Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Penny relented. “Very well. I promise.”
Chapter Eight
Penny would have no difficulty keeping her promise to her friends. She was never truly alone. Her collection of unusual pets had successfully kept men at bay for a decade. She didn’t see any reason that would change now.
The following afternoon, she was just bringing in Marigold from her browse in the square when the rumble of approaching cart wheels pulled her out of the stables and into the alley.
The cart was drawn by a team of the most massive draft horses Penny had ever seen. A middle-aged couple in simple attire sat on the driver’s box. And standing on the bed of the cart, like the marshal of his own parade, was Gabriel Duke.
The team drew to a halt. He vaulted over the side rail of the cart and landed before her.
“What’s all of this?” she asked.
He gestured to the driver and his companion alighting from the box. “Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Brown.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Penny said, though she wasn’t at all sure why she was making their acquaintance.
Mr. Brown doffed his hat and held it over his heart as he bowed. “’Tis a true honor, Your Ladyship.”
His wife made a deep curtsy. “Never thought to meet with a genuine lady.”
“The Browns own a charming farm in Hertfordshire,” Mr. Duke said. “And they’d be delighted to take the animals off your hands.”
“All of them?”
He grinned. “All of them. Today.”
Penny couldn’t believe it. “How did this happen? How did you meet?”
“It was Hammond who met with them in the market. They’d come into town with a load of . . . What was it, Brown?”
“Parsnips, sir.”
“Parsnips.” Mr. Duke nodded. “Hammond does love a fresh parsnip. Tell Her Ladyship about your farm, Mrs. Brown.”
“It’s a lovely patch of country, milady. Just a smallholding, but it’s ours. Pasture for the horses, and fields of oats, alfalfa, clover.”
“And parsnips,” Penny said.
“Yes, of course. And parsnips.” Mrs. Brown smiled. “There’s even a little pond.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Brown, would you say this little pond of yours would make a good home for an otter?” Mr. Duke asked.
“I daresay it would make the ideal home for an otter, sir.”
“Well, then. How convenient. Did you hear that, Your Ladyship? They can take the otter, too. Go on, then. Box him up.”
Penny narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “I assume Mr. Duke has explained to you that many of these animals require special care?”
Mrs. Brown clasped her hands together. “God never blessed us with children of our own, milady. It would be a true joy to look after the animals. We need creatures to love.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Brown gave Angus a smack on the rump. “I’d wager this old girl is a fine milker.”
“That’s a Highland steer,” Penny said.
“Oh!” The farmer—if indeed he was a farmer—peeked under Angus’s tail. “So he is. Out in Herefordshire—”
Mrs. Brown elbowed her husband. “Hertfordshire.”
“Out in Hertfordshire, we don’t often see this breed.”
Penny could have pointed out that the breeding organs of cattle remained largely the same, regardless. She didn’t bother. Whoever these people were, they were not parsnip farmers from Hertfordshire. They weren’t farmers of any sort.
“Well, then.” Mr. Duke clapped his hands. “Shall we load them all up?”
Just how far did he intend to carry this ruse? Did he think Penny had taken a headfirst tumble off a parsnip wagon?
“By all means,” she said. “And while you do that, I’ll fetch my things.”
“Your things?”
“Yes, of course. With no offense intended to Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I have to see and judge the place for myself.”
“The journey will take two days.” His tone was clipped. “Each way.”
She smiled. “I’ll pack accordingly.”
“Fine. You do that. Mr. and Mrs. Brown will be waiting.”
Before she could take his bluff to the next level, “Mr. Brown” intervened. “Hold a moment, sir. What is this mischief, I ask you? Two days’ journey, in either direction? Inconceivable.”
The man’s amiable country accent had transformed into full-throated Shakespearean declamation, complete with trilled R’s and flourishes of the hand.
The woman purporting to be Mrs. Brown confronted Mr. Duke in a faintly Irish lilt. “We agreed to a onetime engagement, sir. A single afternoon playing the humble farmer and his wife. What’s this about travelin’ to Hertfordshire? We’ve a Drury Lane performance in a few hours. I’m not giving my scheming little understudy a chance at Lady Macbeth.”
“I’ll have you know I make an appearance in the first act, sir!” the farmer bellowed. “I cannot miss the curtain.”
“As if anyone would notice, Harold. You’re naught but scenery.”
Harold puffed his chest. “In the theater, there are no insignificant roles.”
“Oh, to be sure there aren’t. Size doesn’t matter. Keep tellin’ yourself as much.”
Mr. Duke dug in his pocket for money. “Just go, the both of you.”
Penny waited until the actors had gone. “You are unbelievable. And unimaginative, too. A parsnip farm?”