P.C. drew up her full height, threw back her skinny shoulders. “I am the daughter of the house—I’m everyone’s mistress. You may call me P.C.”
“I’m Pip. This is my papa, and he’s famous.”
“P.C. and I are old friends, Pip.” Grayson looked around again for a stable boy. “Remember, I told you I met her last night.”
“Where’s Barnaby?” Pip asked.
“He’s probably chewing straw and playing with Musgrave Jr.” P.C. eyed Pip, nodding slowly. “Oh, I see, sir. You brought him so the Great would be distracted and more likely to spill his innards to you. You must be careful, though, or Bickle—he’s the Great’s valet—he is always wanting to please the Great, and since the Great is very sad he doesn’t have an heir, Bickle might try to steal him.” She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled, eardrum-shatteringly loud, probably as far as the distant seaweed-strewn North Sea beach.
Pip was amazed. “I want to whistle like that. P.C., can you teach me?”
“Your mouth isn’t big enough yet.” She shot Grayson a disappointed look. “I thought you were an unmarried hero.” She added hopefully, “Or perhaps the little boy is your nephew? Maybe a stray neighbor’s boy?”
Pip said, “My mama lives in heaven. I was little when she moved there.” Pip looked up at the white clouds dotting the blue sky.
“I’m sorry. You’re still so little I can barely see you.”
Barnaby came running around the side of the house. “Lawks, it’s yer ‘eaven-sentness, come after all. Welcome, sir, welcome. Ah, and who is this sweet boy?”
Since Barnaby had already met Pip, Grayson assumed he was talking about his horse. “Good morning, Barnaby. This is Albert. You remember Pip.”
“Beautiful big boy.” He pulled an ancient, wrinkled carrot out of his pocket and gave it to Albert, who nibbled it gracefully out of his hand. Barnaby wiped his hand on his baggy pants. “Hullo to ye, nipper. I knows ye smuggled the bubbly into yer bed when yer pa weren’t looking last night, didn’t ye, nipper?”
Pip cocked his head at his father. “I never thought of that,” he said, and Grayson groaned.
“You’re four and a half years old, Pip.”
“Nearly five, Papa, well, four and a half. Maybe we can have bubbly for my birthday?”
“That was funny for someone with as small a brain as you have,” P.C. said to Pip, and she walked to Albert, patted his nose. To Grayson’s surprise, Albert whinnied softly and nudged P.C.’s shoulder, nearly sending her over backward. She kissed the perfect white star on his nose, then held up her arms. “If you will give the nipper to me, Mr. Straithmore, I will carry him into the house.” She didn’t have to add that it would make him look more manly and heroic not carrying a little boy, but Grayson well understood, and grinned at her. He looked at those skinny little arms, felt the weight of his son, shook his head, and dismounted, Pip pressed against his shoulder. “Barnaby, you’ll take care of Albert?”
“Aye, come along, purty boy, I’ll give ye more carrots from Miz Miranda’s very own garden.” And Barnaby led Albert away, whistling.
P.C. shaded her eyes as she watched him saunter away. “Surely you agree with me, Mr. Straithmore. I can’t very well marry him if he doesn’t learn to speak Queen Victoria’s English, now can I?”
“Probably not,” Grayson said, and then he frowned, staring after Barnaby. He realized Barnaby looked familiar to him. He’d probably seen him in the village. No, that wasn’t it, it was something else.
P.C. nodded. “I will have to see to it. I told my mother you were coming, sir. She wanted to know how I’d met you and I lied, said you’d bought me an ice in the village and thought I was a cute little button. The Great knows you’re coming. I told him. He raised a really thick white eyebrow at me, but didn’t say anything. My grandmama is hovering about the portrait gallery, as usual, talking to Alphonse. My mama’s out pulling up weeds from her garden, one eye on the lookout for the abyss. She said we’re leaving in the morning. She said the Great wouldn’t tell her anything, blast his eyes, because he believed that females were helpless and he was protecting us by sending us to Great-Aunt Clorinda. Mama told him she could shoot better than he could, and he patted her cheek and said he’d shot at least a dozen Frenchies off their horses at Waterloo, and she told him that was all well and good but he couldn’t see beyond his own nose now.
“Mr. Straithmore, in case you don’t remember, I don?
?t want to leave, I really don’t. I was born here.” And she looked at Barnaby’s retreating back.
“I will do my best,” Grayson said.
That earned him a brilliant smile. “Give me your hand, Pip, you don’t want your papa to carry you now, do you? I mean, you’re almost five years old.” Pip immediately pulled away from his father and tucked his hand into hers. “You’ll never be as old as I am, so you can forget it. I’m nearly eight, so that means I’ll be a grown-up long before you.” Grayson noticed P.C. slowed considerably when climbing the deep stone steps beside his small son.
She didn’t look like a ragamuffin this morning, what with the pretty white dress that was a bit on the short side. She had a mop of honey-colored hair, bouncing curls all over her head, threaded through with a silver ribbon. She had amazing blue eyes, nearly the same shade as Sherbrooke blue eyes, nearly the same blue as Barnaby the barn cat’s eyes, and her face was already turning a summer gold. He wondered about her mother. Miranda. Shakespeare’s Miranda?
He saw a huge calico ribboning around her ankles. She dropped Pip’s hand, leaned down, and hefted the cat into her arms. “This is Musgrave Jr.,” she said, and kissed the cat until he yowled and leapt away, tail straight up, hopping like a rabbit back into the house.
And Grayson wondered what he’d gotten himself into. What did P.C. stand for?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grayson eyed the Great—Colonel Lord Josiah Wolffe, Baron Cudlow—from six feet away in an ancient Louis XVth chair that creaked with his weight. He rose slowly when P.C. brought Grayson and Pip into the room. He was still a large man, shoulders squared, not stooped at all.
P.C. opened her mouth to introduce him, but the Great said, “I know who he is, P.C. He’s that nearly noble fellow who writes ghost stories to terrify every adult in England.”