Chapter Three
“A puppet!”
“A puppet? What’s a puppet doing here?” That came out sharper than Jane had intended.
At least she was feeling more herself. She’d been off balance there for a bit—literally, of course, but also emotionally.
Silly. Being pressed against Lord Evans’s chest, having his arms around her, should not have affected her. She’d stumbled; he’d caught her. His actions hadn’t been amorous. They’d been reflexive. He’d have reacted the same way were anything thrown at him.
And yet, after the shock of tripping had abated, she’d felt . . .
The closest she could come to describing the emotion was home. She’d felt as if she was finally where she was meant to be.
Which was the stupidest notion. The Spinster House was her home. When the tenancy had opened up in May with the sudden, surprising marriage of Miss Franklin to the now-Duke of Benton, she’d known immediately that she wanted to be the next Spinster House spinster. The vacancy had been the answer to a prayer she hadn’t had the audacity to utter. When she’d lost the Spinster House lottery, she’d schemed to get Cat and then Anne wed—to men they loved, of course—and out of the house. And now she was here.
She’d never been happier. She had no one—except for Poppy—to answer to.
She loved her brother, but she loved him even more now that she wasn’t living with him.
Lord Evans held the puppet out to her. “Take this, will you? I want to see if there’s anything else of interest back here.”
She examined the puppet as the earl resumed his rummaging. The gold-and-red-striped outfit, floppy legs, little arms, and wooden head with its big hook nose and red, conical hat were all very familiar.
“It’s Mr. Punch!”
“Yes.” Lord Evans stood, a puppet in each hand and a large smut on his cheek. “And here’s his wife, Joan, and the baby.”
His dishevelment was oddly appealing.
What is the matter with me?
Yes, she’d admit Lord Evans was far more attractive than any of the men in Loves Bridge. He was even more attractive, in her opinion, than her friends’ husbands, the duke and Lord Haywood.
And it wasn’t just his physical appearance that was so pleasing. It was his smile, the way his eyes lit with mischief when he teased her, the way—
No. She was beginning to sound infatuated. She was not. Lord Evans was merely a friend—at least she hoped he was a friend since their paths were certain to cross frequently over the years.
“You’ve dirt on your face.”
He laughed and pulled out his handkerchief. “I said the floor was dusty. See what I saved you from?”
She bit back a smile. “Thank you. And the spot’s on the other side.”
She might not be interested in a husband—not that Lord Evans had shown any sign of wanting her as a wife—but she was still a living, breathing female. There was nothing wrong with admiring a handsome man. She’d admire a handsome horse as well.
“And you have a large piece of fluff in your hair.” She reached up without thinking and brushed it away, her fingers tangling briefly in the silky strands.
That might have been a mistake. His eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening.
She flushed and looked down at Punch.
“Thank you, Miss Wilkinson.”
His voice sounded deeper, oddly intimate.
“Y-you’re”—she swallowed—“welcome.”
She was behaving like a complete widgeon. How many times had she laughed to herself when other girls turned into simpering cabbageheads around an eligible male?
“It looks as if one of the Spinster House spinsters was a devotee of Punch.” Lord Evans’s words broke the odd tension that had sprung up between them.
“No, not a spinster,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “A tailor—Mr. Denton. We used to have a puppet show at all the fairs when I was a child. My father said Mr. Denton made everything himself—the puppets, their clothing, even the stage and scenery.”
Papa had thought the puppet shows very funny, especially Mr. Punch’s antics, but Mama had not been at all certain they were appropriate for children. They’d argued, and Papa had won—as always—leaving Mama to stand next to him and Randolph and Jane, wringing her hands—and laughing, too, from time to time.
“We haven’t had a show since Mr. Denton died years ago. I’d forgotten all about them. I wonder what the puppets are doing here.”
“Likely someone concluded this was the perfect place to store them. The Spinster House is right on the green and has only one occupant.” He put the puppets down. “I’m going to investigate those boards. Unless I miss my guess, we’ve found what Poppy dragged us up here for.”
Poppy must have agreed that her work was done, because she darted out the door and disappeared down the stairs.
“But what are three puppets going to do for us?”
“Three puppets and a stage, Miss Wilkinson.” He grinned. “You can replace Mr. Wertigger and his sad excuse for a traveling zoo with a puppet show.”
Was the man daft? “Lord Evans, you are missing the point. We might have the puppets. We might have the stage. But we do not have Mr. Denton, unless you or Poppy can conjure him from the grave. Who is going to put on the show?”
The impudent man bowed. “I am, Miss Wilkinson.”
* * *
Jane stood on the green early the next morning and watched Lord Evans set up the puppet stage. She’d hardly slept a wink the night before.
She liked to be in control of things, and she was not in control now.
“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”
He paused long enough to give her an annoyed look.
Perhaps she had asked that question one—or several—times too many.
“It’s just that I feel responsible.” She wished she could put on the show herself, but she knew that would be a disaster.
“I don’t know why.” He tested the stage, pushing on the sides to be certain it was stable.
“Because I was the one who dismissed Mr. Wertigger.”
His brow arched up. “Do you think the other members of the fair committee would have wished him to stay?”
“N-no. But I didn’t ask their opinion.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were the one confronted with the issue. You didn’t have time to assemble the committee.”
“True.” She wanted to believe him. She did believe him—and appreciated his support. But she couldn’t stop worrying. “Perhaps the children would have liked to see a kangaroo, even a stuffed one.”
“Perhaps.” He stepped back to survey his handiwork. “But remember the parrot. I can’t imagine their mothers would wish them to hear the parrot.”
Lord Evans was correct about that. She should stop fretting and believe what he said. But still . . .
“You’re certain you know what you’re doing?”
The earl came as close to rolling his eyes as she’d ever seen a man come. “Miss Wilkinson, how many times must I—”
“If it isn’t Lord Evans!”
They both turned to see Randolph coming toward them.
Perhaps it was the angle of the sun or because she wasn’t sharing a house with him any longer, but Jane was surprised to see how thin her brother’s hair had got and how thick his middle. He’d just turned thirty-three this year.
“I heard you were here when I stopped by Cupid’s Inn for my breakfast, Evans.” Randolph looked at Jane. “Now that my sister has moved into the Spinster House, I need to take my meals out.”
“You could pay Mrs. Dorn more,” Jane said. Mrs. Dorn was Randolph’s unpleasant maid-of-all-work. “Then she would make you your breakfast.”
Randolph pulled a face. “You know Mrs. Dorn’s food is barely edible.”
That was very true. And every meal came with a grumble and a dark look. Quite disturbed one’s digestion.
“Well, you could learn to cook.”
Randolph’s eyes widened in shock—and then he laughed. “Oh, no. Cooking is women’s work”—he looked at the earl—“isn’t that right, Evans?”
She expected the earl to agree, but he didn’t.
“The Prince Regent is quite happy with his male French chef, Wilkinson,” the earl said, smiling. “In fact, French chefs are quite the thing among the ton these days.”
Randolph made a dismissive gesture. “The French! They are a different breed, are they not?” He looked back at Jane. “But where’s the kangaroo, Jane? I thought you said there’d be a kangaroo this year. I came over early to have a look at the beast.”
Oh, dear. This was exactly what she’d feared. People would be so disappointed. “It turned out to be stuffed, Randolph. You can be sure I sent the zoo proprietor away with a flea in his ear.”
Randolph looked crestfallen. “That’s too bad. A kangaroo would have been splendid. What are you going to do instead?”
One would think Randolph might have taken note of the tall wooden structure literally at his elbow, but he’d always been one to focus only on things right under his nose, and then only when he had on his reading spectacles.
“We found Mr. Denton’s puppets and stage. They were stored in the Spinster House.” She smiled in what she hoped was a confident fashion and said brightly, “Lord Evans is going to put on a performance.”
“Oh.” Randolph frowned and then stepped round to examine the stage more closely. “By Jove, that is Denton’s. I remember it well.” He looked at the earl. “Do you know what you’re doing, Evans?”
The earl did not strangle Randolph—he laughed instead. “Your sister has been asking me that very question, Wilkinson. Several times in fact.”
Randolph nodded. “I should think so. She is on the fair committee and apparently sent the prime attraction packing.”
Anger and anxiety battled in Jane’s stomach.
“It’s not as if I had a choice, Randolph.” She took a deep breath and struggled to speak more calmly. “Besides the stuffed kangaroo, the man had a very rude parrot.”
Randolph’s eyebrows shot up. “He did, did he?”
“Yes. He’d got it from a brothel.”
Randolph pressed his lips together as if he was struggling not to laugh. “Yes, I suppose I can see why that might not be suitable.”
“Might not!? Randolph, the bird, er,”—she hoped she wasn’t blushing—“flirted with me.”
Randolph snickered, but recovered quickly. “Pardon me. The image of a randy parrot . . .” He shook his head. “I do wish I could have seen your face.”
“It was not amusing.”
“Jane, you could do with a sense of humor.”
“I have a perfectly good sense of humor. This wasn’t funny.”
Randolph opened his mouth to retort, but fortunately the earl interrupted.
“It looks like a crowd’s gathering. I think now would be a good time to start the performance.”
“Do you know what you’re doing, Evans?” Randolph asked.
“Actually, I do. I took an interest in puppetry when I was at university and had some lessons with a professional performer.”
“You’ll remember there are children present?” Jane asked. Puppet shows could be as ribald as the Worm’s parrot, especially if one were used to a university audience of young, rowdy males.
“Of course, Miss Wilkinson. Don’t worry. I’ve entertained youngsters. My nieces are very fond of puppet shows and cajole me into performing whenever they can.”
Jane blinked. She’d never thought about Lord Evans’s family. “You have nieces?”
“Yes, eight of them.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps nine by now. My sister is due to deliver at any moment. Now if you’ll ring the bell to gather a crowd, I’ll get to work.”
“I remember that bell,” Randolph said. “Let me do it.”
Jane happily handed the bell to her brother while Lord Evans disappeared behind the stage. In no time, a sizable crowd had gathered.
Punch appeared on stage with his wife and baby.
“Look, Mr. Punch,” the wife said. “Look at all the people who have come to see us.”
Mr. Punch answered in a high, almost incomprehensible squeaky voice, and the audience roared with approval.
“Evans has got Punch’s voice down,” Randolph said. “I think he’s as good as Denton was.”
“You hold the baby while I go get some tea,” Mr. Punch’s wife was saying. “Should I have Mr. Punch hold the baby while I have tea, boys and girls?”
The children, most of whom likely had never seen a puppet show, hesitated, but their parents didn’t.
“No! Don’t leave the baby with Mr. Punch,” they shouted, and the children soon joined in.
Randolph was grinning like a child himself. “By Jove, Jane, I think Evans is better than a kangaroo, even a live one.”
“I’ll tell him that,” Jane said, amused, but relieved as well. “I’m certain he’ll be quite flattered.”
“As he should be. I—” Randolph glanced to his right and stiffened. “Lord, here come the Boltwood sisters. I’m off.” He handed Jane the bell before dodging round to the other side of the crowd.
“Is that Billy Denton’s stage and puppets?” Miss Cordelia, the shorter of the two sisters, asked, a note of awe in her voice. “Wherever did you find it?”
Her sister, Miss Gertrude, put what looked like a comforting hand on Miss Cordelia’s shoulder.
“It was dismantled and stored in the Spinster House,” Jane said, “shoved in a small room behind a lot of other things.”
“I thought we were going to have a kangaroo,” Miss Gertrude said as Miss Cordelia watched the performance.
“Yes, but when Mr. Wertigger, the zoo owner, arrived, I discovered the kangaroo was stuffed. The man was a complete charlatan. You may be sure I sent him on his way at once.”
“This is far better than any kangaroo.” Miss Cordelia sighed, her lips turning up in a wistful smile. “Remember when Billy used to do the shows, Gertrude?”
“Yes.” Miss Gertrude patted her sister’s shoulder.
Miss Cordelia sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “I still miss him, you know.”
“I know.”
Good heavens, had Miss Cordelia had romantic feelings for Mr. Denton? Jane remembered him as an old man, but then she’d probably been only six or seven when he’d died. Every adult had seemed old then.
But, no, he must have been past forty when he departed this earth, unless Miss Cordelia had taken up with a man much younger than she. The Boltwoods had at least sixty if not seventy years in their dish now.
Miss Gertrude raised her voice so she could be heard over the cheers of the crowd. Mr. Punch’s wife was beating him with her big stick for throwing the baby out with the bathwater. “Who’s working the puppets?”
“Lord Evans.”
That got both ladies’ complete attention.
“Lord Evans?” Miss Gertrude looked at her sister. “Well, well, well. Clearly we should not have spent all yesterday inside working on our tarts.”
The Boltwood sisters always entered—and always won—the village baking contests.
“Yes, indeed.” Miss Cordelia put aside her melancholy to waggle her brows. “I thought Lord Evans went off to walk the lakes.”
“He did.” The sisters weren’t trying to imply the earl had a romantic interest in her, were they?
Of course not. She was the Spinster House spinster—and oddly flustered at the moment. She hoped she wasn’t blushing....
Lud! She had to keep her wits about her. One false step and the Boltwoods would concoct some ridiculous rumor about her and Lord Evans and send it flying through the village before the puppet show was over.
“But he came back,” Miss Cordelia said, her tone heavy with meaning.
The sisters looked at her expectantly. What did they want her to say?
“Er, yes.”
“Why do you think he did that?” Miss Gertrude’s brows were waggling too.
“I imagine he wanted to visit the duke.”
“Is he staying at the castle, then? I didn’t see him arrive with His Grace.” Miss Gertrude smiled slyly. “But then I suppose Lord Evans came in early to take charge of the puppets. You did say they were kept at the Spinster House, didn’t you? Did you have to . . . help him?”
Once the sisters discovered the earl was putting up at the inn, they’d likely add more towers to the air-castle they were building.
“If you want to know the earl’s plans, you’ll have to ask him.”
Jane started to walk away, but Miss Cordelia caught her arm. “Miss Wilkinson, please let me give you some advice based on my own sad experience.” She spoke urgently and, Jane thought, sincerely. “I promise you you’ll regret it every day of your life if you let the earl slip through your fingers.”
Jane stared at her, unable to form a reply. She felt genuine compassion for the woman—how sad to spend your life with such regrets—but she also knew that trying to explain to Miss Cordelia that she’d completely misconstrued Jane’s situation would be futile.
Her speechlessness had nothing to do with the confusing feeling of loneliness and need that suddenly knifed through her at the thought of Lord Evans.
“Thank you, Miss Cordelia,” she finally managed, “I’ll remember that.”
* * *
Alex put down the puppets and stretched his hands and then his back. He’d done three shows. He was tired, but the crowd was still cheering. Miss Wilkinson should be happy.
“Come take a bow, Alex.”
He looked over to see Nate, the Marquess of Haywood, grinning at him.
“Nate, what are you doing here?” He grasped his friend’s hand.
“My wife was part of the fair committee, remember? She insisted we come back so she could see how all their plans turned out.” He frowned. “More to the point, what are you doing here—and why aren’t you staying at the castle?”
“I didn’t want to intrude.”
Nate snorted. “The castle is very large, as you well know, and Anne and I were already intruding.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were there, did I? And in any event, you’re Marcus’s cousin.”
“And you’re his friend.” Nate sounded exasperated, but thankfully didn’t pursue the topic. “Now come acknowledge your adoring public before they knock the stage down.”
“All right, but what I really want is some ale. Playing Mr. Punch wears out the voice.”
“I imagine it does. I’ll have a large mug waiting for you.” Nate gestured toward a big oak. “We’re sitting over there.” He grinned. “The ladies tire easily, given their delicate condition, so we found a comfortable spot in the shade.”
“Yes, I expect—” Alex paused. Wait a minute . . . “Ladies?”
Nate’s grin couldn’t get any wider. “Yes. Anne is increasing as well.”
“Ah.” So Nate hadn’t wasted any time starting his nursery. Alex clapped him on the back and shook his hand again. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful news.”
He was delighted for Nate—but he felt a sharp pang of envy as he took his bows and watched his friend go off to join his wife.
No. No envy. I’m done with that useless emotion. In the morning, I’ll go to London and look for a bride.
Again.
The thought was quite depressing. Perhaps he wasn’t completely over Charlotte yet.
Well, the best way to recover was to dive back into the social pool and start swimming.
“You are very talented, Lord Evans.”
Oh, Lord, that was one of the Boltwood sisters. Thank God she’d approached from behind. He schooled his features and turned. It was the shorter sister—Miss Cordelia, if he recalled correctly.
“Thank you.”
“You were almost as good as Billy—” The woman flushed. “That is, Mr. Denton.” She cleared her throat. “I was rather attached to Mr. Denton, you understand.”
“Ah.” He didn’t want to think about that.
“He would have been very proud to have his puppets and stage used to such good effect.”
That made him smile. “If Mr. Denton was as good a performer as he was a craftsman, that’s high praise, madam. The puppets, the stage, the scenery and props—everything was made with careful attention to detail.”
Miss Cordelia beamed at him. “Billy was passionate about everything he did.” She blushed again.
Lord, please don’t let her tell me any more about Denton’s passion.
For once, the Almighty granted a sinner’s prayer. Miss Cordelia limited herself to a fleeting smile.
“I hope you will perform at every fair,” she said.
Every fair? “Well, as to that, I was merely helping Miss Wilkinson out this time. She found herself in a bit of a pickle when the traveling zoo proved to be unsuitable.”
Miss Cordelia dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Yes, but now that we know your skills, we can put you on the regular program, just as we did Billy.”
The woman knew he wasn’t a villager or a professional performer. Why would she think he’d wish to be part of the fair again?
Perhaps she was still caught up in the memories of this Mr. Denton. No need to be rude.
“If I’m visiting the duke at that time, I would be happy to help out, of course.”
Miss Cordelia’s brows rose—an ominous sign.
“Was it the duke you came to visit this time?”
“Er . . .” He’d best tread carefully. He couldn’t tell the woman his main goal had been to escape his mother and sister. “Yes. And to attend the fair. I’d heard so much about it.”
Her brows tilted at a skeptical angle. “If you came to visit the duke, why didn’t you go directly to the castle?”
Perhaps there was a need to be rude. “I had not sent word ahead that I’d be coming. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
She put a hand on his arm. “But what about Miss Wilkinson?”
Confusion and alarm scrambled in his brainbox—followed quickly by wariness. “The Spinster House spinster?”
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you really come to see her?” Her expression was as hopeful as it was suggestive.
Oh, Lord, he knew where this was headed. Best nip it in the bud—if he could. “No.”
Miss Cordelia was not deterred. “But you did spend time with her . . . alone . . . in the Spinster House.”
He supposed Poppy didn’t count as a chaperone.
“And you’re in need of a wife.”
That, unfortunately, was true, but Miss Wilkinson was not in need of—or even desirous of—a husband.
He felt an odd pang of... disappointment? Ridiculous! He might enjoy sparring with the woman, but she was definitely not the restful sort of female he wished to marry.
Or thought he wished to marry . . .
He dismissed that momentary doubt. He couldn’t appear anything but certain under Miss Cordelia’s sharp eyes. And to tell the truth what he did or didn’t want made no difference in this case. Miss Wilkinson was not interested in the position of Countess of Evans. There were no two ways about it. She already had her heart’s desire—her independence.
He’d never considered the matter before, but now that he did, he thought it a terrible shame that most women had only two futures to choose from: living with a relative as a glorified servant or marrying and submitting to a husband.
“Miss Cordelia, even if I wanted to wed Miss Wilkinson”—he would indulge her fantasy that far—“Miss Wilkinson does not want to wed me.”
“Oh, I think she does.”
“What?!” He leaned slightly closer and sniffed. The woman didn’t smell as if she’d been sampling the ale too freely.
“I saw how she looked at you the last time you were here. My sister remarked upon it as well. I’m certain Miss Wilkinson would give up the Spinster House in a twinkling if you offered for her.”
He laughed. “Miss Cordelia, you know Miss Wilkinson has wanted the Spinster House from the moment the new Duchess of Benton vacated it. I suspect—and I imagine you do, too—that she had a hand in matching her friends to the duke and marquess so as to open the position for herself.”
Miss Cordelia was looking a bit mulish. “Ask her. You’ll see.”
For one insane moment he was tempted—
Insane, indeed. Miss Wilkinson would either fall over laughing or snap his nose off.
“Yes. Well. Thank you for your opinion. Now I’m sorry, but you must excuse me.” He bowed and tried to stroll, rather than run, to join Marcus and Nate and their wives. He needed that large glass of ale even more now.
“Hallo, Marcus. Good afternoon, Your Grace. Lady Haywood.”
“Oh, please, Lord Evans, call us Cat and Anne,” the duchess said, and then gestured to the tall mug waiting for him. “Sit down. You must be worn to a thread.”
“I am, rather.” He hadn’t realized how tired he was. He lowered himself into the chair and took a long drink.
“Enjoy your chat with Miss Cordelia?” Marcus asked.
Alex choked. Ale threatened to come out his nose.
“Sorry.” Marcus grinned as Alex mopped his face with his handkerchief.
“Does anyone but her sister enjoy talking to Miss Cordelia?” Alex asked once he could speak.
“No.” Nate grinned as well, the dastard. “I will admit that the Boltwoods are one—or I suppose two—reasons I’m happy my estates aren’t near Loves Bridge.”
“But what did she want to discuss?” The duchess leaned toward him. “Jane thought she might be telling you about Mr. Denton.”
“She did mention the fellow, but didn’t go into any detail.” Thank God. “She mostly talked about Miss Wilkinson.” Where was Jane? Alex looked around—oh, there she was, having a word with her brother. “Can you believe the woman thinks I came here to see the Spinster House spinster?”
He laughed—but neither Nate nor Marcus nor their wives looked shocked by the idea. Perhaps they didn’t understand.
“She thought I had a matrimonial interest in Miss Wilkinson.”
Still no shock.
“Which is ridiculous,” he said, a bit sharply.
“Of course it’s ridiculous.”
That was Miss Wilkinson’s voice. He turned to discover her behind him.
“You can be sure I disabused her of the notion.” He stood politely. For some odd reason—perhaps because he’d just been talking to the very short Miss Cordelia—he was struck by Miss Wilkinson’s height. Most women didn’t reach his shoulder, but her head came up to his chin.
It was pleasant not to have to look down so far to converse.
“Good.”
She sounded annoyed.
He must be imagining it. She should be happy he’d set the busybody straight.
“Did you think the puppet show was as successful as a live kangaroo would have been, Miss Wilkinson?” he asked, pulling a chair out for her.
“Oh, yes. You were quite a hit, Lord Evans.”
Definitely annoyed, but why? “I warn you I think Miss Cordelia would like to add me to the regular fair offerings.”
“How nice to know you have a trade to fall back on should you lose your fortune.”
He frowned, unsure how to reply without stirring her ire more.
She must have had a disagreement with her brother. That was why she was so tetchy.
“How long are you staying, Alex?” Nate asked, distracting him.
“I’m leaving for London in the morning.” Which could not come soon enough. He held up his glass to his friends. “You and Nate have inspired me to go shopping on the Marriage Mart.”
The duchess and Lady Haywood were positively scowling at him now.
“I wish you happy hunting, Lord Evans,” Miss Wilkinson said.
At least there was one sensible female at the table. “Thank you, Miss—”
“Lord Evans?”
He looked to his right and saw a man dressed in his brother-in-law’s livery. That could only mean one thing—Diana had had her baby. He hoped Roger had got back in time.
“Do I have a new niece, then?”
“No, milord.”
His gut clenched, and ice flooded his veins. Women did sometimes die in childbirth, even women who’d had many successful deliveries.
“My sister.” He cleared his throat, took a breath, tried to speak calmly. Through the dark fog suddenly pressing round him, he thought he felt Miss Wilkinson’s hand on his arm. “She’s well?”
“Oh, yes, milord. Very well.” The man grinned, clearly oblivious to Alex’s panic. “But it’s not a new niece, ye have. It’s a nephew.”