Authors: Kieran Kramer
Two footmen ahead of her on the path started with rude comments about Marbury, and Pippa felt a strange burning in her throat.
Loneliness. That’s what it was. She was really and truly alone now, and she couldn’t even lay claim to her own identity. Instead here she was pretending to be a man—and a valet—and not even a plausible one at that. What had she been thinking?
She wished there were a familiar face, even Lord Marbury, nearby to speak to. She heaved a sigh, then gave herself a shake and pulled her chin up. It was time to strengthen her resolve, to “straighten her spine,” as Uncle Bertie often advised.
“You shouldn’t make fun of your betters,” she admonished in her strictest valet tones.
One of the footmen, who had a square jaw, turned to look at her. “Lord Marbury? Our better? You’re jesting.”
And then he proceeded to laugh wickedly with his sidekick, parroting Marbury’s shouting “Make way!” in a fairly accurate and nasal fashion.
“Why, with those skinny legs and big round belly, I’d say he looks like a stuffed American turkey, wouldn’t you, mate?” the other footman said in a Cockney accent.
They both guffawed and hit one another on the back in merriment.
“That’s better than looking like a doll in a china shop,” Pippa declared.
Both servants stopped.
“Do you mean us?” Cockney asked, his fists bunched at his sides.
“We can’t hurt ’im—we’ll get in trouble,” said the square-jawed one.
“We can yank down his trousers,” the other answered.
Square-jaw laughed.
“I didn’t mean you two,” Pippa said hastily. “I meant the little man, Mr. Dawson. He’s so small, he’s like a china doll.”
Both footmen eyed her as if she’d gone mad.
She smiled miserably at them. “I’m starved.” She
was
hungry, after all.
Cockney winked at her. “Cook has saved some leftover cold livers for you. That and a pint of ale should do you good.”
“That’s right.” She tried to sound enthusiastic. “Although I’ll need a glass of milk, too, please. Doctor’s orders. And I—I think I’ll skip the livers.” She’d always hated them. “A piece of bread will do.”
Square-jaw made a face. “You’re a picky little bugger, aren’t you?”
“He’d better not be when he sleeps with us tonight,” said Cockney.
Square-jaw nudged him. “On the floor, he’ll be, between our two beds.”
“You mean between the two chamber pots under the beds. We’ll be pissing over his head.”
Ugh
.
They both guffawed again and brought Pippa along a path to the kitchen door. Another half hour passed rather in a blur. It seemed everyone wanted a snack, so the other servants sat around the table with her. She bolted some bread and milk—which revived her—and listened to a cacophony of voices gossiping about all the visitors. So far, Gregory was winning as the most admired man. He was viewed as handsome, wealthy, and charming.
“He’s dangerous, too,” she added.
Everyone stopped talking.
“No, he is,” she said. “Although I don’t think he’s killed anyone,” she added into the silence. “The good thing is, I know I need never fear being mistreated with him around. He doesn’t tolerate bullying of his servants—not that any of you would ever do such a thing.”
And went back to chewing.
Slowly and a bit awkwardly, the conversation resumed. The talk moved round to the most admired woman in the house party—Lady Damara Poindexter.
Pippa stopped eating so she could hear every word.
So far, she’d heard Lady Damara had a figure like a heavenly angel, a laugh like the queen of the fairies, lips as lush as a red, red rose, and other bits of nonsense gleaned mainly from old songs—nothing original and truly compelling, until Cook declared—
“That demmed lady has eyes that scorch a man’s soul and drive him mad with the need to possess her, until nothing is left of him but a vacant shell.”
Everybody stopped chewing at that.
“I read that in a book,” said Cook. “But she fits the bill.”
“I won’t count on her being in her own bed tonight,” said one maid with a snicker.
“Right,” said a footman. “Lady Thurston made sure Lord Westdale’s room is conveniently on the same corridor but at the other end. We can’t make things too easy for them. It takes away all the passion.”
“I’ll shut me ears as I walk by,” said another maid, giggling.
Pippa’s stomach began to feel sick. She didn’t know why. It couldn’t be because of Lady Damara going to Gregory’s room. No, it had to be because she would be sleeping on the floor between two footmen, neither of whom was particularly friendly to their guests’ servants, and their chamber pots.
Good God, what if they expected her to use their chamber pots? A bit more terror struck her. What if they challenged her to a pissing contest?
If they caught on to her disguise, Gregory would send her packing.
“Will you be waiting up for his lordship?” the cook asked Pippa.
“Yes,” she said, glad of the idea. “I’ll wait in his room. He doesn’t like to ring for me when we’re out and about.”
“You’re a nice little man, aren’t you?” The cook beamed at her. “Before you go, you’ll head to the attic to see your pallet first, so you don’t wake everyone up when you go up to bed later.”
“All right.” The idea of sleeping between those footmen was unbearable. But Pippa stood. “Can someone show me the way?”
“We will,” her Cockney and square-jawed escorts said in unison.
But she sensed something sly between them. One of the maids giggled. Pippa looked around the table. “I hope you know that a valet deserves respect.”
Another maid giggled, too. “Your employer didn’t ever kill anyone. You just said that because—because you’re a skinny little fellow and those guys”—she angled her chin to the footmen—“they could beat you to a pulp.”
“At least he’s thinking,” said another maid. “It was a clever notion.”
“I wouldn’t challenge Lord Westdale,” said Pippa quietly. She meant it in earnest this time. “He’s the last man on earth you want angry.”
And the first man she’d want on her side. She was proud—
proud
—to be his valet. Inside, she was shocked to realize that she admired him.
This time, the girls’ eyes widened. Pippa lifted her chin and followed the men. Dear God, her dream to become a sugar sculptor was trying her, wasn’t it?
But going up the servants’ stairs and into the main house, she grew excited at the beautiful surroundings. A house party! How amusing! She’d never been to one.
The black-and-white marble floor in the corridor leading to the front door captured her fancy like nothing else. Uncle Bertie’s home was comfortable—
this
home was regal. She looked to her right and caught a glimpse of a library, and then straight ahead, the front door with that beautiful stained-glass window above it. From the left of the front door, a great swath of light fell on the marble floor. It came from the drawing room, where all the guests were gathered.
“Will the latecomers eat off plates in there?” she asked Cockney.
“No, they’ll eat off the floor,” he said, and rolled his eyes.
“Of course,” said Square-jaw. “They’ve got a fine meal, too. If they don’t finish it, I intend to snitch a bit of it to feed my collection of pet rats.”
The footmen exchanged glances.
Pippa swallowed hard, but she wouldn’t ask. They wanted her to. She could tell.
They turned smartly to ascend the stairs—two of their brethren might be watching from their posts at the drawing room door—and Pippa followed behind.
And then she heard Gregory’s voice. He was telling the company about a remarkable American he’d met on the frontier, a man who inspired him with his grit and resolve to clear his land and build his log cabin. Everyone asked him questions all at once, and he laughed and said, “One at a time, please.”
They
adored
him. Pippa swallowed a lump in her throat. She hated being a valet. She wanted to be in that room sitting by Gregory and listening to every word he said about America. And then she wanted Lady Damara to see that he wasn’t eligible to marry her or have an illicit liaison with her because …
He was Lady Pippa Harrington’s love.
“My godfather owns a number of theaters,” she heard him say when she reached the stair landing.
There was a smattering of comments she couldn’t understand, and then she heard, “Lady Pippa Harrington.”
She stopped on the landing.
“Hurry up,” one of the footmen said.
“Wait,” she said, “my stockings are drooping.” She bent down slowly to pull one up—a useless endeavor, really—and heard Gregory say, “Yes, she is an old schoolmate of Lady Morgan’s.”
Eliza
.
And then he said, “She’ll be coming to London soon, although she’s quite happy in Dartmoor, traipsing the moors and indulging in her hobbies.”
“What kind of hobbies?” someone asked.
It was Lady Damara, Pippa was sure. Her voice was like velvet. Or was it like the laugh of that dashed queen of the fairies?
“She plays the pianoforte,” Gregory said mildly. “And I know she likes to read.”
Oh, Gregory
.
Pippa’s heart sank. She wasn’t going to London, and he’d said nothing about her passion for sugar sculpture. Why? What difference did it make to anyone, least of all him, that she had a gift? For that’s what it was, her whimsical sculpting of sugary confections.
A
gift.
“Your stocking is fine,” the Cockney footman said.
“You’re just eavesdropping,” Square-jaw accused her.
She looked up at him. “And what if I am? You’re enjoying it, too.”
“You gettin’ cheeky with us?” Cockney snarled.
She was so tired of that word
cheeky
! And he’d said it much too loudly.
“Ssshh!” she whispered. “I’m not being cheeky. I’m tired, that’s all. Please show me the attics so I can go wait in Lord Westdale’s bedchamber until he arrives.”
She took one step forward—one sore, tired step—when a voice from the drawing room called up to them. “You! On the stairs. Harrow?”
She looked down and saw the most welcome sight in the world—Gregory, and he was holding a full glass of something red. He looked marvelously healthy, not at all sad and decrepit, which is what she felt like after this very long day.
“Wait there,” he ordered her, then looked up at the footmen. “He won’t be sleeping in the attics. Take him to my dressing room right away, and put him on a pallet, please. A comfortable one.”
Pippa’s heart expanded with a feeling so light, she almost lost her breath. Gregory had been looking out for her all day. She must admit it. Even though she hated that he’d been trying to get her back home, not once had he stopped thinking about her comfort.
And then a young woman came out of the drawing room. She wore a spectacular turquoise gown with a sparkling chiffon overlay and a matching ribbon woven through her ebony curls. She put her arm through Gregory’s. “What have we here?” she asked, and sent him an alluring smile.
Lady Damara. Without a doubt.
“That’s my valet,” said Gregory, his gaze still on Pippa. “He needs looking after. He’s got a bad back.”
“Poor fellow,” said Lady Damara, eyeing Pippa as if she were a lame horse. “He won’t be any good to you if he’s crippled, will he?”
Pippa stared back at Gregory.
“He’s a man of many talents,” said Gregory. “He’ll always land on his feet. Good night, Harrow. Sleep well.”
But Pippa wouldn’t answer him. Man of many talents, indeed. He hadn’t told anyone she liked to make sugar sculptures, had he? He didn’t care. All he cared about was beautiful women, adventure, and playing with architecture as a hobby. Why do more? He was to be a future marquess!
She hid her pique, of course, in the servant’s demeanor she showed him by bowing quickly. Then she sped off with the footmen, who brought her—without another rude word—to Lord Westdale’s bedchamber.
Chapter Twelve
Pippa was angry. Gregory saw it in the fleeting look of scorn she cast him the moment before she bowed her good night. Then again, she was wearing spectacles, and the light from the candles in the entryway could have deceived him.
Oh, who was he fooling? She was clearly upset. When she strode off with the footmen, her back to him, he sensed her bristling.
“He’s a cheeky thing, isn’t he?” mused Lady Damara on his arm. “Not quite the usual valet.”
“No, he’s not,” he murmured.
Lady Damara yanked on his arm. “Let’s go back inside. They’re starting a game of whist.”
“Right,” he said, feeling distracted. He was really in no mood to socialize. He longed to relax—to read, to unwind. And to talk to Pippa would be nice. But of course he couldn’t go to bed this early—not before midnight, at the least.
He was surprised how much he liked knowing that Pippa would be in his dressing room, waiting—
Actually, sleeping. That was what he hoped she’d do. She needed it desperately.
And you need
her
desperately
.
He had no idea where that thought originated, but the image of the sugar-sculpture castle came to him in a flash.
A silly little sculpture—to accompany a silly little thought.
He put both away and focused on the beautiful woman at hand.
“Shall we establish a bet between us, winner takes all?” Lady Damara looked up at him, the picture of innocence, but he saw the glint in her eye. He knew that neither one of them would lose were they to bet. The invitation was clear, and she was most appealing.
“No bets tonight,” he said gently. “It’s been a very long day.”
“Of course.” She looked away, but not before he caught the slightly pained expression on her beautiful face. He hated to embarrass her, but facts were facts: He wasn’t interested in a liaison with any woman who might believe she stood a chance of becoming his future countess and, later, marchioness.
He wasn’t ready.
Lady Damara was miffed, and if there was anything worse for Gregory than being the object of scorn of one lady, it was being resented by two. The company had been playing cards and indulging in some fine claret when they’d arrived. Lord and Lady Thurston, perhaps slightly the worse for wear, had escorted him right into the midst of the festivities and plied him with a cold plate and a goblet that never seemed to empty.