Just three more, he’d say, taking up the next stick of wood. It’s the least you can bloody do.
And so he was at the lathe when Piety’s mother and stepbrothers arrived in London and descended on her house. He heard them before he saw them: a jumble of footsteps and indistinguishable grumbling wafting through the open window. He paused. The voices grew closer, then angrier—loud enough to be heard over the pedal of the lathe.
Trevor silently laid the baluster in his hand on the ground.
“I asked for water,” said a man’s sharp voice.
Trevor stared at the kitchen window, trying to place the voice.
The reply was fearful. “Yes, sir.” This voice, Trevor knew; it came from Joseph’s sweetheart, the maid Marissa. “But this is what I brought you ’tis water, sir.”
“English water tastes like swill,” said the man. “Take it away.”
Next, he heard the clatter of a brass tankard hitting the stone floor. Marissa gasped and cried out. He heard scrambling and cruel laughter. Marissa cried again.
Trevor swung his leg over the lathe.
There was more tussling, and then Marissa screamed.
Shoving up, Trevor crept, low and silent, to the kitchen door.
He saw the man first. He was big and fat, finely dressed—too fine, certainly, for the middle of the day—with lace cuffs and a suffocating cravat. His back was to Trevor, blocking his actions, but Marissa’s skinny arm thrashed into view. The man had her pinned against the counter.
Trevor swore and took up an iron-nosed sledgehammer propped by the steps. He stepped through the door. Before he could sneak up behind them Joseph burst in, coming off the bottom step of the servants’ stair like a shot.
The boy hurled himself and collided with the man’s shoulder. The man let out an oof and thudded back. Joseph darted in front of Marissa and sunk into position, ready to fight.
“Joseph, wait,” Trevor said, wanting to interrogate the man before Joseph beat him to a pulp. They both turned, but the man saw Trevor’s hammer, saw he was outnumbered, and he used the distraction to swing at Joseph. Trevor winced, but Joseph reacted just in time, dodging right. The punch missed his chin and glanced his neck below his ear. Joseph growled and pounced.
“Joseph, I said hold!” Trevor shouted, but Joseph fought on, catching the man’s arm and forcing it in a twist behind his back.
“Leave him, Joe,” Trevor said. “See to the girl.”
Reluctantly, the boy complied, releasing the man with a shove. Marissa flew at Joseph, and he gathered her up. Trevor jerked his head to the garden, and the boy hustled her outside.
When they were gone, Trevor turned on the man panting in the center of the kitchen. “Who are you and what is your business in this house?”
“I could ask the same thing of you.” The man eyed him up and down, rubbing his shoulder.
The accent hit him. Piety’s family. Trevor took a step closer, trying to recall her description of this family and square it with the swollen, sweating man before him.
Before either of them could speak, a clatter of footsteps could be heard descending the servants’ stairs. Four more men filed in, followed by a middle-aged woman and Spencer Burr.
“We heard shouts,” the woman said, her eyes darting wildly around the kitchen. She glared at Marissa’s attacker. “Have you found her?”
The fat American was silent.
She nodded to Trevor. “Who is this man?”
“Who, indeed,” Trevor said coldly, settling the sledgehammer on the stone countertop with a loud plunk, “Trevor Rheese, Earl of Falcondale. I own the home next door and employ the servants who were attacked by this man.”
“His boy attacked me!” countered the fat brother.
“Silence, Ennis!” The woman stared at Trevor.
It was Piety’s mother—really there could be no doubt. The resemblance was unmistakable, although she was brittle in every way that Piety was soft. And Piety’s face was warm and approachable, beautiful in a sunny way, while her mother’s beauty was cool and preserved. Her hair was much darker; she dyed it, he’d wager. The shiny blackness was a stark contrast to her tight, pale face. She scowled, he thought, as much as Piety smiled.
“May I impose upon you to restate your name, sir,” she said, “as well as your business in this house?”
“This is the neighbor I was telling you about, madam,” said a short brother, the one Trevor remembered as having interrupted their chess.
“Ah,” said the woman, “so here is the English lord who has taken such a hospitable interest in our Piety.” With cautious movements, she extended a hand.
Trevor made a barely perceptible nod over her fingers, not taking his eyes from her face.
“Edward has told us that the two of you are . . . familiar,” she said. “I did not realize you’d been given leave to walk into her very kitchen unannounced.”
“I could say the same of you.”
The woman studied him. “I am Piety Grey’s mother, Mrs. Idelle Grey-Limpett, and these are my stepsons. We’ve traveled from America to reconvene with Piety.”
“Hmmm. More’s the pity. She appears to be out.”
“Do you know where she is?”
Trevor considered this. He played dumb and looked to Spencer Burr, leaning against the rear wall. “Where is she, Mr. Burr? Surely you’ve been told.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Burr, “Miss Grey left a letter; Marissa gave it to this lot straight away. I’ve told them myself she’s traveled to Berkshire.”
“That’s right,” Trevor said, “Berkshire. I believe she was to be a guest at the country estate of another neighbor, the Marchioness Frinfrock.”
“How informed you are, Lord Falcondale.” Idelle turned to the brothers and flicked her wrist. “Let me see the letter again.”
Still another brother stepped forward. “Now, Mother,” he said soothingly, “let us not trouble the earl with our misplaced sister. Not after he’s suffered an attack on his servant.” He smiled a peddler’s smile. “My apologies, my lord. My brothers are barbarians—a sad circumstance, the consequences of which I have explained to them, repeatedly, but to no avail. I hope you’ll allow me to offer to pay for any medical attention the boy may require. I’m Eli Limpett, by the way.” He handed Piety’s letter to her mother.
Trevor nodded. This brother was less over-done than the others, more guarded; his eyes were, well, if not clever, then sharp.
“Save the medicine for your associate,” Trevor said. “Joseph is a skilled fighter. My concern was for the intent.”
“Intent.” Piety’s mother laughed, looking up from her letter. “Then you really will have to forgive us, my lord. My stepsons are not accustomed to the docile ways of the English. Regrettably, we Americans rely on muscle and might to forge our way, as we always have.”
“Let us not provoke the earl.” Eli Limpett chuckled. “Remember we owe him our most sincere gratitude.”
“You owe me nothing,” Trevor said.
“But we’ve heard all about Piety’s new neighbors and the great pains they have taken to look after her. She requires a lot of care, I’m afraid.”
“Based on what I know of Miss Grey, she is largely self-sufficient.”
“Ha! We can barely let her out of our sight.”
“What my stepson means,” said Piety’s mother, shoving the letter at the nearest brother, “is that we’ve been worried sick since she set out. And then to learn she’s sailed all the way to England on her own? We came after her as fast as we could. Of course, we had absolutely no idea what to expect. How could we dream that she’d sunk her inheritance into this decrepit pile of a house? And then to undertake the restoration alone? Surely you can imagine our worry and shock.” She paused, studying him.
Trevor stared silently back.
She tried again, “Her recklessness knows no bounds. I would be remiss if I did not mention that she seems to have grown quite familiar with you, my lord.”
; “Take heart, madam,” Trevor said, “I barely know your daughter.”
“So you say,” replied Mrs. Limpett. “Regardless, Eli and I intend to take Piety firmly in hand. I’ve a mind to put her on a return ship for New York before the end of this week.
“My God, what could she be thinking?” she continued, placing a weary hand to her brow. “To lead us all the way to London only to learn we must continue into the wilds of Berkshire?”
Eli Limpett smiled at Trevor. “What provincial colonials you must think us, Lord Falcondale. Misplacing our dear Piety. But you needn’t worry. Things are now well in hand.”
Trevor blinked at that statement and turned away.
This is not your problem, he told himself, breathing hard, opening and closing a fist. Not. Your. Problem. He stared at the worn divots in the stone countertop, thinking it again and again.
Eli Limpett continued, sounding inspired. “She isn’t a bad girl, really. She simply needs to learn some deference and obedience. God only knows what her father was thinking by encouraging such independence. He did me no favor in spoiling her.”
“Did you no favor?” Trevor asked.
“Oh, yes. Did she not tell you? We are betrothed—or nearly so. I have but to enact a formal proposal to her to make it official. It’s a detail I intend to solve just as soon as I catch up to her, the wily minx. After that, wifely obedience should commence. Breaking her won’t be easy,” he said, looking at him conspiratorially, “but very much worth my time, I’m sure.”
“Get out.” The words were out of Trevor’s mouth before he could stop them.
“I beg your pardon,” Eli said, and Trevor saw a flash of violence in his eyes.
Oh, I dare you, mate, he thought, but he said, “Beg all you like. But if you do not wish to speak with the constable about the attack on my manservant and the maid, then I suggest you take your leave. Now.”
“I’ll have you know, sir—” began Piety’s mother, but Trevor cut her off.
“You have two minutes,” he said in deadly calm. He took up the sledgehammer from the counter and propped it on his shoulder.
It had been some time since he’d fought five men at once, but by no means would it be the first time. He’d need Joseph, and he shouted for him to send Marissa away, but then Spencer Burr—all six-and-a-half feet and twenty stone of him—shoved off the wall.
“Right,” the carpenter said. “The earl has said good-bye. Out you go, gentlemen, madam.”
“Ah, good man. If you would be so kind, Mr. Burr.”
“Pleasure, m’lord.” The carpenter clamped one bear-paw hand on Mrs. Limpett’s waist and the other on her elbow. “You’ll remember the way you came in, madam. Sirs.” He swept the woman to the stairs.
The men grumbled, and Mrs. Limpett could be heard saying, “Surely that man cannot mean to remain inside, if we cann—” before Mr. Burr hustled her up the steps.
Eli Limpett lingered, casting an assessing look around the kitchen and garden beyond. He glanced at Trevor, looking between the hammer and his face and back again.
Trevor raised his eyebrows.
Finally, the man nodded curtly and disappeared after his brothers.
When the stairs were empty and the floorboards above him silent, Trevor walked to the window and looked out. Marissa and Joseph were nose-to-nose on a stone bench.
He turned and looked at the empty kitchen.
He looked down at the hammer, his hands tight around the handle.
This is not your problem, he repeated in his head. As soon as the words were conjured, they dissolved.
Instead, he thought of Piety. Optimistic, determined. He thought of the courage it had taken for her to leave New York, to come here, to lie in wait for them and then to hunker down and fight.
They are no match for her spirit, he thought. Buffoons. Pompous and vain and stupid with greed.
Still, they would descend on Berkshire with no other goal than to bully her and bleed her.
What had Eli Limpett said?
Breaking her won’t be easy . . .
Trevor’s hand burned, and he looked at the hammer. He tried to release it, but his hands would not let go.
“My lord?” Spencer Burr thudded down the stairs. “They’ve gone, and I’ve locked the door behind them. We’ll take care to keep it bolted in future.”
Trevor nodded. “Good man, Spencer. It’s not your fault, of course. They are . . . ” He exhaled an angry breath. “Unconscionable.” He held out the hammer. “I believe this is yours.”
“Nearly went to good use, did it?” Spencer chuckled, taking it up.
Trevor let out another tired breath and looked at the ceiling. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Americans making their way to Piety.
Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Do you think they’ll really go to Berkshire?”
Spencer looked thoughtful and shrugged. “Aye, my lord. I reckon they will.”
Trevor nodded and walked in a slow circle. He stopped and looked at the carpenter. “I predict the same. Miss Grey left you the direction of the marchioness’s estate, I presume?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Fetch it, will you? I feel the sudden need to visit the bloody country.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The woman on Garnettgate’s front stoop wasted no time with pleasantries. “Is this the home of one Frances Stroud, Marchioness Frinfrock?”
Jocelyn happened to be passing through the entryway, and the question froze her in place. The accent. Loud and foreign and demanding. It was unmistakable.
Oh, God. They’ve come.
Cradling her needlework to her chest, Jocelyn ducked behind a giant urn and listened. The butler Godfrey, whose great size alone would prevent him from ever being a truly discreet servant, did not help matters by blocking her view.
“The house is Garnettgate, madam,” he told the woman. “Home of Marchioness Frinfrock. Who should I tell the marchioness is inquiring?”
“My identity has no bearing on you or your mistress,” said the woman. “I am merely in search of a young woman who, I’m told, is in residence here. A guest—Miss Piety Grey?” Godfrey tried to answer, but she spoke over him. “If we have the correct house, please tell her to convene, with all of her belongings and her Negro maid, in the front drive. Immediately.”
The normally unflappable Godfrey was nonplussed. “Beg your pardon?”
“Retrieve Miss Piety Grey, sir. Now.”
Jocelyn winced, hesitated, and then, in a burst of courage, stepped forward, lightly clearing her throat. “Excuse me, Godfrey.”
The large butler was slow to move, and she was forced to shoulder her way to the door, affording the woman on the stoop ample time to study her. Her gaze whipped across Jocelyn’s hair, her dress, her face, and the needlework in her arms like a cold wind.
“Forgive me,” Jocelyn began, “I could not help but overhear your inquiry. I should tell you that the young lady you seek, Miss Piety Grey, is indeed in residence here at Garnettgate. At the moment, she is in the garden, looking after the roses in company of the marchioness. Please, may I invite you inside while I inform them of your arrival?”
“As I told this one, that won’t be necessary,” the woman said. Her resemblance to Piety was uncanny. She looked like Piety, if Piety had starved herself for a week and aged fifty years.
Jocelyn sighed. “I beg your pardon, madam. May I be so bold as to presume that you are Miss Grey’s family? Are you Mrs. Limpett?”
The woman squinted at her. After a long, assessing moment, she said, “I am Mrs. Grey-Limpett. Who, may I ask, are you?”
Jocelyn smiled. “I am Jocelyn Breedlowe, Miss Grey’s chaperone.” She nodded her head to the woman. “How do you do?”
“Chaperone!” said Mrs. Limpett. “Why in God’s name would she require a chaperone?” Then she shook her head. “It makes no difference. I am her mother. Not only do I supersede your authority here, my very presence makes whatever services you may provide u
nnecessary. Now, if you please. I’ve come a very great distance to collect my daughter.”
Jocelyn blinked at her. Did she really intend to extract Piety without introducing herself? Without even coming inside?
Before she could reply, the door to the hired carriage in the drive snapped open and a man emerged. He made nimble progress in their direction, despite his excessive clothing: a long coat for the warm day, billowy cuffs, a bright cravat with copious folds. While he came, he stared. Sharp, critical eyes darting in every direction.
“How do you do,” he said, coming upon them. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. They were hard, his eyes—cold and flat and missing nothing. A shark’s eyes, she thought, too small for his broad, shiny face.
Oh, Piety. Jocelyn ached for her friend. She had spoken of the brothers from time to time, describing how each was intolerable in his own awful way. From what Jocelyn could discern, the one she feared the most—the most threatening and the cruelest—had been a middle brother called Eli. Could this be him? Eli Limpett? Two feet away?
“How do you do.” She bobbed her head again.
“Our mother is not being rude, I hope?”
Mrs. Limpett rolled her eyes. “We needn’t play their silly games, Eli.”
It was him.
“By no means.” Jocelyn forced a smiled. “I was just inviting Mrs. Limpett and, indeed, your entire party, sir, inside. The marchioness is in the garden this morning, but it won’t take a moment to announce your arrival.”
“Excellent,” said the man in the same moment Mrs. Limpett said, “Unnecessary.”
“And you are?” the man asked, sweeping Jocelyn’s body with his shark’s eye.
“She’s no one!” Mrs. Limpett exclaimed. “A servant. Claiming to be Piety’s chaperone.”
“Oh, excellent,” said the man, flashing another disingenuous smile. “I’m relieved to know she’s been looked after in our absence. I’m learning the hard way that she cannot be left alone, even a moment.”
The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London Page 16