When to Engage an Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  That made him laugh. “Let’s just say it would be best if you not take up games of chance.”

  No one had ever said her expression was easy to read. In fact, she prided herself on how well she hid her emotions. It was . . . unsettling to learn that the earl could see through her.

  No. What was she thinking? Everyone in the village was worried about the duke. It didn’t take any great perception to know she was, too.

  “Yes. Well. Let’s hope for the best. Now, I have a far more pressing concern. The fair is tomorrow, and I’ve just sent away the main attraction. What am I going to do?”

  He grinned. “Shall I offer to put myself on exhibit? Though I’m afraid I’m not as interesting as a kangaroo, even a dead one.”

  She laughed. “You are here in Loves Bridge. You are already on exhibit—you know how the village is. I’m surprised the Boltwood sisters aren’t peering in my window right now to see what you’re up to.”

  They aren’t, are they?

  She glanced over. Whew! No faces pushed against the glass.

  “Now come along. I’ll make us a cup of tea and then we can put our heads together and come up with a plan.”

  “I think I’ll need something stronger than tea,” he said as he followed her into the kitchen.

  He might be right. “I’ll get the brandy.”

  “Miss Wilkinson! You have brandy? I would never have thought the Spinster House spinster would be partial to spirits”—he glanced down at Poppy, who was sprawled on the floor in a patch of sunlight—“at least of the alcoholic sort.”

  Did Lord Evans think there was something odd about Poppy too?

  “I’m not responsible for bringing the brandy into the house—it was here when I arrived.” She put it on the table along with two teacups.

  “Teacups, Miss Wilkinson?”

  “The house did not come with brandy glasses, Lord Evans.”

  He grinned as he reached for the bottle. “I see. I suppose it will look better if you are caught with a teacup rather than a brandy glass. May I pour?”

  “No one is going to ‘catch me,’ Lord Evans. That is the beauty of the Spinster House. I live here quite alone”—she tilted her head toward the cat sprawled in the sun—“except for Poppy.”

  She held out her cup for him to splash some of the amber liquid into it. He had a very nice smile. It wasn’t stiff or merely polite—it creased his entire face and lit his eyes.

  “Right.” He raised his cup. “To spinsterhood.”

  “Hear, hear.” She tapped her cup against his and took a sip. The liquid burned a path down her throat as she watched Lord Evans glance around the kitchen.

  “This place looks as lost in the early 1600s as Loves Castle. Didn’t any of the spinsters feel the need to redecorate?”

  “Apparently not. But I will.” She took another sip. Warmth curled through her stomach. She exhaled, feeling the tension start to drain from her shoulders and neck. She could finally relax—

  No, I can’t! The fair is tomorrow and the Worm has just left with his stuffed kangaroo and profane parrot.

  A vise clamped around her neck and tightened. She took another, larger swallow of brandy.

  Mistake. She gagged and coughed.

  “Careful!”

  Through blurry eyes, she saw Lord Evans jump up and pour a glass of water from the pitcher. In a moment he was offering it to her, his steadying hand on her shoulder again.

  Odd. She’d never been much for having people touch her, but she didn’t mind the earl doing so.

  “Here. Only a sip. I don’t want you inhaling it.” He smiled. “Don’t drink brandy much, do you?”

  She scowled at him. “Of course I don’t drink brandy much, but that’s not what caused me to choke. Must I remind you that I have less than twenty-four hours to come up with a replacement for the much-anticipated kangaroo?” She moaned and dropped her head into her hands. “This is a disaster.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. I’ve been to my share of village fairs, and unless the inhabitants of Loves Bridge are a very different sort, you’ll be fine as long as there’s plenty of food and drink. The adults just want to gossip and the children to run around outside.”

  The annoying man was likely right.

  “But we wanted this fair to be special because—” She raised her head and looked at him. “Because of the duke.”

  He frowned, his right brow arching up. “Because he’ll be in attendance for the first time?”

  “Well, er, yes.” Before May, the duke had only been to the village once. Twenty years ago, when he was a boy, he’d come to choose the Spinster House spinster—the one before Cat. “But more because if there is a curse, this might be his last time.”

  The earl nodded, digesting that. “Let’s hope it’s not, but even if it is—” He smiled. “The duke has seen a kangaroo before, Miss Wilkinson.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” How silly of her. There were menageries in London, and a wealthy duke had wealthy friends who likely had their own private collections of exotic animals.

  “But even if he hadn’t—even if you’d managed to assemble ten kangaroos riding on elephants, attended by giraffes, Marcus wouldn’t care. He’s still newly in love. All he can see is his duchess.”

  That was rather sweet—nauseating, but sweet. And true, now that she considered the matter.

  Did Lord Evans have experience with love? Cat had said something about him being jilted almost at the altar . . .

  How could a woman do that? If she were going to wed—

  Which she was not!

  She must be letting Cat corrupt her thinking. Now that Cat was married, she believed every woman should be a wife. She was like a missionary, trying to convert all she saw—particularly Jane—to her religion.

  Well, Jane was not going to be converted! She’d spent too many years waiting on her brother to wish to take on another male. And, as she’d come to realize as she got older, early exposure to her father’s temper had turned her against ever giving herself into a man’s keeping. Papa had never hit anyone—at least he’d never hit her—but his shouting had felt like a blow.

  Still, Lord Evans wasn’t Papa. He’d yet to raise his voice or show any temper in her presence. She was here alone with him—except for Poppy—and she didn’t feel any of the expectant dread she’d always felt around Papa.

  Well, she did feel oddly expectant....

  Her stomach twisted again. She really should eat something, especially now that she was drinking brandy. “Would you like some seedcake? It’s rather good.”

  The earl’s expression turned guarded. “Did you make it?”

  That made her laugh. “No. My culinary skills are quite limited, as I see you’ve guessed. Mrs. Chester up at Loves Castle baked it and Cat brought it by.”

  He grinned. “Oh, well, then, I’ll definitely take a slice or two. Mrs. Chester is an excellent cook.”

  She sliced her last loaf, put it on a plate—and watched in dismay as Lord Evans inhaled three slices before she’d finished her first.

  He was her guest.

  She took a sip of water—no more brandy for her—and focused on business.

  “Now, about the fair. I’m sure you’re correct that the duke won’t care what entertainment we provide, but that really doesn’t solve my problem. We’ve been promising people for weeks they’ll see a live kangaroo. I need to offer them something in its place.”

  The evil man took yet another slice of cake.

  She’d best act at once if she wanted any more. She reached for the last slice—and saw him eyeing her fingers.

  “You’ve had more than your share, you know.”

  The miscreant had the temerity to grin. “Yes. The seedcake is quite good, but I’ll be a gentleman and let you have that last bit.”

  If he thought that act would win him the prize, he was very much mistaken. Jane liked seedcake too. She plopped it on her plate.

  The earl brushed some crumbs off his waistcoat. �
��You aren’t going to find a kangaroo in the Loves Bridge bushes.”

  “I know that,” Jane said, rather impolitely, her mouth still being full of seedcake.

  “So we’ll have to come up with something else.”

  She was surprised at the warmth she felt at his use of we. It was nice not to have to face this impending disaster alone.

  “How about pig races?” Lord Evans said. “I enjoyed those when I was a lad.”

  “We already have pig races.” She took a swallow of water to wash down the last bit of cake.

  “A pet show, then?” Lord Evans looked down at Poppy. “I imagine Poppy would win most inscrutable.”

  Poppy yawned and sat up to clean her tail.

  “We have a pet show. People dress their animals in the most outlandish outfits they can think of.”

  Lord Evans laughed. “I cannot imagine Poppy consenting to that.”

  Neither could Jane.

  They both looked at Poppy, who sneezed, stretched, and walked slowly to the door. She stopped on the threshold and stared at them.

  “I think she wants us to follow her, Miss Wilkinson.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Though it did appear Poppy thought—

  No. Poppy is a cat. She doesn’t think.

  “Merrow!”

  And she certainly couldn’t read minds....

  Could she?

  Jane had lived with Poppy for two months now, and she’d admit, if only to herself, that, while the cat couldn’t really be supernatural, there was definitely something very odd about her.

  “Don’t you wonder where Poppy wants to take us?”

  She had no time for curiosity. “We’re supposed to be discussing the fair.”

  “We can discuss the fair while we follow Poppy. There’s nothing keeping us in the kitchen.” He gave the empty seedcake plate a regretful look and stood, extending his hand to her.

  She regarded his broad palm and strong fingers for a moment, her own palm itching to feel his skin against hers.

  Good Lord. It’s a hand. Everyone—or almost everyone—has two. There’s nothing special about Lord Evans’s.

  “Oh, very well.” She stood—without his assistance—and started toward the door, ignoring what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle from the man behind her.

  * * *

  Miss Jane Wilkinson was so prickly. It was quite amusing.

  Alex swallowed his mirth as he followed the woman out of the kitchen. They made quite the parade: the cat strolling in the lead, tail high, tip curled as if in a question mark; Miss Wilkinson next, her back as straight as a fireplace poker, radiating annoyance; and him.

  He’d made an excellent decision in coming to Loves Bridge. Sparring with this sharp-tongued spinster was exactly what he needed. It made him feel alive and energized again.

  The cat led their little parade up the stairs.

  He’d help Miss Wilkinson with the fair, and then he’d go off wife-hunting. Perhaps by this time next year, he’d not only be married, but on the verge of joining Marcus in fatherhood.

  If Marcus is still alive, that is.

  His heart stuttered, and he took a deep breath. Of course Marcus would still be alive—but Alex would be very happy once March came and he saw Marcus holding his heir in his arms.

  The parade arrived on the next level where there were three doors to choose from—two on the right and one on the left. Poppy darted through one of the right-hand choices.

  “Your room, Miss Wilkinson?”

  He had a sudden odd desire to see her bedchamber.

  And her bed.

  Does she lie there stiffly on her back every night, bedclothes pulled up to her chin, a long-sleeved, high-necked virginal—spinsterish—white gown covering every inch of her body?

  A completely inappropriate part of his anatomy grew quite stiff at the thought.

  What was the matter with him? Miss Wilkinson was amusing, and, yes, attractive, but she was a dedicated spinster—and most certainly not the restful sort of female he was looking for. He’d almost had heart failure this afternoon when he’d looked across the village green to see her brangling with that Wertigger fellow. She’d been all alone with him and clearly unwilling to give an inch.

  Good Lord! The man was only about her height, but he was several stone heavier. If he’d turned violent, she would have been in serious danger.

  She seemed not to have realized that. She certainly hadn’t looked relieved when he’d come up to them. Oh, no. He could tell she hadn’t welcomed his interference at all.

  He frowned. He admired her independence and courage, but she could do with a little fear to keep her bravado in check. Caution was a virtue she appeared not to have.

  “No, my room is the one on the left. It’s the largest.”

  “Ah. So I assume it was Isabelle’s?” He stepped over to peer inside. It was rude of him to invade her privacy that way, but he couldn’t help himself. It was almost as if an invisible string pulled him to the doorway.

  The room was rather dark, especially for a lady, with oak paneling and a large, red-curtained four-poster bed—a bed too large for one lonely spinster.

  He’d like to—

  Good God! He could not entertain lascivious thoughts about Miss Wilkinson. They weren’t married, and they weren’t going to be. She had no interest in that institution and he . . .

  He scowled at the bed. He wanted a restful sort of woman remember, someone like Charlotte, someone who would let him protect her and not be annoyed by his efforts to keep her safe.

  Zeus, Miss Wilkinson would probably try to protect him if they were ever in danger.

  That sounds rather stimulating—

  No, it doesn’t.

  He’d felt strong and larger than life when he’d had Charlotte on his arm.

  And a little bored—

  No. He hadn’t been bored. He’d—

  Oh, what did it matter? Miss Wilkinson had no interest in marriage. And he certainly didn’t wish to be rejected again. Once had been painful enough.

  “Cat told me a full-length painting of Isabelle hung there when she moved in.” Miss Wilkinson pointed to a conspicuously empty portion of the wall.

  “Are you going to replace it with something?”

  “Of course. I just haven’t had time to—”

  “Merrow!”

  He looked over. Poppy was sitting in the doorway of the room she’d first disappeared into, tail twitching. She did not look happy.

  “I think the cat has lost patience with us.”

  Miss Wilkinson sighed. “Yes. We’d best do what she wants. I assure you, she’ll not give us any peace until we do.” She started toward the other room.

  “Do you mind living with such a, er, managing cat?” he asked, following her. It was rather amusing how the strong-willed Miss Wilkinson danced to Poppy’s tune.

  She laughed. “Poppy isn’t managing, precisely.” She suddenly frowned, as if annoyed with herself. “She’s not managing at all. She’s a cat, Lord Evans. An animal. She doesn’t think.”

  Poppy hissed.

  He put too much value in his skin and the leather of his boots to argue with Poppy and her sharp claws. “She does appear to get the humans in her life to do what she wishes, however.”

  Miss Wilkinson grimaced. “I suppose she does.”

  They stepped over the threshold into what once must have been a study or a sitting room, but was now jammed with household castoffs.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask the duke to send someone to help me clear all this out,” Miss Wilkinson said.

  “Hmm.” Alex’s attention was caught by a large painting propped against a worn upholstered chair. It was of a girl dressed in clothes that looked to be from the early 1600s. “Is that Isabelle?”

  “Yes. Can you imagine going to bed each night with her staring down at you?”

  I can imagine going to bed each night with you—

  He jerked his unruly imagination away from naked, sweaty, intimately
entwined bodies back to the painting. “She doesn’t look like the evil, angry woman I’d thought her to be.” The girl was pretty, but not beautiful. More to the point, she looked young and happy—and vaguely familiar. He frowned. “She looks like the new duchess.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. They’re related, you know—some sort of cousins.”

  “Ah.” He hadn’t known that. “It’s hard to imagine this girl cursing the duke’s line and then drowning herself and her unborn child in Loves Water.”

  “If she did those things. Cat told me she and the duke found a letter in there”—she pointed to a large cabinet—“which made them wonder if any of the story is true.” Miss Wilkinson shook her head. “But if the story isn’t true, where did Isabelle go?”

  Marcus had mentioned something about a letter, but there hadn’t been time to discuss it before the wedding—and then Nate had got married and Alex had left for the Lakes.

  “Perhaps she didn’t go anywhere. Perhaps she really is buried in the graveyard.” It would be a huge relief to prove now that there was no curse, rather than having to wait six long months. Not that he was about to exhume Miss Dorring.

  Miss Wilkinson looked unconvinced. “But what about her baby?”

  “He—or she—could have died in infancy. Many children didn’t live past their first birthday back then.”

  Poppy sneezed, but whether the cat agreed with their theory or not, Alex couldn’t say.

  “Oh, bother.” Miss Wilkinson’s voice suddenly held more than a touch of impatience. “This isn’t getting me any closer to a plan for tomorrow’s fair. Much as I might want to, I can’t take Isabelle’s painting out to the village green and invite people to throw things at it.”

  Poppy hissed.

  “I said I couldn’t do it.”

  Was Miss Wilkinson going to get into an argument with the cat? That would be unwise. Her nails were no match for Poppy’s claws.

  “Perhaps Poppy will show us why she was so insistent we follow her.” He looked down at the cat. Was he going to talk to it?

  He was.

  “Do you have a suggestion, Poppy? As you can see, Miss Wilkinson is getting anxious.”

  Poppy blinked at him and then turned her back rather pointedly and disappeared into the clutter behind the chair.