Page 6 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Last week Lord Warren made a spectacle of himself on Bond Street when he’d ranted to the footman parked across the street over a delay in bringing his carriage around.
The man could have crossed the road and climbed into his phaeton.
But no. He’d opted to stand on the corner and berate a servant over a situation entirely out of their control—namely, the congestions of shoppers and traffic—until onlookers had cleared a path out of sheer pity for the footman.
That kind of man would enjoy railing at Miss Martin.
“You’re correct. If the cat is staying with us, please maintain a hold on his lead. Miss Martin, again, I must ask you to step away from the wheels of the carriage.” Tightening his grip on the reins, Oliver surveyed the area around the horses to ensure there were no other obstacles in their path.
“I’ll take the basket with me. Be a good boy, Gingersnap! Mummy will see you soon.” And with that, Miss Martin melted into the crowd and became no more than wild curls atop a red bobbing dot in the throng. The woman was a menace. Disarmingly beautiful, but a menace nonetheless.
Oliver peered at Althea as the horses moved forward. “I didn’t know you liked cats.”
“I love them. Far more than dogs, although I tolerate them well enough too. Father never let me have a cat, so we shall own several.” She stared adoringly down at the orange lump of fur in her lap, who had rolled to a sitting position.
Back legs sticking straight out, front legs supporting his impressive size into an upright stance as he surveyed the world around him, Gingersnap appeared perfectly content now that they were moving.
“How many cats are you imagining in this scenario?”
“As many as I like.” She sent him a wild grin, full of challenge.
Oliver swallowed roughly. An uncomfortable image formed in his mind of his home entirely overrun with felines. The current tidy order of his life devolving into rooms of shredded priceless tapestries. Cat hair floating in his morning tea. Malodorous stains on furniture and bedding.
Wait. Where did cats relieve themselves? Would the back garden be sufficient?
He had so many questions.
“This would have been so much easier if cats made him sneeze,” Constance grumbled, tiptoeing through wet piles of refuse in the alley behind a tavern.
This particular alley also served as access to the back doors of a butcher shop and a number of other businesses.
Chances were good she’d find the perfect candidate for their plan.
Knowing that didn’t make the search any less disgusting.
Her lip curled in revulsion when something squished under her walking boot.
“No,” she sneered. “His greatness, the Earl of Southwyn, couldn’t muster so much as a sniffle. A sneeze is probably entirely out of the question. Losing control long enough to sneeze would be unthinkably improper.”
She’d lost a beau once—although calling it a loss might be overstating the matter—because he’d spent the entire evening wiping red eyes as a result of the hairpiece she’d made to give her coiffeur more volume.
The hairpiece in question had been a rather ingenious idea she’d had, after noticing how closely her hair matched Gingersnap’s.
It had only taken a month of brushing the cat and collecting fur to create her hair pad.
She and her cousins had laughed until tears ran down their faces when she told them about the incident. Then Caro declared in no uncertain terms that a hair pad made of cat fur was disgusting and made her promise to throw it away.
Since Constance hadn’t promised not to make another, she’d created a larger pad a few months later. The first had been too small anyway.
Had the earl reacted to Gingersnap with watery eyes, or even a gratifying itch, as she’d hoped, Constance would have bought a dog from the local rat catcher.
Althea might prefer a cat, but a dog was much easier to find.
Instead, Southwyn had the nerve to be perfectly healthy, thus eliminating her excuses and forcing Connie to find a cat—the more feral, the better.
A rag shifted to her left and she paused, eyeing it speculatively until the rag opened its eyes, revealing two mirror-shine reflections of yellow, and a tiny mouth full of sharp teeth, open in a silent hiss.
“Hello, my beauty. Would you like to live in a fine house in Mayfair?” The cat spat again but didn’t move away when she crouched to study it.
The poor thing appeared to be nothing more than skin and bones, with patches of dark fur attempting to grow back over sections of bare skin.
Despite the relatively warm day, a near-constant shiver rippled over its gray body.
Given the layer of grime covering the animal, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover it wasn’t gray at all beneath the soot and dirt.
Moving slowly, she reached into her basket and felt around for the oilskin bag she’d filled with food scraps before leaving the house.
Gingersnap vastly preferred a walk on his leash, rather than bouncing along in the basket, and bribes were the easiest way to convince the contrary feline to stay put.
Tearing off a bit of gristly rabbit from last night’s meal, she tossed it toward the kitten.
In a flash, it darted toward the food, gobbling it so quickly, she doubted it even tasted the treat.
“You are hungry, aren’t you, little one?
I can fix that. I can give you all the food your little heart desires.
You just have to annoy an aristocrat into seeing that life with my friend would be intolerable. Do we have a bargain?”
She threw another piece of meat and the cat scooted closer, without another wary look her direction. “You aren’t entirely feral, are you? Pity. Although that does make my job easier.” Carefully, she dropped the next piece of meat near her feet.
“As long as you promise to scratch his furniture, sleep in inconvenient places, and shred at least one pair of stockings, I think you’ll do nicely.” The cat didn’t dart away after eating this last offering, instead sniffing the toes of her boots and hem.
“I’m going to pet you now. Please don’t bite me.” Moving cautiously, she reached out, allowing the animal to sniff her hand. “I realize my fingers smell like your treat. That doesn’t make them edible.”
The cat rubbed its cheek on her fingertips, and she smiled.
“Perhaps this plan of ours will serve us both. You seem eager for human companionship.” Another piece of meat, this one directly from her hand.
No, this cat was not entirely unused to human interaction.
Likely someone had dumped it in the alley.
Such appalling behavior was repugnant, yet all too common.
Not everyone appreciated felines as she did.
She set the basket down, keeping her movements slow and steady. Dumping half of the remaining meat slivers inside, Constance held open the lid for the kitty to see.
“If this feels like a trick, it’s because it is. But I promise, life will be better for you where we’re going.”
It jumped into the basket, began eating, and didn’t look up when Constance closed the top and latched it.
Althea lived a short walk away. Hopefully, the cat would continue to cooperate. As she backed out of the alley and onto the busy street, Constance tried to keep a low prattle of conversation directed toward the animal.
“That’s a good kitty. I promise, nothing bad is going to happen to you. If that nasty earl dares to even glare at you sideways, I will rescue you. We can piss in his boots together before I bring you home with me.”
It was so tiny and trusting, probably due to desperation for a meal. “Gingersnap will have to welcome you if the earl turns into a beast.”
If the earl proved himself to be anything of the sort, she’d dress all in black and burgle the cat from his fancy Mayfair home.
It was unlikely she’d need such drastic measures.
Southwyn had been so patient a few moments before when she’d ambushed him in the park.
Althea knew to look for her, but Lord Stuffy Pants had been taken unawares.
And yet, he’d been polite, even while taken off guard, with Gingersnap’s tail-end in his face.
A plaintive mew rose from the basket. Even as they wove through the crowded street, occasionally jostled by fellow pedestrians, he didn’t claw or throw himself against the walls of the wicker container, despite the lack of treats.
Connie had shoved the oilskin bag with the rest of the meat into her pocket for Althea to bribe him later.
The animal had a lot of changes coming in the next hours and beyond. While she hoped an unexpected pet would ruin Southwyn’s peace, this was also a rescue mission. The kitten must recognize that.
Not that cats were known for being the most reasonable of creatures. But then, neither were earls—otherwise she wouldn’t be doing this.
“Althea told you she didn’t want to marry you, Lord Stuffy Pants.
” The moniker made her smile. All of this coming upset could have been easily avoided.
Instead, he’d chosen to be an aloof, stubborn arse, leaving his fiancée no choice except to find a matchbreaker.
Any consequences befalling him were entirely his fault.