sweet time.”
“Beg pardon, my lord. Weather held us up.”
Brigham waved a hand at the trunks. “Bring those in. The stables are around the back, Jem. Settle the horses. Have you eaten?”
Jem, whose family had been with the Langstons for three generations, jumped down nimbly. “Hardly a bite, milord. Wiggins here sets a mad pace.”
Appreciating the truth of it, Brigham grinned up at the driver. “I’m sure there will be something hot in the kitchen. If you would—” He stopped as the coach door swung open and a personage more dignified than any duke stepped out. “Parkins.”
Parkins bowed. “My lord.” Then he studied Brigham’s attire, and his dour face changed. His voice, filled with mortification, quivered. “Oh, my lord.”
Brigham cast a rueful glance at his torn sleeve. Undoubtedly Parkins would be more concerned with the material than with the wound beneath. “As you see, I have need of my trunks. Now, what in blazes are you doing here?”
“You have a need for me, as well, my lord.” Parkins drew himself up. “I knew I was right to come, and there can be no doubt of it. See that the trunks are put in Lord Ashburn’s room immediately.”
Though the cold was seeping through his riding coat, Brigham planted himself. “How did you come?”
“I met the coach yesterday, sir, after you and Mr. MacGregor had taken to horse.” A foot shorter than Brigham, and woefully thin, Parkins pushed his shoulders back. “I will not be sent back to London, my lord, when my duty is here.”
“I don’t need a valet, man. I’m not attending any balls.”
“I served my lord’s father for fifteen years, and my lord for five. I will not be sent back.”
Brigham opened his mouth, then shut it. Loyalty was impossible to argue with. “Oh, come in, damn you. It’s freezing.”
Cloaked in dignity, Parkins ascended the stairs. “I will see to my lord’s unpacking immediately.” He gave a shudder as he studied his master’s attire once more.
“Immediately.
If I could persuade my lord to accompany me, I could have you suitably clad in a trice.”
“Later.” Brigham swung on his greatcoat. “I want to check on the horses.” He strode down the steps, checked, then turned. “Parkins, welcome to Scotland.”
The faintest ghost of a smile touched the thin lips. “Thank you, my lord.”
* * *
Jem the groom seemed well on the way to making himself and the horses at home. Brigham heard his cackling laughter as he pushed aside the wooden door.
“You’re a right one, ain’t you, Master MacGregor? Sure and Lord Ashburn has the best stable in London—England itself, for that matter—and it’s me who’s in charge of them.”
“Then I’ll have you look at my mare, Jem, who’ll be foaling soon.”
“Pleased to have a look at her I’ll be—after I’ve seen to my loves here.”
“Jem.”
“Eh—” He turned and saw Brigham standing in a beam of thin winter light. “Yes, sir, Lord Ashburn. I’ll have everything set to rights in a twinkle.”
Brigham knew that Jem couldn’t be faulted with horses, but he also had a free hand with the bottle and language the MacGregors might not deem proper for their youngest. So he lingered, supervising the settling of his team.
“Fine horses they are, Lord Ashburn.” Malcolm had taken a hand in the grooming. “I can drive very well, you know.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Brigham had stripped off his greatcoat and since his jacket was ruined in any case, he added his weight to the work. “Perhaps we’ll find an afternoon so you can show me?”
“Truly?” There was no quicker way to the boy’s heart. “I don’t think I could handle your coach, but we have a curricle.” He gave a manly sneer. “Though my mother won’t let me drive anything but the pony cart by myself.”
“You’ll be with me, won’t you?” Brigham swatted one of the horses’ flanks. “They seem to be in good shape, Jem. Go have a look at Master MacGregor’s
“Beg pardon, my lord. Weather held us up.”
Brigham waved a hand at the trunks. “Bring those in. The stables are around the back, Jem. Settle the horses. Have you eaten?”
Jem, whose family had been with the Langstons for three generations, jumped down nimbly. “Hardly a bite, milord. Wiggins here sets a mad pace.”
Appreciating the truth of it, Brigham grinned up at the driver. “I’m sure there will be something hot in the kitchen. If you would—” He stopped as the coach door swung open and a personage more dignified than any duke stepped out. “Parkins.”
Parkins bowed. “My lord.” Then he studied Brigham’s attire, and his dour face changed. His voice, filled with mortification, quivered. “Oh, my lord.”
Brigham cast a rueful glance at his torn sleeve. Undoubtedly Parkins would be more concerned with the material than with the wound beneath. “As you see, I have need of my trunks. Now, what in blazes are you doing here?”
“You have a need for me, as well, my lord.” Parkins drew himself up. “I knew I was right to come, and there can be no doubt of it. See that the trunks are put in Lord Ashburn’s room immediately.”
Though the cold was seeping through his riding coat, Brigham planted himself. “How did you come?”
“I met the coach yesterday, sir, after you and Mr. MacGregor had taken to horse.” A foot shorter than Brigham, and woefully thin, Parkins pushed his shoulders back. “I will not be sent back to London, my lord, when my duty is here.”
“I don’t need a valet, man. I’m not attending any balls.”
“I served my lord’s father for fifteen years, and my lord for five. I will not be sent back.”
Brigham opened his mouth, then shut it. Loyalty was impossible to argue with. “Oh, come in, damn you. It’s freezing.”
Cloaked in dignity, Parkins ascended the stairs. “I will see to my lord’s unpacking immediately.” He gave a shudder as he studied his master’s attire once more.
“Immediately.
If I could persuade my lord to accompany me, I could have you suitably clad in a trice.”
“Later.” Brigham swung on his greatcoat. “I want to check on the horses.” He strode down the steps, checked, then turned. “Parkins, welcome to Scotland.”
The faintest ghost of a smile touched the thin lips. “Thank you, my lord.”
* * *
Jem the groom seemed well on the way to making himself and the horses at home. Brigham heard his cackling laughter as he pushed aside the wooden door.
“You’re a right one, ain’t you, Master MacGregor? Sure and Lord Ashburn has the best stable in London—England itself, for that matter—and it’s me who’s in charge of them.”
“Then I’ll have you look at my mare, Jem, who’ll be foaling soon.”
“Pleased to have a look at her I’ll be—after I’ve seen to my loves here.”
“Jem.”
“Eh—” He turned and saw Brigham standing in a beam of thin winter light. “Yes, sir, Lord Ashburn. I’ll have everything set to rights in a twinkle.”
Brigham knew that Jem couldn’t be faulted with horses, but he also had a free hand with the bottle and language the MacGregors might not deem proper for their youngest. So he lingered, supervising the settling of his team.
“Fine horses they are, Lord Ashburn.” Malcolm had taken a hand in the grooming. “I can drive very well, you know.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Brigham had stripped off his greatcoat and since his jacket was ruined in any case, he added his weight to the work. “Perhaps we’ll find an afternoon so you can show me?”
“Truly?” There was no quicker way to the boy’s heart. “I don’t think I could handle your coach, but we have a curricle.” He gave a manly sneer. “Though my mother won’t let me drive anything but the pony cart by myself.”
“You’ll be with me, won’t you?” Brigham swatted one of the horses’ flanks. “They seem to be in good shape, Jem. Go have a look at Master MacGregor’s
Similar Books
