Page 9 of The Devil to Pay

“Yes, yes, never mind that,” Jules said impatiently as they walked the horse back to the stables. “What’s she like?”

“Like?” Briggs said absently, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Briggs! Damn you, tell me what she’s like. Is she a bitter old spinster with a face like a horse?”

Briggs chuckled maliciously. “Reckon as how I might let you discover for yourself.”

Jules glowered at him. “Fine. Have your little joke. See if I care. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow at six.”

“Six?” Jules repeated, horrified. “But it will take us an hour at least to ride over there. In the dark!”

“Yes, which is why I took the liberty of renting a little cottage close by. It’s not much, seeing as how we’re lowly gardeners, but it’s a short walk from the house. Hopefully, living like a less elevated human being, combined with the early hours, not to mention the work, will bring you to your senses in a day or two and we can return to civilisation.”

“We’re certainly not going back to London anytime soon,” Jules retorted. “I suggest you rid yourself of that notion. As for giving up, I’m not so spoiled and indulged as everyone seems to think I am,” he added with dignity.

“So you say, my lord,” Briggs said, apparently much amused. “So you say.”

Jules gave him his most haughty and reproving look and stalked off.

Their new lodging was one of a row of identical cottages, made of heavy brown stone and so tiny Jules had to stamp down a sudden sense of claustrophobia. He was not so spoiled he could not endure a bit of rough living, he scolded himself. Other men lived like this their whole lives. So, he gave the cottage his stamp of approval, though in truth he was somewhat daunted by the rude little dwelling. There was only one bedroom with a tiny window that in daylight looked out upon a wilderness of tangled brambles and bare trees, and the bed sagged in the middle. By the light of a single candle, it was less than welcoming. Briggs was crouched by the fireplace, doing his best to coax the thing to light and filling the room with smoke as he did so.

“There’s a cot bed which I’ll put up downstairs,” Briggs told him cheerfully, holding a sheet of newspaper across the opening to encourage it to draw.

“You seem mighty pleased with yourself,” Jules remarked suspiciously.

“It’ll be warmer down there,” Briggs said, flashing him a grin as the fire finally sparked into life. “And I am enjoying myself. I’ll admit I’m not looking forward to the work. I became a valet to avoid getting my hands dirty, but there’ll be compensations, I reckon.”

Jules narrowed his eyes. “For example?”

“Seeing you get your hands dirty, for one.”

Jules snorted. “I thought as much. Well, just remember, I do it for art. No one will be able to say I don’t take my work seriously.”

“Twaddle,” Briggs replied, shaking his head. “You’re doing it to get back at Miss Davenport, and I tell you now, my lord, you’ll not have an easy time of it. You’ll need to be up early and bright if you’re thinking of getting the better of her.”

Jules decided not to rise to this bait.

“Oh, and there is one more little detail I perhaps ought to apprise your lordship of,” Briggs added, with far too much nonchalance.

“Oh?” Jules looked at his valet with foreboding. He’d had the distinct feeling the man was a deal too smug since his visit to Miss Davenport, like a fellow hiding an ace up his sleeve. “And what might that be?”

“Well, it seemed to me, you need to keep quiet, for like I told you, the moment you open your mouth, we’re sunk.”

“Yes, yes, cut line, Briggs. What have you done?” Jules demanded.

“Well, I told her as how you were my cousin, like you said, but I also told her you, er… needed a bit of looking after, seeing as how you didn’t talk and never had.”

“You did what?” Jules exploded, rounding on him and nearly knocking himself out as he forgot about the low beam in the middle of the room. He yelped, holding a hand to his throbbing temple.

“Well, it seemed best, or she’d think it suspicious,” Briggs went on with a shrug. “So I told her you was kicked in the head by a horse when you was a lad and how you don’t talk.”

“You… you…utter…” Jules growled, unable to find an expletive forceful enough to vent his feelings.

“I’ll put the supper on,” Briggs said hastily, and hurried back down the stairs.

Jules had to wonder at his own sanity as they trudged through the dark to the big house on the hill early the next morning. It was perishing cold, and a fine damp rain glittered in the light of the lamp Briggs carried as they made their way up the steeply rising lane. Though he had grumbled about being served a large bowl of porridge for breakfast, Jules was glad enough of it now as it stuck to his ribs and helped keep the cold from his bones. He was going to be out in this all day, he reflected bitterly, when he might have been tucked up snug in his own bed.