Courting Kit

THE EARL LOOKED up at the sky. He didn’t bother taking out his pocket watch. He could see by the position of the slightly obscured sun that it was past late afternoon. He brought his snowy gray to a complete stop in the middle of the country Post Road.

Here he waited patiently until he caught sight of his new chocolate-brown barouche bringing up the rear. It had been a prize he had won in a game of chance, his only expense that of having the doors painted with the Halloway crest.

He was weary and wished the damned trip was nearly over. As smart as his new barouche was, it was slowing down the pace of the journey to the New Forest. However, he had no choice. He needed this equipage if he was going to escort Miss Kingsley and her duenna to London. He was sure, his uncle would have a fine enough carriage, but it would appear more respectable for him to arrive in his own. Respectability was already wearing thin.

His grandmother had been suspiciously gracious and had immediately accepted his invitation to go ahead to London. She had played all innocent as she made a list of things to do, but no one could play hostess at Halloway House better than she. He smiled to himself. This would be good for her.

Yes, he was certain that she too had received a letter from Mr. Hawkins about his uncle’s will. She was a knowing one, but she had taken the news a bit too in stride. At any rate, it didn’t matter. He was pleased to provide her with a measure of happiness, and she would be happy controlling the social order in his elite London home.

He studied the road ahead with a weary resignation. At least his young four-year-old gelding was getting a much-needed schooling on this long trip. Ah, but it was time he took to his carriage and got the weight off his young

horse.

He waited for his barouche to approach, and then dismounted and unsaddled his horse before tethering him at the boot. “Well done, Prancer … we will be calling it a day soon, and you’ll have a bed of straw, your hay, grain and water. Aye … that is a good man.”

He nodded to his driver and said, “God-awful long trip, but at least the weather has held up, eh, Max?”

Max knew his worth. He had been the earl’s head groom and driver for many years and was both pleased and proud of his position in the earl’s household. He grunted in response.

Luts put his head out the window and said, “He drives like an addle-brained—”

“Uh-uh-uh!” the earl admonished and grinned. “No bickering. I can’t abide it.”

Luts was his valet and had once told him that his job was the envy of every well-known valet in London. “You are, my lord, considered a top sawyer, a Corinthian, the very pink of the ton, and your masculine lines are a joy to dress!”

The earl had raised his brow at him and coughed at the time. However, a rivalry of sorts had been struck up between Max and Luts, one that was usually comical.

The earl entered the barouche and sat back while Luts clucked his tongue and said, “If only you would allow me to introduce a few articles into your wardrobe that are the very height of—”

“No. I am quite pleased with the style of my wardrobe just as it is. I don’t go for the dandy fashions,” the earl said, looking out the window.

“Yes, but with Beau Brummell and you such good friends, I thought you might like to start a fashion all your own?”

The earl smiled. His valet had ambitions. “Beau Brummell would not be caught dead in some of the things you have called the ‘height of fashion.’ The answer is no.”

Luts picked up his brush and began sweeping the road dust off the earl’s coat. His lordship gave him a warning eye but allowed the small man to finish before he returned his attention to the passing scenery.

“It is such a long trip,” Luts complained.

“Ah, I don’t think it is much further.”

“Is it not? Where do we stop today?” his valet inquired cautiously.

“The Red Lion. We shall pull in for the night, enjoy a meal and a tankard of ale, and get a good night’s rest. What say you?”

“Indeed, whatever my lord wishes, so then, do I,” Luts said, his lips primly pursed.

The earl laughed out loud. “Is that true, or do you just wish to placate me? I would much rather you speak your mind, as does Max, more often than not.”

“Max is a groom. He knows nothing of parlor manners. I, on the other hand, am a valet and do know how to behave.”

The earl roared and then said, “I beg your pardon, of course you do.”

He opened the box to Max’s seat above and said, “Max?”

“Aye then, m’lord?”

“We’ll put up at the Red Lion.”