Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Two weeks later

Belhaven House, home of Grayson Sherbrooke

Near Cowpen Dale

Yorkshire, England

A blowy early May Thursday

Grayson's inner clock sounded. He laid down his pen, stood, and stretched. His study was pleasantly warm from the soft glowing embers in the fireplace. He felt good. His hero, Thomas Straithmore, was tip over arse in a den of twisting evil kelpies who, at the moment, had him tied down with magical branches from a rowan tree. How was Thomas to escape the magic rowan branches and save the old man from his brother's curse before he lost his soul? Time was running out fast.

Everything was perfect.

He straightened the pages on his desk, and consigned Thomas Straithmore to the back of his writing brain. Mrs. Elvan would serve luncheon shortly and then it was Pip time. It was cold, but not too cold, so he fancied he and Pip would go riding. If Brady and P.C. magically appeared when luncheon was served, which they many times did, afterward they would all ride together, Brady on Pepper Pot, P.C. astride Ginger, and Pip would be shouting with laughter atop his Welsh pony, Pirate. Grayson paused a moment. Even though four months had passed since Barnaby the former barn cat had been reunited with his father, Lord George, Baron Worsley, and he once again carried the name he'd been born with—Brady—Grayson still felt the familiar leap of excitement at reuniting George with his long-lost son, a son who, P.C. announced, would soon speak perfect English so no one would dare question their future nuptials. The thought of these two children growing up and marrying made his brain cramp.

Brady had turned eleven in January, two and a half years P.C.'s senior, but P.C. was in charge. Grayson wondered how much longer that would last. As for Pip, he didn't care—Pip simply loved life and had not a single doubt everyone loved him. And tonight, he and Pip would dine with the eighth Baron Worsley and Lise Marie, Brady's stepmama, along with Miranda and P.C., at George's newly purchased manor house, now nearly set to rights. Of course the children wanted the manor to have a name, and it had quickly evolved into a contest. King Stuart, George's Golden Cup–winning Arab, was the favorite to date, and surprisingly it was Pip who'd spit out that name, grinning hugely at George—King Stuart House. It did have a ring to it.

Grayson heard Pip racing down the corridor, his nanny, Mary Beth, trotting behind to catch him if he fell, which he never did now since he was a strong little boy, growing like a prize-winning squash in Miranda's garden. Grayson grinned. He could set his watch by Pip.

Grayson's study door burst open, and the most precious little boy in the world raced in. "Papa! Papa! P.C. and Brady are here—not just here to eat Mrs. Elvan's nutty buns, but they have—Big News! But I'm first!"

Grayson laughed, scooped up his son, whirled him around, kissed him soundly. He wondered how much longer this ritual would appeal to his fast-growing son.

"Just what is this Big News?"

Pip pulled back in his father's arms. "P.C. said her grandmama Elaine said he's here for the first time since HE became worthy four months ago when HE was here for his father's funeral, but HE didn't see anyone. ‘He's now worthy, and he's here. And it's about time. I wonder which of our local ladies would suit him?'"

Grayson heard two more sets of children's feet racing pell-mell down the corridor toward his study, Haddock, his butler and valet, laughing, his arms outstretched to nab them, or so everyone pretended. "You'd best talk fast, Pip. Who's here?"

Pip, five years and six something months old, frowned. "P.C. didn't tell me who exactly, Papa, so I don't know his name, but he's here and he's worthy, that's what's important, and he's got to marry, of course."

P.C. said from his doorway, panting only a bit, "You don't know his name, Pip, because your brain's too young and unformed to absorb such facts, even if Grandmama had given them to you, which she hadn't."

Grayson grinned over Pip's head at P.C., the great-granddaughter of Colonel Lord Josiah Wolffe, Baron Cudlow, known as the Great, who'd vowed not to shuck off his mortal coil until his heir announced the imminent arrival of his heir for the barony, but three months, two weeks, and three days after his heir's wedding and still no word of success. The Great declared this show of ineptitude galling.

As for Grayson, he thought a brother or sister for Pip would be quite nice, and he knew who their mother would be. Miranda Wolffe, the Great's granddaughter-in-law. Beautiful Miranda, thankfully a widow of long-standing, who made his heart kick up. She was vital, she brought joy into a room. She filled a long-empty space in his heart and his life. He smiled at Miranda's daughter, who would be the very picture of her mama when she grew up, wondered if she would ever call him Papa when he married her mother.

"Sir! Brady and I are here to tell you he's come! At last. From London, Grandmama told the Great, and she heard he brought someone with him. I don't know who, but I heard Old Suggs whisper mayhap he brought his latest mistress. Old Suggs saw him in Cowpen Dale, said he actually bought a saddle from Mr. Bloor. Imagine, he's an earl and he did it himself. Old Suggs reported he's as handsome as the prize-winning pig Sir Galahad who won at the Stonehaven fair, only he's a lot richer and less edible."

Brady talked right over her. "He ain't—aren't—isn't—a pig, P.C., he's a superior sort, that's what I heard your grandmama call him—a Superior Sort and a handsome boy your mama could probably attach if it weren't for you, sir. And my papa says a man always buys his own saddles or he's a bacon-brain."

Pip said, "Papa already attached Miranda, Brady, and that makes her ours, so this worthy handsome boy can't have her. Let's go meet him today, Papa, all of us, and I'll tell him he must find another lady."

Grayson eyed the children, all three bouncing about with excitement. "You still haven't told me who this worthy paragon is."