Page 6 of The Devil to Pay

“Don’t what?” Jules demanded testily.

“Don’t cause her trouble to soothe your own ego.”

“Oh, so that’s what you think of me, is it?” Jules admitted himself shocked Pip should say such a thing about him.

Pip sighed, shaking his head. “Perhaps not on purpose, no, but… but you know how you get when faced with a challenge.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pip returned a pitying look but said nothing more. “Her father’s property is on the far side of Goshen Village, on the southern border of the estate. It’s a good hour’s ride from here cross country. Longer if you take the roads.”

“Thank you so much,” Jules said with icy politeness, and took himself off.

Jules glowered down into his pint of ale, the noise of the busy pub doing little to alleviate his mood. He’d ridden off in a towering rage only to realise before he’d gone half a mile that he could hardly present himself at the woman’s front door when they’d never been introduced. Even if they had, she didn’t know him from Adam, she certainly didn’t know he was the author she so enjoyed plaguing. Cross and out of sorts, Jules decided he’d not bother returning to Goshen Court for lunch and would eat at the pub. No doubt Pip would enjoy a respite from his company, he thought bitterly.

Lunch was excellent, a hearty beef stew with plenty of potatoes. An exceptionally good apple pie, and a tangy, crumbly lump of cheddar with some wonderfully dense brown bread followed it. Combined with another pint or two, it went a long way to soothing his ruffled feathers and he was feeling almost mellow as he relaxed back in his chair and let the conversation of his fellow diners wash over him. The name Davenport, therefore, spoken by a man at the table beside his, leapt out at him and made him prick up his ears.

“Wantin’ a gardener, is she?”

“Aye, old Llewellyn finally turned up his toes, and she’s promoted Will Dixey to head gardener. So, she’s looking for another to take his place. Miss Davenport’s got big plans for a rose garden, so as I hear.”

“Oh, aye? She’d do better to find herself a man, rather than bothering about roses. Wants sommat planting in her, I reckon. Might sweeten her temper some.”

There was a deal of ribald laughter at this and, though he felt a twinge of guilt, Jules was not above enjoying their crass words as it was at his nemesis’ expense. He was hardly surprised to discover her workmen thought her ill-tempered.

“Well, there’ll be a bit of interest once she puts the notice up, I reckon, for she’s fair to work for. Pays reasonable, though she don’t suffer fools and God help you if she finds you sittin’ on your arse end.”

“Suffer fools? I should say not. She’s up to all the tricks and then some. Speakin’ of, I’d best be off, or I’ll be in the basket.”

Jules watched the man go, the germ of an idea taking root as the conversation circled his mind. Perhaps it was the ale, which was rather stronger than he’d given it credit for, or perhaps it was just that he had a maggot in his brain regarding Miss Davenport, which meant anything resembling good sense flew out the window.

Either way, he believed his moment had come and Miss Davenport would be sorry she’d ever taken up her pen to criticise him.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Briggs said, with as much offended dignity as any man could muster. “But have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Jules said crossly, allowing Briggs to help him out of his riding coat. “I don’t see why I can’t do it. It can’t be that difficult.”

Briggs regarded him with a look of such stoic endurance, Jules blushed.

“Well, I know I’m only a useless nobleman, but I know one end of a shovel from the other.”

Briggs snorted. “Excuse me for mentioning it, my lord, but with the exception of your writing, which I admit you labour over, and for some studying at university, but you’ve never done a day’s work in your life. Certainly no physical labour.”

“I know it,” Jules replied impatiently. “But I’m fit. I box and fence and ride. It’s not like I spend my days on my arse. Well, not all of them.”

“You cannot pass as a gardener,” Briggs said firmly. “You don’t look like a gardener, you look like a man who's going to be a duke.”

“Well, I can change my clothes! I wasn’t proposing to go in evening blacks, you lunatic.”

“My lord,” Briggs said, with growing impatience. “You could stand stark naked in the street, and everyone would know you’re a nobleman.”

“How?” Jules demanded indignantly.

“I don’t know,” Briggs admitted. “Your profile, for one, a look of being well nourished and clean, but I reckon more the way you carry yourself, as if you own the bloody place and know it.”

“I don’t do that, do I?” Jules asked, horrified by the suggestion.

“I don’t mean it to disparage you,” Briggs said hurriedly. “I perhaps put it too harshly. It’s more an air of supreme confidence, the knowledge that if you speak, everyone listens. Your father has it, and so do you.”