a big bite of pastry, losing a dollop of jam filling to the rug, and then looked around the room. The assembled group stared at him mutely, open incredulity clear on their faces. He took another bite and stared back.
T
revor didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or hit something.
No. That wasn’t true. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but prudence demanded he remain silently in his chair, that he slouch lazily, exude boredom, and affect an air of superiority.
It was not without effort.
The superiority came naturally, perhaps, but his typical practiced detachment grew more elusive with each criticism this buffoon cast upon Piety like a long-suffering life tutor.
Piety said, “These, Edward, are my neighbors. Not that it concerns you, but I have been received most generously by the residents of this street, Henrietta Place. Her ladyship, the Marchioness Frinfrock.” She gestured to the marchioness.
Limpett nodded his head. “Your majesty,” he said with his mouth full.
The marchioness scowled at him, her eyes narrow slits.
Trevor hadn’t expected the man’s animosity toward Piety to be quite so palpable. He hadn’t expected him to be so abjectly rude. He was swollen with misplaced arrogance and, from the looks of it, with cake. Piety had said they were awful, but when had she ever spoken of anyone or anything without hyperbole? Colorful exuberance was part of her script.
He had expected them to be undesirable matches, but he never expected them to be, well,
unthinkable
.
The truth was, he’d never expected to come face to face with any of the so-called Limpett brothers at all.
“Lord Trevor Rheese, Earl of Falcondale,” Piety continued, backing up to indicate Trevor. “He is the host of our afternoon tea. This is his home.”
Trevor felt absolutely no obligation to stand, so he did not. He nodded—curtly—and made a show of studying the little man. Under his scrutiny, Limpett had the decency to slow down his chewing and nod in return.
Trevor looked at Piety, who cringed as she watched her stepbrother endeavor to balance his plate and cup while he ate. Her smile, which had dazzled him almost to stupefaction all week, was gone now; her brow was creased with lines, and Trevor’s disgust at Limpett burned into something stonier. She wasn’t quaking in fear exactly, but her spirit had been dampened. She was anxious and shaky. He’d never seen her like this—not when she was recovering from his near tackle, not when surrounded by burly carpenters, or stroking the pride of their bully of a neighboring marchioness.
Yet, here she was, blushed and blotchy, jittery and distracted because of Edward Limpett?
“And finally, my chaperone, Miss Jocelyn Breedlowe,” continued Piety.
“How do you do?” said Miss Breedlowe.
“Chaperone?” Limpett asked, his paw frozen over his plate. “Since when do you require chaperoning?”
“I am an unattached lady of marriageable age, Eddie. It’s not an outrageous notion.”
“But you are betrothed.”
“I am not betrothed.”
“You’re nearly betrothed.”
“To whom? To whom am I nearly betrothed?”
“To me or one of the others.”
“How can one be nearly engaged to five different men? It’s ridiculous, and you know it. I am not betrothed, so please do not repeat it. I’ve introduced you to a room full of people, Edward,” Piety continued, “can you not, at the very least, say hello or acknowledge that you are a guest in a nobleman’s home?”
“Which one goes with the house?”
Which one, my arse.
Trevor stood.
“The house is mine,” he said flatly. “The cake you’re eating, the china on which you’re eating it, the rug onto which you’re dripping—all mine.”
It wasn’t entirely true, but he was making a bloody point.
“As host, it is only fair that I inform you that you’re about thirty seconds and a mouthful of cake from taking your leave, Mr. Limpett. Kindly state your business with Miss Grey and be on your way. We were previously occupied before you turned up.”
The little man had the decency to shuffle back a few steps. “This is English hospitality?” He looked at Piety. “I was told to expect this.”
“Inhospitable, are they?” challenged Piety, snatching his plate. “I’ve made introductions, while you’ve done little more than issue orders and eat. You are a guest in this country, and in this house, and if you cannot be counted upon for manners exceeding this, I will surpass Lord Falcondale’s request and toss you out myself.”
“Fine. Allow me to resign to your
property
—whatever it is.”
“No,” she answered, her patience straining, “as I’ve said, my house is not yet ready to receive guests. Besides, a bachelor dare not visit me at home without making arrangements in advance. My chaperone would never allow it.”
“Oh, please, Piety, we are family. I am your stepbrother.”
“You’ve only just suggested that we were betrothed!”
“Another reason to admit me!”
“The lady has said no, Limpett,” said Trevor. He moved to Piety’s side, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I see,” said Eddie, looking around. “Perhaps you could recommend a suite of rooms for hire. Or a coaching inn.”
“I am afraid I cannot,” Piety said. “You’re a grown man. You’ve sailed halfway around the world, surely you are self-sufficient enough to locate a place to lodge.”
“Perhaps you can put on a brave face and address me in your papa’s-princess voice, but you know better than to take that tone with your mother.” Limpett nodded, agreeing with himself. “Or with Eli. Or Ennis. It goes without saying, but mind you don’t forget. Am I right, Tiny?” He turned to the maid. “Am I right?”
Piety sighed. “I’d not look for conspirators here, Eddie. And you may tell your family, when they arrive, that I will not, I’m afraid, be able to offer any of them lodging in my new home for quite some time. Not until the repairs are complete. So, if they are, indeed, traveling to England, due to arrive here in the near future, then they, too, shall need to find suitable lodging elsewhere.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, taking up his satchel. “At least I’ve located you. You’re alive, and as insolent as ever.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I am still alive. I do hope that everyone from New York realizes that, should some unexpected
accident
befall me, the fortune goes entirely to my mother. Tell me that you and your brothers comprehend this fact. She will not share a penny if she is willed my money outright. Not a penny. You’re only being included because she believes she needs you.”
“And you’re only flitting around the drawing room of a strange Englishman’s house, showing off your
endowments
in your expensive frocks and fripperies because she has not yet found you and brought you to heel.” He looked her up and down.
“That is enough, sir,” Trevor said icily, shouldering around her to stand between them. “Allow me show you to the door.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I knew to expect nothing but insolence and rudeness from Piety. I’m not surprised it extends to her so-called new friends. But take heart!” He waggled his finger at her. “Your mother will not be as easily tossed aside. Do not entertain the notion that she’ll accept anything less than the best room in that rattletrap excuse for a house you’ve bought.” He scowled at the tea trolley. “And far better refreshments.” He scuttled over to Bernard to collect his sagging umbrella and wilted hat.
“Good day to you,” he said to the room. “How decent you have all been to take in our Piety. She is a handful, I know. But not to worry, we’ll be taking her back to New York, where she belongs, soon enough.”
And then he shuffled out, dragging his umbrella behind him.
S
ilence filled the room, swallowing Eddie Limpett’s departing footsteps.
They never heard the front door close; he must have limped outside without making the bother. In the street, the rain had slowed, softening the patter on the window to a barely perceptible tap. The only remaining sounds were the clock ticking in the next room and the marchioness’s sawed breathing.
The earl backed up a step and looked around. The women watched him expectantly, but he said nothing. Joseph loped to the front door and could be heard pushing it shut. Bernard produced a whisk broom from his belt and began to sweep the man’s tiny boot prints from the rug. In vacant silence, they watched him work.
Joseph returned from the door and crossed to the window, yanking the drapes together. “He’s walking back and forth on the sidewalk,” he said.
Piety floated to her chair and collapsed.
Finally, Jocelyn asked, “Does he always behave like this? Are they
all
like this?”
Tiny cleared her throat. “Always like this and worse, if you can believe it,” she said. “Mr. Eddie is the stupid one. Rude and stupid. The others are smarter and meaner.”
“Tiny, it’s all right.” Piety sighed and stole a look at Falcondale. He hadn’t moved from the middle of the room, and now he eyed the door. He wanted out, and she couldn’t blame him.
“I take it chess is finished for the day?” he said, not looking at her.
Piety stared at her knees. “This has been a horrible intrusion. Please accept my apology.”
The marchioness scoffed. “He feels no intrusion, he feels ashamed. Difficult to play lord of the manor when half the manor has gone to the auction block.
Your china
, indeed!”
“Wrong on both accounts. I’m neither intruded upon nor ashamed. The exchange with Limpett is not your fault, Miss Grey. It is obvious that it was unavoidable. If anyone should apologize, let it be me. As her ladyship has, with great frequency, pointed out, I aspire to little more than ungraciousness of spirit and meagerness of home and hearth. I think we can all agree that my involvement in today’s exchange only made things worse.”
“See? You
are
ashamed,” the marchioness said.
“The only player in today’s drama to whom I would attach the word
shame
is Edward Limpett,” he said. “What I feel is . . . ” He looked around.
Oh, God,
thought Piety.
Just say it.
Disgust. Revulsion.
Pity.
Tears filled her eyes, and she turned away. Her own loss of composure was the one thing, perhaps, but that could make this day worse. She was not a damsel in distress in need of rescue. And he was certainly no knight in shining armor. To pretend otherwise would make a mockery of her and an ass of him.
Falcondale strode to the drapes and yanked them open.
“He’s gone,” he said, changing the topic. “You won’t be bothered if you remain here the rest of the afternoon to avoid him. Stay as long as you like. Finish your refreshment. You’ll have to excuse me, however. I have an engagement.”
“Coward!” The marchioness wiggled from her chair. “Before he arrived, you went on and on about memorizing the chessboard in order to resume play!”
“Never let it be said that you suffer from poor hearing, my lady,” he said. “You’ll have to forgive me. I can no longer be detained.”
He strode to the door but then paused, staring at the jamb. “Miss Grey?” he called. “I concede the game. You win. You may collect the spoils of your victory as you see fit. Arrange it with Joseph when you are ready.”
Concede the game?
Piety stood. “It’s not as bad as all that,” she said.
“To me,” he said, “it appeared very bad, indeed. I am disinclined to become involved, as you well know. But, in the very least, I can concede the wager.”
She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was gone—whipping out the door without a backward glance. Joseph trotted glumly behind him.
“Well!” The marchioness scowled at the empty door. “He is as useless a champion as ever there was. Everything will obviously fall to me, and it’s just as well, I suppose, considering who and what we face.”
Still dazed by Falcondale’s concession, Piety looked at the marchioness. “I beg your pardon, my lady? What shall fall to you?”
The marchioness did not answer. She issued orders to the room. “Bernard! Have Mrs. McGee send word to the staff at Garnettgate immediately. Prepare the house and kitchens and take on extra help. Expect our imminent arrival by next Friday at the latest. Myself and three guests, our personal attendants, and with a group of six or more arriving shortly after. Everything is to be to my exact specifications for a
royal
visit, Bernard. Be very clear. I will follow up with Mrs. McGee in the afternoon. But she must send a rider immediately, so tell her now. Go.
“Miss Breedlowe,” she said next. “Your role is now doubly important. Miss Grey and you shall accompany me to the dressmakers first thing in the morning. That beige relic of yours is hardly the color of unspoken superiority.