Page 61 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
Whiddon choked back a laugh. “I thought I noticed he was wearing gloves when I came in, last night. That explains it.”
“I hope it eliminates the sticky railings and door latches, too,” she said on a sigh.
“So, Mrs. Prigg eventually noticed you, I presume.”
“Yes, thanks to Hurley. He entered through the other door and saw me right away. He asked me what I wanted, coming downstairs, and the scene changed. They all froze. The cook turned eight shades of red and started to bluster, but I just informed her she was neither honest nor skilled enough to continue working here. She tried to justify herself, and grew angry again, but in the end, she tore off her apron and flung it on the table and stalked off. I sent Eli after her, to be sure she didn’t steal the silver on her way out, but she was gone within the hour.”
“Eli?”
“The hall boy.”
“That stripling?” he scoffed. “Mrs. Prigg could have cold cocked him, had she been of a mind.”
She frowned. “Gabriel, does Eli come from Broadscombe? Like Hurley?”
“Not that I know of. I thought he was a London guttersnipe. Why do you ask?”
She shook her head. “There’s just something about him . . .”
But her frown had sent Gabriel’s thoughts off in another direction. “Hurley isn’t giving you trouble, is he?”
“No. That’s not quite it. It’s more that I’m troubled about him.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Well, for one thing, I’ve had two perfectly good candidates for lady’s maid refuse to come work here when they found he’s still in charge of the house.”
“They knew him by name?”
“Yes. I know servants do gossip, but what sort of reputation must he have fostered? But mainly, I object over his manner here. He’s the house steward. He is paid to see that the house is run smoothly. Clearly, he does nothing toward that end. You might also expect him to look after the staff, but he speaks callously and treats them harshly. All this dereliction of his duty, and yet he remains strangely confident. He is utterly lacking in respect for me or my orders—which, in my mind, translates into a lack of respect for you.”
“Oh, he has no regard for me.” Whiddon lifted a shoulder. “He never has. He respects only my father, who holds all of the power in the family, on the estate and in the village.” He frowned, not liking the idea of her facing off against the man. She was too damned innocent. She had no idea what a man like Hurley might do, if thwarted. “Listen, Charlotte. There are two things that make Hurley a dangerous opponent. First is his ambition. It is boundless. Second is the fact that my father returns his regard.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t like him. Did you know that he sleeps in the guest wing? That parlor furniture that I found above stairs? It was set up in the room next to his. He’s fashioned himself a private sitting room.”
“It’s cheeky,” he admitted. “But honestly, I didn’t know or care. If he makes the mistake to try and switch it back, then you’ll have cause to confront him. But he won’t. He’s not stupid.” He stepped closer to her, wanting her to take heed of his words. “Be careful of him. It would be best if you could find a way to rub along with him.”
The mulish look on her face frustrated him. He had to make her understand. With a sigh of resignation, he began to peel off his coat. “Help me with this, will you?”
“Certainly.” Her eyes had gone wide. “But . . . why?”
“Because I’m going to convince you, one way or another. And it begins with a story.”
She paused in the act of folding his coat over the nearby chair. “Is it a story about you?”
“Well, partly. Yes.”
“That will be a refreshing change.”
He could not deny she had a point, but he wouldn’t be sharing even this much if he did not have one to make, too. “Every summer, in the village at Broadscombe, there is a fishing competition amongst the young lads. It’s unofficial. There is no prize, save for a year’s worth of bragging rights, but they pick a day, and any number of young men go out and spend the day trying to pull in and bring back the largest fish. Hurley won the prize for several years in a row. His father and mine are thick as thieves, and the elder Mr. Hurley is quite the force in the village. Young Hurley always strutted about like a young cock amongst the hens, and he relished his victories.”
Whiddon paused in the act of unbuttoning his waistcoat, recalling the charged atmosphere of those days. “Unfortunately, my brother William and he were about the same age, and they often butted heads. Hurley resented sharing the spotlight with anyone, but especially with William. This particular year, my brother was determined to oust him as winner in the fishing contest.”
“Did he?” She looked fascinated with the story, or perhaps with the sight of his fingers undoing his buttons.
“He did. Hurley got a bull huss nearly three feet long and was assured of the victory, until William returned just before dusk, with a polluck well over three feet. He was named the winner and Hurley was furious. He raged and accused William of cheating. It was ridiculous, of course. Hurley is just an extraordinarily bad loser. He’s just like a banty rooster, all strut and flashy feathers, and he hates to be thwarted. He pushed the issue until a fight broke out between them.” He tossed his waistcoat on the bed and untucked his linen shirt.
Her focus centered squarely on his chest. He hoped to God she couldn’t see the sudden pounding of his heart.
