She could not look at him, but he droned on behind her, “Marriage would require, among other things, for me to fall in love—or at least to fall into some sort of happy rapport. Knowing what you know of my sour rapport with nearly everyone, particularly you, this comes as no great shock, I’m sure.”
“Shocked is only a fraction of what I am feeling right now,” she said.
“As I’m sure you know, there is more than one way to the altar.” He raised his eyebrows. “Happens all the time. Marriage without the happy rapport. A reckless chap, forced by scandal, into an unwilling union. This, too, mind you, will never happen. Not to me. I’d like to avoid scandal if I can, but if scandal finds me, please be sure that I will laugh in the face of the gossipmongers and go about my merry way without ever looking back.”
Piety nodded and hugged her cloak tightly around her. “I understand,” she said solemnly, smoothing her hair. “You feel prematurely trapped into a phantom betrothal, which has been masterminded by me. Every unspeakable thing that has happened between us has been my fault or Joseph’s. And I must cease pressing my shackle-minded devices onto your blameless—”
“On the contrary,” he interrupted. “You are an unexpected weakness for whom I was wholly unprepared. It is me. I am the problem. And I am vowing to you that I will stay away. Beginning now.”
Outwardly, Piety showed no reaction. She nodded and ran two fingers over her brow. She reached for the doorknob. Inside, however, she felt very still. And heavy. Like a stone had settled into the pit of her stomach, and it was sinking her to the bottom of a deep, dark pond.
She stared into the planks on the door, willing herself to be pragmatic, to keep her eye on the ultimate goal, which was finishing the house and staving off her mother. Never had it been the plan to become involved with a sad, difficult neighbor with strong arms and a confounding loneliness.
“Can you endeavor to do the same?” he asked quietly. “Let us stay out of our libraries and music rooms and lives.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, working to sound as if she did not care. In truth, she cared too much. She could see that now. He outlined his wholesale rejection of her so neatly, and then he not-so-neatly implied that she had scheming designs on his bachelorhood. She endured betrayal and blame at the same time.
“Oh, wait,” he called. “Don’t forget these.” He held out the new drawings.
She chuckled miserably. “Oh yes. These. How could I forget? I seem determined to sabotage my own project, don’t I? Now who’s to blame?” She turned to go, but then she stopped. “But what if we have questions? What if I need more advice?”
“Then you may apply to a hired architect, as I have repeatedly said.”
“Impossible. I’ve tried everyone in town and been turned away.”
“Try again. Offer more coin.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Or, I could simply hire you.” Perhaps he could not withstand their mutual attraction, but she would be happy to demonstrate detached ambivalence if the situation called for it, and if it also got her the new stairs at the same bloody time.
“Piety,” he began.
She held up a hand to stop him. Frustration surged. “Right.” She forced her voice to sound light. “Very well. Thank you for this beginning, I suppose. And for the chess.”
“Let us hope that my design is better than my chess.”
Then Piety had a thought. Not a prudent thought. Not a sensible thought. Not a thought that did anything to extricate herself from the already painful and awkward situation. But it was an arresting, irresistible thought, just the same. A thought that just might speed along the construction of her stairs.
And it would mean . . .
Well, perhaps it would mean that their final farewell needn’t be so bitter. It would mean they could ease out of this entanglement, rather than snap in two like the breaking of a bone.
“What would you say,” she asked, clearing her throat, “if I knew a way to test your design work against your chess?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Is there any way,” she continued, “that you would consider a wager?”
“No.”
“Hear me out.”
“No.”
“A friendly wager. A game of chess between you and me.”
He moaned. “Did you not hear me, Miss Grey? I cannot be alone with you again.”
“Not a private game. Something more sporting and gay. With my chaperone, Miss Breedlowe, in attendance. And Joseph. Anyone who wishes to come. At teatime perhaps. Whenever it’s convenient, really.”
“And what, might I ask, am I meant to wager?”
“What do you think? The further advisement and consultation on building my stairs. If I win,” she continued, “then I will cease my frustrating struggle to hire someone elsewhere town—and instead you will oversee it. You will be my architect. And if you win, then I will leave you alone.”
“You will leave me alone regardless,” he said harshly. “You cannot tell me that I haven’t shocked you with my behavior—warned you, in more ways than one, of the result if you do not stay away.”
“You flatter yourself, my lord.” She managed to eke out the words. “I am not shocked, I am inspired. To defeat you in chess will mean seeing my renovations advance at a much faster pace. By the time my mother arrives, the sweeping stairwell will be through.”
He laughed. “How confident you are. When you defeat me?”
She smiled and gave a shrug, already feeling better.
“Fine, Miss Grey,” he said, whipping the door open wide. “I accept your wager. Just know my terms. When I win, there will be no more talk of the stairs or the passage, of me helping you or giving you my advice. You and I will be finished entirely. We will not write, we will not call, we will be separate at all times.”
“Separate,” she repeated, breezing out the door.
“And Miss Breedlowe must always be present.”
“Miss Breedlowe will be thrilled to hear it.” She smiled without looking back. “Good evening, my lord. I will be in touch about the game.”
“Of this I have no doubt.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The first chess match ended in a draw.
They played for two afternoons, their gaming mood alternating between tense concentration and jovial ribbing, while their assembled audience took tea and watched.
On the first day, only Joseph, Marissa, and Miss Breedlowe convened. Because it was teatime, they brought a basket from the market, a kettle of tea, and a clattering stack of cups. Because it was Falcondale, he offered only his drafty drawing room, one chessboard, two stools, and a rickety side chair next to a dark grate, presumably for Miss Breedlowe. He remained silent while Piety buzzed through the house, scavenging proper chairs from other rooms, and Joseph laid a fire.
The following day, Lady Frinfrock, trailed by Tiny, rapped on his door and demanded to know what in God’s name was going on. A carpenter, the marchioness said, had answered their daily call to survey the progress in Piety’s house and informed them that the ladies could be found next door, playing chess. Curiosity and suspicion rerouted them to Falcondale’s stoop, where the marchioness invited herself inside and took Joseph’s seat beside Falcondale.
Prudently, no one explained the real stakes of the game to the marchioness, allowing the verbal banter and biting rivalry to suggest that victory for the winner would be a prize in and of itself.
For her first day in attendance, the marchioness cautiously nibbled the produce from the market and accepted a cup of tepid tea. But by the next day, she directed her staff to convey several tiered trays of cake, pastry, and sandwiches and a shiny silver tea trolley across the street. They set up in Falcondale’s drawing room, and Piety poured for everyone, chatting easily about how civilized it all was and how lucky she had been to fall in with neighbors as pleasant as those of Henrietta Place.
They played for exactly one hour each afternoon while the spectators watched, whisp
ering among themselves about the alacrity of play. Because Piety was careful not remain longer than an hour, the rematch dragged on for the better part of a week. When five o’clock struck each day, she would ask everyone to note the location of pieces on the board to vouch for the next day’s commencement. After that, while Falcondale glared in silence, Piety would push back from the board, smile sweetly, and thank the earl for hosting. Invariably, he would scowl back, studying her, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with something she could not name.
Piety would be lying if she said she did not enjoy it. Lady Frinfrock was disagreeable and rude, but the earl had no qualms about laughing at her outrageousness, and she didn’t seem to mind. Tiny was there every day, and it was gratifying to see her treated so well, like an honored guest for the first time in her life. And Miss Breedlowe was happy, because she felt as if she were doing her job. Even Lady Frinfrock ventured a handful of half-compliments about how the two of them were getting on.
And Falcondale . . .
Falcondale was like a daily indulgence that she allowed herself, if only in small doses. Although he was everything an indulgence was not—not charming, not flattering, not sweet, not gallant or even chatty. But when he did speak, he was bitingly funny, his chess playing was top notch, and he listened intently to everything she said. He pretended to ignore the idle chatter among the ladies and focus on the board, but she could see him cock his head, sometimes asking questions about life in New York, the slave trade in America, or what it was like to traverse the Atlantic on a ship.
And he watched her.
She took care with her appearance every day, but for the chess, she spent extra time. It was impossible to hide the effort from Jocelyn, so she asked for her help. And when Piety swept into his drawing room each afternoon in a favorite dress and her cheeks freshly pinched, his narrow-eyed reaction caused her stomach to flip.
Yet, she reminded herself that all of it—the attentiveness, however gruff; the watchfulness, however covert—meant nothing. She knew when the games finally came to a fair end, there would be no further reason for them to pass the time together. Counsel about the stairwell or no, she knew he had meant what he said when he’d asked her to retreat from his life forever.
But in the meantime, two of their games had ended a draw, and the third game had stretched over two afternoons, with the possibility of a fourth. And the house was coming along nicely, slowly but nicely. She and Jocelyn had begun to interview applicants for a real housekeeping staff. Even Lady Frinfrock had stray compliments for her progress. She had allowed herself to think that she might actually pull the whole thing off, that she might successfully move herself and her fortune to London, set up house, and live out her days safely and happily with new friends and a fresh start, free from her mother and the possibility of an oppressive marriage.
And then Eddie Limpett turned up.
He arrived at the end of the second week of chess—a Friday, rainy and gray. To say his arrival took everyone by surprise was like saying that her new home was dusty. She had never expected any of them to find her so soon, and Piety had but five-minute’s advance warning to compose herself and prepare her defenses. Even those frantic moments were a stroke of unexpected luck—owed entirely to Mr. Spencer Burr, who interrupted their afternoon chess with a pounding on Falcondale’s garden door.
“It’s the garden door, Joseph,” Falcondale said, staring at the chessboard. “Send them away.”
“The boy will be run ragged, Falcondale,” scolded Lady Frinfrock, watching Joseph jog from the room. “I cannot believe you’ve sacked the previous earl’s entire staff and laid the work of fifteen servants at the feet of one boy. Is he to be butler, valet, footman, cook, and serving boy all in one? It’s unchristian, Falcondale. Positively abusive.”
“You’ve forgotten groom.” The earl muttered the words under his breath. “He also is my groom. Ah, but here he is. It’s a wonder he can still stand. Who was it, Joe, and what did they want?”
“Not what,” he began, stammering a little, “who.”
There was a heavy silence, and the boy looked at Piety.
She froze. Oh, God, no. An icicle of dread dripped down her spine.
“It was the carpenter Mr. Burr. He came through the back gate. He says Miss Grey has a guest.”
No. Not yet. Please.
“There’s a man at her front door now,” Joseph continued. “Mr. Burr said Miss Grey might wish to know before she receives him. Time to plan and all that.”
Lady Frinfrock snorted. “Plan? Plan for what? My God, who is it, President Madison?”
“Name’s Limpett,” Joseph recited. “Mr. Edward Limpett. Claims to be one of Miss Grey’s stepbrothers.”
Of all of them, Piety thought, at least it’s Eddie.
Piety floated up from her chair, her eyes not leaving Jocelyn’s face. “He’s sure?” Piety asked. “Mr. Burr is certain? It is Edward Limpett?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Grey,” said the boy. “Mr. Burr said the gentleman is demanding to see you right away.”
“Oh, no,” Piety said, shaking her head. Skirting the table, she spoke in a rush. “Tell Mr. Burr to not admit him. Above all. Not one foot inside the house. He must not see the condition. Tell him I’ll come out. No.” She snapped her fingers in frustration. “It’s raining. Tell him . . . Well, I . . . I cannot say. I never expected to see them so soon.” She looked frantically around the room, thinking. “Tell him . . . tell him . . . ”
“Tell him,” intoned the marchioness, rising, “that you are taking tea as the guest of your neighbor, and that if he wishes to see you, he may call upon you here. Clearly, you are not at home to receive him. If what you say is true about these men, there is absolutely no need to jump simply because one of them turns up and croaks the word toad. Go, Joseph, tell the carpenter to convey this message and come right back.”
They watched the boy dart out.
“Bring him here?” repeated Piety. “I couldn’t possibly impose on the earl. And his house doesn’t look much better than mine.”
“It bloody well does,” Falcondale said. Piety had been avoiding his gaze since the interruption, but now she hazarded a glance. He looked bored, she thought, and she let out a breath. At least he wasn’t incensed. Or frantic, like she had become. At least he wasn’t tossing them all out.
“Your house is a disgrace, and you know it,” said the marchioness. “But we can hardly trail across the street in the rain to my parlor without looking ridiculous.”
Joseph ran back into the room. “He’s telling him.”
“Good,” the marchioness retorted. “Now, go out the back door, run through the alley, and cross at the end of the block to reach my house. Tell my footman Bernard to apprehend Miss Grey’s guest in the street and escort the man to Falcondale’s door. Instruct Bernard to walk him to the stoop and show him inside.” She scowled at the earl. “Considering there is no butler, we shall leave the door ajar and allow them to breeze through without ceremony. Bernard is a professional, and he will behave as if it is nothing out of the ordinary. Go, now! Tell him exactly as I’ve said.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Joseph, darting out.
With wide, worried eyes, Piety watched him go. She looked at Jocelyn, not knowing what else to do. Her friend nodded, trying to reassure her.
She looked at Tiny.
“You better eat something,” Tiny said. “It’ll make things worse if you pass out.”
“No, no, I couldn’t possibly.” She began to pace.
“No pacing, Miss Grey, if you please,” implored Lady Frinfrock. “Compose yourself. Whatever the man has to say will be made no better by a rattled demeanor. Pray, do not let your anxiousness show. Better yet, rid yourself of anxiety altogether.” She looked toward the earl. “Falcondale, your uncle typically convened formal guests in a small receiving room to the left of the front hall. Have you emptied it as well?”
“We sold everything,” he said.
“Typical rash shortsighted
ness.” She tsked and then she addressed the room. “Everyone! Take a chair and let us convey this pitiful smattering of furnishing to the receiving room. It is smaller and will look more fully appointed if we greet him there. Marissa, you return for the tea service. And perk up! This is a call from a bothersome relative; it is not an inquisition. He is the interloper here, not us.”
Paralyzed with uncertainty, everyone stared.
“Move!” She glared at them all. They scurried to do her bidding.
The plan made sense in theory, Piety thought, dashing to the chessboard, grabbing up the pieces. She did not look at Falcondale across the board, although she could feel him watching her. He pushed out of his chair.
“I hope you’ll remember where those go,” he said. “I had nearly beaten you.”
She stopped and looked up at him. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” she whispered. “Truly.”
His expression remained placid, even sleepy. He grabbed the fireplace poker and propped it on his shoulder.
She smiled weakly. “I never meant to involve you in this.”
“That makes two of us.” He scooped up four fresh logs stacked beside the fire and nodded to the door behind them. “Tell us, what can we expect from Mr. Edward Limpett, Stocking Heir? Besides scrutiny of my woefully insufficient receiving room. Will he bind you at the hands and feet and haul you away in a wheelbarrow?”
She chuckled. “Not this one. He is the little one.”
The marchioness began barking orders again, and they each fell into place by her command. By the time Joseph popped through the door, scrambling to find them in a different room, they were seated serenely around a new fire, the marchioness lecturing them about calm reserve and the burden of explanation being on the guest, not the host.
“They are coming,” the boy said gasping for breath. “I have opened the door.”
“Pathetic protocol,” mumbled the marchioness. “But he is American, perhaps he will not realize. You do the best with what you have.” She looked at Piety. “Miss Grey, I trust you have reclaimed your composure and your confidence. You may do the honors. Falcondale, I’m convinced, would not know how to greet a guest in his own home if his life depended on it.”
The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London Page 12