Piety looked at him, saw the calculation in his eyes, heard the succinct way he forced out the words. Her stomach constricted in fear, but she said, “No. You shall not live with me in London for a time. You will never live with me, Eli.
“Look,” she continued, gesturing up and down the table. “Shall I simply give you the money? If I sign over Papa’s fortune to the lot of you, would you leave me alone? Leave all of us entirely alone?”
“Would you do that?” asked Edward, who was shushed almost immediately by Idelle.
“It’s not about the money,” Idelle insisted. “I want to see you married. I want you under the control of someone responsible and trusted in our own circle, immediately. Before you embarrass yourself—before you embarrass all of us—beyond repair.”
“Papa left me the resources to live beyond your control.”
“Your father is dead, Piety.” Her tone was final. “He cannot indulge you any longer. Now you must live by society’s rules, and mine. Perhaps you think you’re paving the way to bohemian freedom with this stunt, but believe me, every defiance, every harebrained scheme that you pull, edges me a little closer to proving that you are entirely incompetent to be responsible for the fortune that has been bestowed upon you. I shall enjoy this holiday to England, truly I will, but there are only so many hurdles over which I am willing to leap before I put an end to it all!”
It was the closest she had come to actually threatening that Piety was not fit to manage her own affairs. It was Piety’s greatest fear laid bare, and it nearly silenced her, but the mention of her father had the opposite effect. She had to work to smother a shriek of rage in her throat. Idelle hadn’t regarded him in life, except to needle him with relentless complaints or excise more money, why regard him in death?
“If you’ll not have Eli,” Idelle said, gesturing at each stepson in turn, “then pick one of the others.”
“Madam!” Eli was instantly incensed. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the plates and nearly toppling the centerpiece. Jocelyn lunged for it, while Piety shut her eyes against the escalating ridiculousness of the scene. At the head of the table, Lady Frinfrock merely chuckled. No, not a chuckle, she truly, heartily laughed: a snicker that grew to a full-chested guffaw, eventually cresting in hoots and sputters. Shaking her head, she wiped tears of mirth from the corner of her eye.
“I’m sorry,” Idelle said, scowling at her, “I did not realize our family’s pain was quite so diverting.”
The marchioness tried to respond but failed, holding out a hand while she struggled for composure. “Forgive me,” she finally said, still sputtering. “I cannot remember when I have been so entertained over luncheon. I regret that it is at the expense of my dear friend, Miss Grey, and how nobly she has borne it, but truly! You were doing so well, Mrs. Limpett. I was nearly convinced you actually cared about the girl’s well-being.”
“I do care. I care for her future.”
“But not my happiness,” said Piety.
“You have squandered your claim to happiness with foolish behavior.”
“What of the house?” Piety demanded. “What if the house makes me happy?”
“The house is a fantasy that has run its course, Piety.” Idelle raised her chin. “It’s over—a house of cards, is what it is.”
“You are mistaken,” Piety said, steel in her voice. “It is a house of brick and mortar, timber and tile. Marble and glass. It is a beautiful home, and I’d like to see you try to take it away from me.”
“Did you not hear me?” Eli growled and shoved out of his chair. “You may keep the house. We shall live there, together.”
“Oh, Eli, stop talking! Stop!” Piety was suddenly less afraid. “You have absolutely no say. No one here has any say but me.” She turned on her mother. “How much? How much of the estate would motivate you to leave here, to cease pretending you care about my future? How much?”
“This is not a solution,” Idelle said. “The only solution is for you to marry one of the Limpetts. And I demand that you stop this childish fit before you turn all of them from you for good.”
“If only turning them were possible!”
“Fine!” Idelle was shouting now. “Continue on! Continue on until there is no man left on God’s earth to have you. Is that what your father wanted? For you to be alone? Childless? Banished for your indecent life?”
Her proclamation sliced through the air, rattling the crystal beads of the chandelier and trembling the water in the goblets. Piety rolled her eyes and drew breath to refute it—same song, second verse—but then Godfrey stepped lightly into the room, clearing his throat. His very presence seemed to embody the distraction they all required, and they turned and watched him stoop and whisper something in the marchioness’s ear.
“You’re joking,” Lady Frinfrock said, setting down her goblet.
The butler shook his head and whispered again.
Lady Frinfrock shoved back from the table. Before a footman could scramble to pull out her chair, a sound from outside the door broke the awkward silence of the room.
It was a cough. Someone clearing his throat. Piety looked around. She knew that cough.
Falcondale.
Before she could react, he poked his head around the door jamb. It was him. Rumpled, covered in dust from the road. He looked casual, and passive, and mouth-wateringly handsome.
“Right. I . . . ” he began, looking around the room.
Piety’s heart leaped at the sight of him—a surge of gratefulness and joy so sweet that she wanted to laugh. She blinked. She grabbed hold of the back of her chair. She did all the ridiculous, useless, inane things that ridiculous, useless girls do when they unexpectedly find themselves staring at the man that they absolutely did not expect to see. The very man that they regrettably, painfully, unfortunately were so very gratified to see.
“Many apologies for the interruption, my lady,” Falcondale said, still halfway out of the room. “No time to send word. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.” He glanced quickly to Piety and then away.
“Your man bade me wait in the drawing room, but I smelled . . . Is that quail?” He raised his eyebrows at the heaping spread on the sideboard. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he said, “I rode through lunch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Trevor was not offered quail.
He was not introduced.
He was not bade warm welcome.
No servant offered to take his mud-caked coat or filthy hat.
In fact, the marchioness ordered him immediately from the dining room. Trevor consented, but only after he shared a long, gratifying look with Piety, who stood behind her chair, head high, cheeks bright with color. He trailed behind the marchioness’s great bear of a butler, exasperated and hungry, asking himself for the thousandth time why he’d come.
You knew there would be an inquisition, he told himself, ducking into the same small, airless receiving room in which the butler had tried to contain him when he arrived.
You knew there would be suspicion. Deliberation. Ceremony.
You knew there would be a need for a complicated testimony.
You knew there would be no lunch.
He looked around the small golden room and wondered if a tray of quail could be conveyed herein. How much trouble could it be?
Far too much, obviously, as the marchioness bustled into the room behind him. “What business could you possibly have in Berkshire, Falcondale?” she asked.
“I cannot say entirely,” he said, exhaling tiredly. It was the truth.
“You will not say?” The marchioness arched one brow. “Or you do not know?”
Both, he thought, turning his back to her. He strode to the window. His sole plan, if he had one at all, had been to ride in on a gust of derring-do. Surprise and impress them all so very much, that they became too distracted to hold him to any sort of accountable dialogue about, well, about what business he had in Berkshire.
To him, it was perf
ectly obvious. Surely it was just as obvious to the old bat, but, of course, she wanted to make him say it. Why, in God’s name, could not the very act of turning up, unannounced, at the country estate of a neighbor he didn’t really even know, be enough? He had business enough back in London, travel on which to embark, and a house to sell. Berkshire was, in no way, part of his plan—of any plan. Coming here was easily the most demonstrative thing he’d ever done. Were words really necessary?
He sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
Lady Frinfrock studied him with assessing, half-lidded eyes. “Would it be useful for me to summon Miss Grey?” she asked.
“Ah . . . ” He hedged, wondering if that would make things better or worse.
Lust-crazed idiot, he chided himself. As if seeing her, even for a moment, was not the entire reason for his ill-advised flight from town.
“It’s a start.” He managed to choke the words out. “Would you . . . Would that be possible?”
“Anything is possible, my lord. You are here, aren’t you? Although for what reason, I still do not know. If you are to do any good whatsoever, I suggest you locate your tongue.”
She rang for Godfrey and gave him orders to summon Piety. Trevor paced while they waited, and the marchioness watched him, making an open study of his face, his travel clothes, and his fidgety progress around the room. He felt like an insect, but he let her look. Her stare was preferable to her interrogation.
He wondered again about the proceedings in the dining room. He had not known what to expect when he arrived, but he would tell them to all go to the devil and dare them try to insult Piety in his presence if so inclined. But the situation did not seem to lend itself, particularly, to his immediate interference. She appeared to be standing her own, and he would not want to overplay his hand the moment he walked in. The American brothers, he noticed, appeared just as smug and opportunist as they had in London; their regard for Piety seemed to simmer somewhere between stare or scowl. It would be an extreme pleasure to hand them their hats, he thought, when the time came. He glanced at Lady Frinfrock. She wished to know why he was here. Well, he could hardly tell her that.
Suddenly, the doorknob rattled, and something in his chest gave a hitch. He turned and trained his eyes on the door, unable to hide his eagerness.
It was Piety, slipping into the room with less bustle and breathlessness than ever he had seen. Her eyes sought his and then lowered. She dipped into a bow. “My lord,” she said quietly.
Trevor blinked. He had dreamed of her nearly every night since she left, but his dreams did nothing to prepare him for the flesh-and-blood sight of her. She was as soft and beautiful as always, and yet, her expression was closed. There was no telltale smile. He had never seen her quite so resigned. He didn’t like it.
But they were waiting for some greeting. He forced himself to bow in her direction. “Miss Grey,” he said.
The marchioness pointed to a chair. “Miss Grey, please sit. I will not lose my lunch because of your forced pleasantries, the pair of you. How obvious it is that you are more than casually acquainted. Let us not forget that I watched you make eyes at each other over the chessboard for more than a week. You may sit, too, Falcondale, before you wear a path in the rug.
“If you’ll permit it,” said Trevor, “I’d rather stand, my lady.” He remained by the window, his eyes fixed on Piety.
Her dress was new; something he’d never seen before. Yellow. Fluttery. It would make a hundred women appear sallow or ill, or, at the very least, silly. On her, it was fresh and light and it would put him in a better mood, he knew, if he were not so damned anxious about her reception of him. Even now, she looked at him for only a moment before she fixed her gaze resolutely at her knees. If he could not see her smile, he reasoned, at least her dress was an echo of her former cheerfulness. It was rationalization, he thought, and a bloody weak one at that. And now it would appear he would be forced to speak, because she would not.
“Look,” he began, shoving his hands into his pockets, “you wish to know why I’ve come. I had the misfortune of meeting Miss Grey’s relatives earlier in the week. They arrived in Henrietta Place, made improper advances on her maid, and got into a row with my boy Joseph. I was compelled to evict them from the premises.”
Piety’s gaze shot up. “Marissa?”
“The servants have recovered, I assume,” said the marchioness.
Trevor waved the topic away. “You have to be quite a fighter to get the best of Joseph. And the girl is fine, as well. However, to say that I was not impressed with their behavior is an understatement. How accurate you have been, Miss Grey. They are an abomination. You were right to come here. And, your generosity to Miss Grey is remarkable, my lady. Garnettgate is a gem, by the way.”
“Nearly forgotten the loveliness of your home country, had you, Falcondale? I have no doubt that your own country estate in Staffordshire could be made twice as lovely.”
He looked away. “Indeed.”
“So, what are we meant to take from your revelations, my lord?” asked the marchioness. “You’ve come all this way to tell us Miss Grey’s family is repugnant? If so, you’re a month late. Miss Grey and Miss Baker have been saying as much since they arrived in London.”
“I came to be another hand on deck, so to speak,” he said, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Piety’s head rise.
“Another hand,” said the marchioness. “Aha. How lucky for us. Let me guess. You will design an ancient Greek structure in which to corral the ghastly Americans? Something with fluted columns? A great many steps?”
“Clever, my lady,” he said. Unable to keep the distance between himself and Piety, he ambled behind her. He could just smell the sweet notes of her perfume, see the curls that escaped her chignon. “If everyone in England was like you,” he said, “I may never have left.”
“Better that you did,” she said. “Few people can tolerate either of us. But returning to the topic of your so-called ‘handiness.’ What can you possibly contribute to the situation?”
Trevor stared at her. “You mean specifically?”
The marchioness narrowed her eyes. “Miss Grey is comporting herself quite admirably. Her mother has no dearth of insults, painful ones, too, invoking the name of her dead father, calling her names. The whole lot of them are tenacious as wolfhounds, and they work well together in a pack. Intimidating—even to this one. Look at her.” She nodded toward Piety.
Trevor looked. He’d ridden for two days with thought of little else.
The marchioness sighed. “They may eventually wear us all down. Additional help could not hurt.”
“I have no doubt Miss Grey could put them firmly in place.” He found himself unprepared to go on. Perhaps he had not thought this through. He could not predict that the marchioness would make him put such a fine point on the reason that he’d come. How could he? He had not wanted to acknowledge what it meant to be here himself.
Beside him, Piety stared at her hands. He wondered if she was curious about it. Did she wish him away? Whatever she wanted, whatever she felt, why not bloody look up and say it?
Bollocks, he thought, circumventing her chair and standing in front of her. I’ll say it.
“I thought perhaps Miss Grey might find it useful if someone else, another man, pressed his suit,” he said in a rush. “To . . . to . . . scare the Americans away.”
The room was silent after this admission, and he paced a line to the window and back. “There,” he continued. “I’ve said it. This is why I am in Berkshire.” He looked back at Piety. She stared at her hands. No reaction whatsoever. Not even a glance.
“If Miss Grey is amenable to it, of course. Her attachment to another respectable man might ground her to England, show that she has opportunities.”
“And you,” asked the marchioness, “are to be this respectable Englishman, I presume?”
“I’m hardly a member of the court, but I am a bloody earl, or so they tell me.”
<
br /> “So all of this is to say that you have turned up here to court Miss Grey?”
He held out a hand. “Wait. Let me be clear. I have come here to pretend to court Miss Grey.”
“That is ridiculous.” She thumped her cane. “That won’t even get you lunch, Falcondale.”
“You couldn’t know this, madam,” he said, exasperated, “but I have been very clear with Miss Grey from the start, as she has been with me. There was no other protocol than honesty on this score when a beautiful and spirited young woman moves next door to a bachelor of my situation. We were both unattached, as it were, and we got on quite well. I saw fit to be very clear. I have absolutely no wish to marry. Anyone. I intimated this to Miss Grey almost immediately upon her arrival. It made everything simpler.”
“What a lucky girl.” The marchioness harrumphed.
“Considering this, it would be unfair to court Miss Grey in earnest. Furthermore, as I understand it, Miss Grey has similarly low aspirations toward matrimony.
“However,” he pressed on, “there is no reason the Americans need know this. For all they shall see, I will be wholly devoted to her, earnestly trying to woo her. I will be besotted.”
Piety’s head slowly rose from her lap. She blinked at him. He stared back, locking eyes.
“I understand what the Americans are meant to think.” The marchioness sighed. “What I do not understand is what you think. Why? Why on earth would you bother to enact such a subterfuge?”
Because I’ve gone mad.
Because I could not seem not to do it.
Because I would not have them touch her.
Because it would mean a few more days.
“I want to help,” was all he said.
“Because you care so very much about Miss Grey? The girl you will never consent to marry?”
“No,” he said, but then he reversed to, “Yes.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “It’s not . . . Let us just say I would do it, because I can. And why not?”
He looked at them. They looked back.
“Shall I say it?” he asked.
The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London Page 19