The Earl is Mine (27 page)

And then she’d work as a companion and pray that Monsieur Perot would take her on. She’d go back to her original plan and approach him as a man. It was too dangerous, otherwise.

She found Mr. Dawson in the drawing room, standing at the tea tray and gulping down a cup of tea.

“Come in, Harrow,” he urged her, then poured himself another cup.

She walked briskly past a disapproving footman into the room. She didn’t care anymore about following house rules. She wasn’t hurting anyone talking to Mr. Dawson anyway.

It turned out he wouldn’t let her go alone to Paris, after all.

“I heard about the baby,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t know if it’s Westdale’s or not, but it’s an ugly environment to be in right now here at Thurston Manor. I need to get you out of here. I blame my cousin for this debacle. Shame on her. And shame on her husband.”

Pippa rather thought Lord and Lady Thurston were wicked, too, to purposely create an awkward situation. “Are you sure you’ll still come with me?”

“Of course.” His voice was so reassuring, Pippa nearly choked up. “In fact, I’ve already sent a footman to the stables. They’re readying us a carriage now.” His brow furrowed. “I refuse to ask my cousin for permission or tell her where we’re going. She’s brought this on herself.”

“I’m so grateful for your help, Mr. Dawson. Where are we going first?”

“Let’s talk in the carriage,” he said. “Swallow a cup of tea as fast as you can, and then pack swiftly. We must leave before the others come back.”

“I’ll skip the tea.” She moved to the door, then came back and took a biscuit off a china plate. “But I’ll take one of these, thanks.”

“Snitch them all, why don’t you?” He chuckled. “We might need them.”

“Very well.” She poured them into her hat and trotted to the door again. Her heart felt lighter, now that she was taking action and she had a friend to share her adventure. And blast it all, she was hungry. They had at least several hours’ travel ahead of them.

*   *   *

The first leg of Pippa’s journey to Paris was uneventful. She and Mr. Dawson left ten minutes after their conversation, long before the majority of the guests had come home from the excursion to the folly.

“I designed the thing,” Mr. Dawson said as the carriage rocked back and forth over the bumpy road. They’d long left behind the smooth gravel drive of Thurston Manor.

“The folly?”

“Yes.” He smiled.

Pippa was astonished. “I had no idea you were an architect.”

“Very few people do. I’m the architect who never makes the papers. I labor in a dreary office and lend my expertise and intuition to important men like John Nash.”

“You know John Nash?”

“Very well—Lord and Lady Thurston are acquainted with him through me.”

“But they tried to act as if he’s one of
their
dear friends and that you’re their country cousin of no real consequence—but much beloved, of course.”

“Typical of them. Lady Thurston has always enjoyed being in the limelight. I let her. I couldn’t care less if I am.”

“Were you at Thurston Manor, then, on Nash’s behalf, to evaluate the dog cottage designs?” Pippa asked. “Lady Thurston said he’s planning on helping them choose the winning one.”

“I was.” Mr. Dawson spoke without a great deal of enthusiasm. “I was to send over my recommendation to him. He’ll ultimately choose the winner, but I was to play a small part.”

“That’s hardly a small part,” said Pippa, and then she remembered their conversation about the folly they’d had earlier that day. “Why did you pretend you didn’t know who designed the folly?”

“I quibbled. I
am
a nobody. But I must say I was most impressed with Lord Westdale’s evaluation of the design.”

“Were you?”

“Yes. He was uncannily accurate—he thought that perhaps the designer wasn’t fond of the past. Which is true. I don’t like it.”

“Why is that?” Pippa asked.

He smiled gently. “I was married for thirty years, and my wife died, five years ago, right before I was asked to design the folly.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. So I was in no mood to elevate the past. I’m still not fond of rehashing it. But my cousin insisted I design the folly for Prinny’s visit to Thurston Manor. As much as he is a purveyor of arts and culture, I have very little respect for the Prince Regent. So that mawkishly sentimental pile of stones is actually a testament to my dislike for him—and my dislike of the past. Now, however…”

“What?”

“Now I wish I’d reached beyond my own trifling feelings and built a true monument worthy of the ages. The best artists forget themselves in their work. Whatever they create is for everyone, not to satisfy a petty impulse. Now every time I look at that folly, I’m reminded of my own meanness.”

“You’re not mean,” Pippa insisted. “You’re human.”

“I suppose I am.” Mr. Dawson chuckled.

“What will Lord and Lady Thurston do if you’re not there to help them with the dog cottage sketches?”

Mr. Dawson shrugged. “They’ll have to figure it out for themselves. I know for a fact John Nash won’t be interested in helping them if I’m not involved.”

Pippa’s shoulders sank. “I feel sorry now for the designers.”

Mr. Dawson sighed. “I knew you’d say something like that.”

She bit her lip. “I can’t help thinking of Lord Marbury, of how hard he tried to ingratiate himself with you. He thought you were only a cousin—can you imagine how much more eagerly he’d have worked to win your favor had he known you were John Nash’s colleague?”

“Thank God he didn’t know. I could hardly take another second of his company.”

“But if you thought his design was best, you would have recommended it, correct?”

“Of course. I can separate personal feelings from my business dealings. However, a good architect knows how to get along well with others. He consults with the customer and the contractors.” The carriage gave a hefty bounce then—an unexpected pothole, perhaps—and Dawson paused to reposition himself on the seat. “He stays abreast of trends. A good architect certainly doesn’t work in a vacuum.”

“I wanted Gregory to win that contest, silly as it was,” Pippa confessed. “Perhaps it would have boosted his career to make contact with John Nash. And now … now I’ve ruined his chances and everyone else’s—just so I could pursue
my
dream.”

“If talent is there, it will out, I promise you,” Mr. Dawson assured her. “One lost opportunity doesn’t stop the ambitious. Nor does it stop the creative soul with a passion for his work from continuing to create. What’s the other option? Quitting? Not for the truly dedicated.” He gave a wry smile and fixed her with a direct look. “Missed opportunities weed out the pretenders.”

“You’re certainly blunt,” she said, feeling a bit intimidated.

“I’m merely speaking the truth. Take it, or leave it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked out the window, looking every inch the influential architect and not merely the sweet little man she’d thought him.

Funny how there were different sides to people, how they could change right before your eyes. For now he leaned toward her, his palms on his knees. “Let’s consider your Gregory, for instance,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

“Mr. Dawson.” She shrank back in her seat. “You sound so …
angry
.”

He frowned. “I’m not angry. I’m merely observant. Your precious lover—”

“What?”

He made a wry face. “Let’s be honest, Lady Pippa. The man is a renowned rake. I don’t hold it against you if he had his way with you, but I certainly hold it against
him
. Here he’s gotten a babe on Lady Morgan—”

Pippa caught her breath. What mortifying talk!

“We can’t be sure of that yet,” she said hastily. And it was true. She’d been so willing to believe that he was Walter’s father—as had Gregory, obviously, from that stark look on his face when he first saw the baby—but Eliza had been married for almost a year, and it was perfectly possible that little Walter had been a product of her union with Dougal.

“You’re naïve,” Mr. Dawson said when she explained that reasoning to him. “Westdale has thrown away so many chances. I’ve seen his work in London. He has great potential. And he shows up at my cousin’s to design a dog cottage? It’s a waste of his talent.”

“He had misgivings,” said Pippa. “He only designed the dog cottage because Lady Thurston asked him to—and he wasn’t excited at the prospect. But when he heard John Nash was involved, of course, he grew more interested.”

“As if John Nash would respect the designer of a dog cottage. He wouldn’t, I assure you.” Mr. Dawson’s cheeks were bright red.

“I—I had no idea you disliked Lord Westdale so.” Pippa’s heart was pounding so hard, she was afraid she’d faint. Suddenly, going to Paris with Mr. Dawson was a terrible idea.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Mr. Dawson said with fervent disgust. “He’s a lucky man to have your heart. He’s a lucky man to have his talent. And what do either you or his talent mean to him? Nothing.”

It hurt Pippa to hear him say that. But what if he were right?

“I know you must be tremendously fatigued,” she said in a soothing voice. “You mean well, but you’re frightening me with how savage you’re being toward Lord Westdale. Perhaps you should sleep.”

“No.” A stubborn, closed look came over Mr. Dawson’s face. “There’s no time to sleep. And by the by, if I had a chance to do it all over again, I’d not let John Nash take the leading role in the projects we worked on together—it would be I. Every time I see that folly, I lament that that’s how the world will remember me.”

“The world will remember you as a nice man, Mr. Dawson, who lost his wife and suffered a broken heart. It will remember you as a loyal consultant to John Nash, a position of great honor.” She laid a gentle hand on his knee. “Please, let’s stop at the next inn and get you a draught. You’re not your usual self.”

“I’m fine,” he said, and rubbed his eyes. “I do miss my wife. I miss her dreadfully.” He pulled out a handkerchief and ran his thumb over the worn embroidered initials on its corner. “And to think Lord Westdale would waste his chance for love. The man doesn’t appreciate what he has.”

“You’ve already said that,” she said. “And he appreciates me very much. I’m the one who’s been pushing
him
away.”

“You have? Whatever for? He’s a fine man. Don’t you recognize that?” He looked up from the handkerchief, studying her as if she were very odd, and her nervousness ratcheted up a notch.

He was clearly ill, not malevolent. She could barely keep up anymore with his contradictory statements.

“What did you mean when you said there’s no time to sleep?” she asked him.

He gave a short laugh. “Just what I said. There are sketches to be done. If young Lord Westdale won’t believe in his own talent, I’ll do it for him. I’ll keep you with me until he produces a decent design. I’d be the first to recommend him to Nash if he’d focus on the work and stop dithering.”

“Keep me with you? Aren’t we going to Paris?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve decided to take you to a place no one will know us. What would you rather do, Lady Pippa, cultivate your own dream—or get Westdale going on his? Don’t be selfish.” Suddenly the fanatical light in his eyes dimmed to a sorrowful one. “I sympathize with the lad. I was there one time myself—a genius who lacked confidence. I never evolved.” His eyes blazed once again. “But
he
could. He simply needs help.”

“But you just said if he really wanted to succeed, he’d follow through of his own volition.” Pippa sat ramrod straight, fear gripping at her every fiber. “And now you’re going to force the issue by kidnapping me?”

Mr. Dawson waved a hand. “That’s just talk. You know I’m not absconding with you. You wanted to leave Thurston Manor anyway. I’m only borrowing you to light a fire under Lord Westdale—and I’m also protecting you from him.”

“You’re doing a lot of things.” Her voice shook. “And none of them are in the least bit your business.”

But he didn’t look concerned one iota.

She prayed someone would notice they were gone. What about the driver? He couldn’t have been aware of Mr. Dawson’s state of mind when they’d left Thurston Manor.

If she could only get to him.

She intentionally yawned. “Are we stopping soon?”

“No.” Mr. Dawson shoved her hat at her. “Eat these biscuits if you’re hungry. I told you to drink tea but you wouldn’t.” He pulled out a flask. “Here’s some water if you need it. We won’t be stopping all night. I paid the coachman to keep driving. The carriage has lanterns.”

“Where are we going?”

“I can’t tell you that. But the farther we are from Thurston Manor, the better.”

Pippa felt the blood drain from her face.

“But you needn’t worry,” he continued. “It’s a cozy space—a folly I designed with an underground room. We’ll be safe there.” She was amazed at his totally unconcerned air, his ability to speak of their situation as though he were discussing plans for a picnic.

Her jaw clenched. “Please don’t make me go into an underground room.”

“There will be a candle. And a few blankets. I won’t leave you there long,” he said. “I’ll write Lord Westdale and tell him he can have you back when he draws something spectacular.” He slapped the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other, squeezing tightly. “And I do mean spectacular. I won’t accept anything but the best.”

“You’re not staying?”

“Of course not. How am I to mail my note to Westdale if I’m locked in a room with you?”

Pippa stifled a cry.
“Locked?”

Mr. Dawson shook his head. “I thought you loved him. You shouldn’t be complaining so much.”

“Surely you don’t want to hurt me, do you?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Of course not.” For a second, the Mr. Dawson she knew and loved gazed back at her.

“Then, please,” she said, “let’s find another way.” Tears stung her lids.

“There is no other way,” he replied gently. “Today’s fiasco proved that. Lord Westdale needs a good comeuppance.
That
will shake him out of his lethargy, Lady Pippa. Take heart.”