“In everything, my lord. I’ve aspirations, you see, of rising to butler one day.”
“My butler?”
“If you’re lucky.” Bernard grinned. “And I intend to understand every cog of the moving household.”
“Including valet.” Another grin as he laid the bundle of clothing on the end of the bed. “Very well. If I have need of you, I’ll let you know.”
“Excellent.” Bernard snapped his heels together and bowed low before leaving the room.
Drew turned to the window. A wide lawn spread out as far as he could see, giving way near the horizon to tall grass, brown, bending in the wind. The rain was nothing but a light drizzle now, and he threw the window open, inhaled deeply.
What was he doing here? It had all seemed so simple, so right, when he’d set off from Manchester—head north, find answers.
Only he hadn’t found the answers he wanted. The frigid wind whipped inside and curled round him like a frozen shawl.
He slammed the window closed. His stomach growled. And somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. He couldn’t stay holed up in this room until the weather permitted him to leave. He’d leave tomorrow. Take a horse and have his trunk sent after him later. Put as many miles between him and Mrs. Dart as possible.
But he was famished. He’d eaten little on the journey, preferring to make haste. Perhaps that’s why he’d kissed her. He’d been half wild with hunger.
His stomach grumbled again.
He shouldn’t accept her dinner invitation. He should remain in this room and request a tray sent up. Leave early in the morning on horseback, and?—
What a cowardly waste of time that would be. Mrs. Dart had not yet decided whether to take the position offered to her by Tidsdale. Drew must use his time wisely and do what he could this evening to convince her to reject his proposition.
He dressed quickly but carefully. The footman’s best didn’t fit him quite as well as he’d have liked. Too big in most places, but better than too small. Too small could not be controlled half so well as too big. Too big could be folded and tucked and hidden, but too small… that controlled you, constricted movement, and revealed too much skin. He was a far cry, though, from the courting beau who had viewed himself in the Manchester looking glass, who’d been on his way to wooing a woman he could barely remember meeting, a woman who would easily facilitate his expansion plans.
All hope was not lost. He could salvage it.
Drew smoothed his hair away from his forehead and found his way downstairs precisely half an hour later. His bare fingers twitched as he followed the sounds of cutlery on china. Gloves ruined by the rain, he had nothing to hide his hands. Outside the dining room door, he held them up and turned them over. Palms and knuckles. His father used to say a man’s hands revealed his worth. He’d meant whether or not the skin there held paint or the nicked markings of an artisan.
Artists had held value for his father. No one else quite lived up.
Drew shook out his hands, flicking the tingle of emotions running up his bones away and straightening his cravat. Then he entered the dining room. The chatter stopped, and all heads turned his way.
Mrs. Dart stood, her chair screeching across the floor behind her. “Lord Andrew. You’ve decided to join us. Please do sit.”
He sat at the opposite end of the short table from her. Between them sat the young lady he’d sent with Mrs. Dart.
Miss Angleton stared at him as if he wore a woman’s bonnet. “Mrs. Dart had said you’d come. Why?”
He didn’t remember her being so direct.
Bernard appeared behind him and filled a glass with ruby-red wine.
Drew took a sip before answering. “I had questions only Mrs. Dart could provide answers to.”
Miss Angleton’s face fell. “Oh. Nothing more?”
“No.”
“Nothing more salacious, perhaps?”
“No!” he and Mrs. Dart said simultaneously.
Miss Angleton sighed. “Pity. We all have a bet going, you know.”
“I do not know,” Mrs. Dart said, indignation slinging her voice across the table.
