He shook his head and continued staring at the carriage door. “You must stop talking.”
“I won’t.” She tossed her head, and all her Titian curls fell around her shoulders. “You must look at me. And listen to my voice. I’m a woman.” She was alarmed by how clenched his fists were on his lap. “Harrow was an invention. I’m not a valet. I was playing a game, and you are, too. But this is a very dangerous game. People could get hurt.”
Mr. Dawson grabbed her hat and turned it over, letting the biscuits fall to the floor. “Put this on your head,” he said, and tried to hand her the hat without meeting her gaze.
But she knocked it out of his hand. “No. And since you refuse to cooperate, I’m going to have to open the door and jump out.”
He snatched the hat from the floor and glared at her. “Where’s Harrow? Bring him back.” Then, as though the air had been let out of him, he slumped in his seat, his eyes defeated. “He’s a fine fellow. Things happened around him. I wanted to be that way, too.”
“I can’t bring Harrow back,” Pippa told him. “Harrow is gone forever … like your wife.”
Mr. Dawson flinched.
“But you have the memories of her, don’t you?” Pippa asked immediately, hating to hurt him in his addled state, but she had to try to get through. “Just as you remember Harrow running up to you to ask to shine your boots, you have memories of your wife to comfort you.”
He said nothing, but his head dropped.
“The best part about memories is that the good ones last forever,” she said softly. “They can comfort you when you’re lonely. And then you can also share them with friends.” She paused, giving him time to absorb her words. “I want to be your friend—me, Pippa. We can laugh about Harrow and how he always got into trouble, and we can talk about your wife.”
Mr. Dawson still looked at the floor, but he released a sigh that gave Pippa hope. The slump of his shoulders, the vulnerable top of his head, where his gray hair had thinned, and the loosening of his fists on his knees made her reach out and take one of his hands and squeeze it hard.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Dawson. I’m sorry for the loss of your wife. And I’m sorry you didn’t properly use your opportunity to build that folly at Thurston Manor the way you knew you could. I propose we go back there now, to your cousin’s house—where you are loved dearly—and tell Lord and Lady Thurston we’d like to knock down that folly and build another.”
Slowly, he looked up. “But it’s too late.”
“No it’s not.” She smiled at him.
“I don’t have it in me,” he said. “I’m a nobody.”
“Well, a nobody isn’t such a bad thing to be.” She didn’t have to be the next Monsieur Perot. Being Pippa was good enough for her. “We’re all nobodies, Mr. Dawson. Even the somebodies feel that way sometimes.”
“Do they?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m sure of it. And the nice thing about being a nobody is that you can be yourself. How many somebodies can make that claim?”
He gave a little laugh. “Not many.”
“I’ll bet they’d give anything to have the freedom to be a nobody again—to be able to walk on the moor and be a speck on the landscape, to read uninterrupted, or think for hours without anyone making demands on their genius.” How many people like her, she wondered, did the great Monsieur Perot have to fend off? “How about if we ask Gregory to help you? You can build the folly together.”
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Gregory could be a sort of mentor for Mr. Dawson. And yet—he could also learn from the older man’s experience with having too many regrets.
Gregory still had time on his side; Mr. Dawson didn’t.
Her confused friend’s eyes softened with interest and perhaps a bit of excitement, but he said nothing, just wrung his hands.
“It’s all right, what’s happened,” she told him. “When they find us, I’ll tell them you simply need some rest. And attention. You won’t get into trouble. And I promise you, Mr. Dawson, that Gregory will act as your assistant with the new folly. I’ll be there, too, as Pippa, because that’s who I really am, and we’ll celebrate your great triumph together. This folly, I believe, should have a plaque on it dedicating it to your beloved wife.”
His shoulders began to shake, and Pippa went to his seat to hold him. She let him cry against her, and she held him close, murmuring sweet, comforting words. And when she felt enough time had passed, she pulled back and said, “I’m going to ask the driver to take us back to Thurston Manor. Are you ready to go?”
He nodded, and she took off her coat and made a pillow for his head. Then she lifted his feet up onto the seat and made sure he was properly situated to take a nap. He drifted off after a few moments. She opened the door to the carriage and called to the driver—Square-jaw—to turn around.
“Good God, who are you?” he cried.
Oh, dear. She’d forgotten she’d taken her hair down! Well, the charade was going to be over anyway, when she got to Thurston Manor.
She chuckled. “I’m Lady Pippa Harrington, and Harrow is gone forever. Watch your manners, young man, and if you get us back to Thurston Manor safe and sound, I’ll ask Lady Thurston to give you a second chance. But you’d better never, ever be a cruel, selfish lout again. I’ll write Cook every three months for three years to check on you, and if you disappoint me in the least, I’ll send Lord Westdale after you.”
He was so dumbfounded, he couldn’t speak.
“You could hang for kidnapping, too, you know.” She was enjoying her speech. “If you’re not shot first by Lord Westdale, who’s surely approaching now.”
“Please don’t let either of those things happen, my lady.” His voice trembled.
“Well, you’d best agree to my terms, then. Tell your Cockney friend the same thing, or I’ll see to it he’s out on his ear, too. Or worse.”
“Yes, my lady.” Square-jaw’s face was paler than usual. “Of course, my lady.”
She pulled the door shut, and the carriage was on its way back to where it belonged.
When she fell back against her seat, she was trembling all over. But after a few minutes, she felt all right. She knew if she waited long enough, she’d hear the sound of Gregory’s voice.
That knowledge is what kept her from crying over Mr. Dawson, from lamenting her lost opportunity to go to Paris—there’d always be others, she told herself—and from worrying about what the future held.
Because now she was going back to Plumtree, to see Uncle Bertie again, and to call Mr. Trickle and Mr. Hawthorne out for their despicable behavior. The Toad probably tried to sell her away to Hawthorne behind Mother’s and Uncle Bertie’s backs.
She’d tell Uncle Bertie and Mother that she wasn’t going to give up and would make it to Paris—not London— by hook or by crook and take Mother with her. And while there, she would somehow find a way to work with the greatest pastry chef the world had ever known.
She tried to tuck away her sorrow about Gregory, that he might still love Eliza. But it was difficult not to contemplate that entire situation. Apart from her own stake in it, it was possibly very tragic. She felt sorry for Gregory—if Walter were his son, how sad he would be not being his father!
It was only then that she allowed the sobs she’d held within to escape, and she cried silently into the cravat she’d pulled from her neck. Her tears weren’t for herself, though—they were for the man she loved. They were for Gregory.
Chapter Twenty-one
Pippa’s nose was swollen, but she didn’t care. Her head throbbed, as well, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting back to Thurston Manor.
But the carriage slowed and then came to a stop. Mr. Dawson stirred and opened his eyes. He looked groggy but harmless, lying there on the coach seat.
Nevertheless, Pippa’s terror returned, and she took off her shoe, the only weapon she could find if Square-jaw was up to no good. She opened the door to the carriage and pee
red up at the box. “What’s going on?”
“The horses need water,” he called back to her. “There’s a small inn up ahead. You look in need of a strong drink yourself, just a swallow or two. And perhaps you’re hungry. I think we should stop, my lady.”
She liked how he’d tacked on a my lady so meekly at the end of his brief but thoughtful speech. Relief coursed through her veins. “Of course,” she said, putting on her best lady-of-the-manor accent. “Mr. Dawson’s not feeling well. I’m not sure he can get out, but we’ll not tarry long. You must be hungry and thirsty yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Square-jaw said. “But, my lady, shouldn’t you put on your spectacles and cravat again and put up your hair? They won’t understand why”—he cleared his throat—“you’re dressed as a man.”
She restrained a smile. “Good idea. I was prepared to jump out just like this for a bit of a stretch.”
She pulled the door shut, glad to see Mr. Dawson dozing again, and went to work gathering her pins and her wig and restoring her appearance as Harrow. Her fingers trembled as she curled and pinned, over and over. She wasn’t managing the job nearly as well as usual. But it was only one short stop, and afterward, she’d never have to go through the arduous routine again. The cravat, too, she hastily tied. It must look a mess, but again, who cared?
When she finished, she hoped Mr. Dawson wouldn’t be confused in a bad way if he woke up and saw her looking a semblance of the proper valet again.
But he slept on. Thankfully.
At the inn yard, he didn’t stir when the carriage stopped. Pippa put on her somewhat flattened hat and got out. No one was about, which immediately made her wary—no telling what Square-jaw might do—but she did hear a great deal of noise to the side of the inn from the stables. Much to her relief, a pair of horses came around the corner, pulling a discreet black carriage. The driver was dressed smartly and looked vaguely familiar somehow, but she couldn’t figure out why. She’d never seen the man in her life.
Square-jaw leaped down from the box and took off his cap. “I’ll take care of the horses,” he said low, “and while I’m at it, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Dawson, my lady.”
“Very good,” she said, then added sternly, “I’m trusting you’ll get up to no funny business. No driving off without me. And do watch Mr. Dawson closely. We can’t afford to have him run off in the state he’s in. Remember who’s got a tremendous interest in my welfare and the health and well-being of anyone I care about: Lord Westdale himself.” She only hoped that were true. “And he’s backed by the entire House of Brady, which is headed by a powerful marquess and his equally influential wife. Did you know that Lord Brady—”
“I’m aware of that,” Square-jaw blurted out, his voice suddenly tight. He was crushing his cap between his fingers in the worst way. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you—Mr. Harrow.”
Oh, good heavens. She’d forgotten to speak in her valet’s voice. But there was no one about … just that driver pulling round, but surely he hadn’t heard. The horses were making a bit of a commotion, and—
She wore a carelessly wrapped cravat, but she felt a prickly sensation on the back of her neck that compelled her to turn around.
A couple stood there: a man in the prime of his life, handsome and assured, and a woman about his age, stunning and dressed in the height of fashion. They both stared at her.
“Do we know you?” the man asked politely in a charming Irish brogue.
“I recognize you, but I’m not sure how,” the woman murmured in a kind voice filled with curiosity.
“Greetings, Lord and Lady Brady,” Pippa choked out in her valet’s voice.
Now she knew why she recognized the driver. He was wearing the same smart coat with large gold buttons that Gregory’s driver wore.
There was a tickle at her temple, then a fleeting tap against the back of her hand. She looked down and saw a hairpin in the dirt. A long tendril of hair unfurled like a silky copper-colored ribbon and brushed her cheek.
Heaven help me, she thought, and slowly raised her head.
Lady Brady’s mouth hung open. “It’s Lady Pippa Harrington, dressed as a man!”
“Hello, Lady Brady,” she said again, but in her regular voice—albeit quieter than usual.
“Faith and begorra, ’tis true.” Lord Brady never took his eyes off her as he reached into his coattail pocket, pulled out a flask identical to the one Gregory had in his carriage, and took a slug.
Suddenly, Pippa’s throat felt parched and her knees wobbled. “C-could I have some of that, please?” she whispered. She knew exactly what a remedy for a host of ills it was.
The Brady carriage began to acquire spots all over it …
“Help her, Michael!” Lady Brady called out sharply.
Lord Brady took Pippa’s elbow, and Square-jaw took the other.
“Steady, lass,” the marquess murmured, and held the flask to her mouth.
All it took was two—nay, three—quick sips to restore her. Pippa blinked, the fire in her throat spreading slowly out to her shaky limbs. “Your family’s blend truly is from the leprechauns.” She shot Lord Brady a quavery smile.
Lord Brady chuckled. “It’s saved many a woman—and man—from fainting spells.”
She turned and smiled at Square-jaw. “I’m fine, thank you.”
He backed up quietly. “I’ll get on with the horses, then.”
Lady Brady approached and took her hand. “Are you better, dear? I’m so worried about you. What’s going on? Why are you away from home? Does your mother know where you are? And what about Lord Carson?”
Horrible guilt overwhelmed Pippa. “No. They have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. They think—”
How was she to explain?
“You must tell us,” Lord Brady said in a firm manner. “You’re a young lady out and about, unchaperoned—”
“Oh, I do have Mr. Dawson in the carriage,” she said quickly, then bowed her head. “Not that he’s a good chaperone. He intended to get me one—he promised. Before we crossed the Channel. But we had to make a hasty exit, you see, from the house party…”
Lord and Lady Brady were staring at her again as if she were mad.
She scratched a temple and realized she was making no sense. “It’s a long story, and—” A huge sigh escaped her. She’d made a royal mess of everything. “And Gregory, I’m afraid, is involved.” There was a stunned silence. “But it’s not his fault!” she added quickly.
Lord Brady ran a hand over his face and looked up at the sky.
“Oh, Pippa,” said Lady Brady. “What on earth—”
Pippa nodded. “I know. It sounds awful. You’ll have to come back with me to hear the rest. We should probably go, as a matter of fact. They’ll all be out looking for us. And Mr. Dawson is ill—he’s in the carriage. I’m worried about him.” She was mortified to feel a lump form in her throat, but she pushed it down. “The truth is, it’s been a very long day.”
She only squeaked out the last words, but that was better than saying nothing at all.
“Oh, you poor girl,” said Lady Brady, and wrapped Pippa in a hug. It felt so good. “I don’t understand what’s going on at this point, but it will all be better soon.”
“I hope so,” Pippa mumbled into her shoulder, and squeezed back tears.
She stood up straight again.
Lord Brady, his arms crossed, observed her with a furrowed brow, his serious expression only making him appear more handsome and imposing than ever. “Yes, it’s clear we need to accompany you to this house party, young lady. I’m assuming since Gregory is involved, it’s Thurston Manor we’re talking about?”
Pippa nodded and felt her cheeks burning. She had hoped they couldn’t guess! She busied herself with straightening her cravat.
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” Lady Brady said gently.
“Oh. Right.” Pippa smiled awkwardly and dropped her hands. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Lady Brady’s gaze was steady on her, and there was a knowing glimmer in her eye …
She knew. She knew something was going on between her and Gregory!
“Well, Lady Pippa.” Lord Brady’s tone was brisk. “You’ll ride with Lady Brady in the Brady carriage, and I’ll sit with Mr. Dawson.”
“Oh, dear!” Pippa exclaimed before she could help herself. “I’m so grateful for your willingness to trade places with me, my lord, but I think I should be with Mr. Dawson when he awakens. He’s already discombobulated, and it might frighten him to see anyone else…”
She trailed off, knowing she might sound ungrateful.
“That’s all right, dear,” said Lady Brady. “You ride with Mr. Dawson. We won’t tell anyone you’re unchaperoned, and we’ll be right behind you in case you’re in need of assistance. Merely open the door and wave.”
“I will. Thank you.” Pippa smiled at her, and felt that she and Lady Brady shared a sort of bond already. The lady might not know exactly what was going on, but surely she sensed that Pippa cared for her stepson.
“You’ve just arrived,” said Lord Brady, sounding a little softer now, “and we’re about to depart. Why don’t you freshen up while I send my tiger inside to procure you a cup of lemonade? And we’ll arrange for a simple meal to take in the carriage with you.” He reached again for his flask and handed it to her. “Perhaps Mr. Dawson could use a sip of this when he wakes up.”
“I’m entirely grateful to you both.” Pippa was overwhelmed, in fact, by their kindness in such an awkward situation. “And if you don’t mind, my driver will need a tankard of ale and something to eat, as well, please.”
“Of course.” Lady Brady’s eyes were still filled with concern. “Now, once we get back on the road, we won’t worry about a thing until we get to Thurston Manor.”
“Then we’ll have questions,” said Lord Brady. “Quite a few, in fact. I can’t wait to talk to Gregory.” He chuckled, but there was nothing lighthearted about it.
The Earl Is Mine Page 23