Chapter Two
Jane shut the Spinster House door after the earl and Poppy entered, closing out the bright August afternoon and the drone of village life: the birdsong, the buzz of insects, the distant murmur of voices—
Suddenly, everything was dark and quiet and . . . intimate. It was a little hard to breathe.
Ridiculous! Lord Evans hadn’t grown nor the house shrunk. The man wasn’t even standing next to her. She should not be feeling crowded and, well, a bit overwhelmed.
Or, worse, expectant. Still and heavy like a summer day before a storm.
She leaned against the reassuringly solid door for a moment to steady herself and glanced at Poppy.
The cat looked oddly pleased before blinking and turning her attention to cleaning her paws.
Poppy never looks pleased unless I’m obeying her rare demand for petting or offering her some tasty tidbit from my dinner.
Truth be told, Poppy made her a little nervous. There was something vaguely supernatural about her, as if she’d once been a witch’s familiar or something—not that Jane believed in witches or any other supernatural foolishness, curses included.
Lord Evans had moved farther into the sitting room and was examining a large, faded square on the wall. “Didn’t care for the picture that hung here, I see.”
She took a deep breath and shook off her peculiar feelings. “I did not.” She started toward him, but stopped a few feet away. She didn’t want to get too near—
Oh, for goodness’ sake, the man isn’t going to bite!
She forced herself to close the gap between them. “It was hideous. Haven’t you seen it?”
“No, this is my first time in the Spinster House.” He lifted a brow. “What was it of? Some very un-spinsterish bacchanal?”
He was teasing her again. She’d missed that. No one else—especially no other man—was as much fun to match wits with.
“It was a painting of a hunting dog with a dead bird in its mouth. Quite, quite bloodthirsty—and ugly. I don’t know what Isabelle Dorring was thinking when she hung it there.”
He frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d say Miss Dorring was a bit bloodthirsty herself to have cursed the Duke of Hart’s line as she did. She caused centuries of anguish”—his frown turned to a scowl—“and is still cutting up the current duke’s peace.”
“And Cat’s peace, too.” Cat’s baby was due in just over six months’ time. If it was a boy—
No! Curses aren’t real. They’re as make-believe as witches and fairies—she glanced at Poppy who had moved on to grooming her private parts—and supernatural cats.
“The third duke was a scoundrel to get poor Isabelle with child and then marry another woman,” she said.
She’d always thought that duke a terrible villain—all the village girls had—but in a fairy-tale sort of way. She’d never considered how Isabelle’s curse would affect a real person until she’d met the current titleholder.
Lord Evans’s scowl deepened. “I’ll grant you that wasn’t honorable of him, but he didn’t force Miss Dorring, did he?”
“No.” Rape had never been part of the story.
“And Miss Dorring wasn’t some naïve young miss. The stone in the graveyard says she was twenty-four. Surely you knew how children were created when you were twenty-four?”
She flushed. “Of course.” She’d never had a man mention procreation to her. It was . . .
Freeing. Lord Evans was speaking to her as if she was an intelligent equal, not some fluffy-headed virgin who needed to be shielded from the world.
“And if I have the story right, her father was a wealthy merchant who left her this house and his fortune. She chose to invite the third duke into her bed. I’d say she bears some responsibility for the outcome.”
“Well, yes, but—”
Both brows went up. “What? Is independent Miss Wilkinson going to tell me that poor Isabelle was a meek, spineless creature who couldn’t make her own decisions?”
“No, of course not.” To be honest, she’d never understood why Isabelle had been so reckless. She’d had her freedom. Why had she squandered it? “Perhaps she was overcome by love.”
Gaah! Had she really just said that? But it was true. From her observations, love all too often disabled a woman’s good sense.
Lord Evans snorted. “Or perhaps she was overcome with a desire to be a duchess.”
That surprised her. The earl had a sharp wit, but he wasn’t normally caustic. “So cynical!”
“Sadly, Miss Wilkinson, it is not cynicism. I have observed such machinations firsthand.”
Of course he had. He was handsome, intelligent, amusing—and an earl. The London ladies must trip over one another to catch his attention.
She felt an odd mix of sympathy for him, anger at the ladies, and . . . jealousy?
No. Surely not.
“Do they hound you unmercifully, then?”
“Me?” His brows shot up in surprise. “What do you—oh. No. You misunderstood. I was referring to Marcus—the duke. Society women dragged him into the shrubbery on many occasions in the hope they could force him into marriage.” He smiled. “Though I’ll admit his last trip to the vegetation ended well.”
“You aren’t suggesting Cat was angling to be a duchess, are you?” Jane felt insulted on her friend’s behalf. “Cat went through with the Spinster House lottery just the day after she visited the trysting bushes with the duke, if you’ll remember.”
“Yes, I know, Miss Wilkinson. I’m not lumping her in with the Society misses.” He grinned. “I know Loves Bridge women are not at all like them.”
She would take that as a compliment. “I’m quite certain Cat loves the duke. And more to the point, the duke loves her.”
If the Duke of Hart hadn’t married for love, then the curse wasn’t broken.
If there was a curse.
Lord Evans nodded. “I agree.” He looked back at the empty square on the wall. “I suppose we’ll know for certain soon enough.”
Worry twisted in her chest again. “You don’t believe in the curse, do you?”
“No.”
Ah, thank God.
But her relief was cut short by his next words.
“But Marcus does, at least on some level.” He frowned. “And there are those five dukes before him.”
“Yes.” Lud! If only they knew.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
The weight and warmth of his touch were surprisingly comforting. She let out a shaky laugh. “How did you know I was worrying?”
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.
Miss Wilkinson emitted a short, annoyed breath. “Wonderful. What a wild goose—or a wild cat—chase this has been. I’ve less than twenty-four hours to come up with a substitute for Mr. Wertigger’s traveling zoo, Lord Evans, and I’m no closer than I was when we were in the kitchen. What in God’s name am I going to—”
“Merrow!”
Poppy had returned and was staring up at them from under the chair. Clearly, she wanted him to follow her—but he was not a cat.
He sighed and struggled out of his coat.
“Lord Evans, what are you doing?”
“Preparing to dig through this pile of things, Miss Wilkinson. Would you be so kind as to hold this?” He handed her his coat.
Her brows slammed down into a scowl as she took it. “We do not have time to waste looking for . . .” She waved her hand at the jumble and then glanced back at him. “What are you looking for?”
“I have no idea. Pardon me.”
Miss Wilkinson stepped back, his coat clutched absently in her hands, as he moved Isabelle over to lean against the cabinet.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“I don’t believe so, but I might be mistaken.” He eyed the chair. He couldn’t see anything leaning up against it now, but he didn’t want to move it and send the whole pile crashing down on Poppy.
But then cats had nine lives, didn’t they? And he’d wager Poppy had more lives than most. He was confident she’d find a way to avoid getting crushed.
“You might want to wait outside, Miss Wilkinson. This could get messy.” He sneezed. And dusty. Likely there were two centuries’ worth of dirt behind that chair.
Of course the woman ignored him.
Well, there was nothing for it. He grasped the chair’s arms. Lord, they knew how to make furniture two hundred years ago. The thing was incredibly heavy.
He wrestled it out of the way.
“Lord Evans, we really do not have time for this. You said we’d discuss the fair. I’m counting on you to help me come up with a plan.”
“I think that is what I am doing.”
He might have heard her grind her teeth.
He surveyed the clutter he’d uncovered. There was a small table with water stains marring its surface; a chipped pitcher and several chipped bowls; a broken mirror; and a cushion that looked like it might be hosting a family of mice.
Or had been hosting. One hoped Poppy, being a cat, had encouraged the rodents to move along, if she hadn’t made them her supper.
“Lord Evans, please. The clock is ticking.”
And the cat was growling. Where was she?
Ah, he saw the tip of her tail sticking out from behind a stack of boards someone had propped against the outside wall. He moved the table and other things aside—fortunately, no mice fled the cushion—and carefully picked his way across the room.
He squatted down to peer into the shadowy space between the boards and the wall. Poppy looked back at him—as did a pair of lifeless eyes.
He must have made some sound, because suddenly Miss Wilkinson dropped his poor coat on the floor and rushed toward him.
“Lord Evans! What’s amiss? Are you all right?”
He shot up to his full height. “Careful! You’ll trip.”
Which is exactly what she did, of course. He’d only a split second to brace himself before he took her full weight.
“Oof!”
He wasn’t completely certain which of them had made that sound. Her momentum had propelled him backward so he’d collided forcefully with the wall—fortunately or they would have ended up sprawled on the ground, he on the bottom, likely impaled by a splintered table or discarded candlestick, and she on top.
His brainless cock ignored the impalement part of that story, focusing instead on the notion of Miss Wilkinson’s feminine curves pressing against it. It started to swell with excitement.
He took a calming breath—and breathed in Miss Wilkinson’s scent. Blast.
His unruly cock grew larger.
“Oh.” Miss Wilkinson gaped up at him, clearly stunned by her sudden change in position and—fortunately—unaware of his body’s reaction. If she’d noticed, he felt quite certain he’d be gasping in pain now, her knee having taught his cock proper behavior.
If I lean forward just an inch or perhaps two, our lips will—
Zeus! Was he losing his mind? He grasped her elbows to move her away just as she planted her hands on his chest to do the same. She stepped back—and stumbled again.
He reached for her, but she was able to recover without his help.
“What did you see? You made a noise, as if you were . . . startled. Was it something”—she swallowed—“alive?”
Not anymore.
No. If the thing had been alive and was now dead, it would stink.
“I was startled—and I’m not certain what I saw. I’ll have another look, shall I?”
He started to squat, but Miss Wilkinson put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Are you certain it’s safe?” She glanced down nervously.
Poppy, sitting by the opening, interrupted her grooming long enough to look up at them.
He laughed. “Poppy apparently thinks so.”
Miss Wilkinson did not let go. “Poppy is a cat. She may not realize the danger.”
What did she think might be lurking in that shadowy space? If it was indeed dangerous, it would have already . . . what? Darted out and nipped their toes? “Are you afraid, Miss Wilkinson?”
She bristled. “Of course not.” Her jaw hardened. “I’ll look myself.”
“No, you won’t.” He certainly wasn’t about to let her take any risk, if there was one. That would not be at all chivalrous.
She squared her shoulders. “This is my house, Lord Evans. It’s my responsibility to see that it’s kept up properly.”
Oh, Lord, he’d only meant to tease her. “But consider my mortification, Miss Wilkinson, should word get out that the Earl of Evans had a female, ah—”
That was the wrong thing to say. Miss Wilkinson’s eyes snapped and she opened her mouth to blister his ears. Time to change course.
“And the floor’s very dusty. My clothes are already covered in dirt. No point in getting your dress soiled as well.”
That stopped her. “Oh.” She frowned. “Yes. Well, I suppose, when you put it that way, you have a point.”
Of course he did, but he didn’t waste any more time arguing. He squatted down again and peered into the shadows. The thing was still there.
Poppy butted her head against his arm to encourage him.
Very well. It was time to show some courage. He reached gingerly into the space—
And laughed.
“What is it?” Miss Wilkinson asked anxiously. “What have you found?”