Page 2 of A Gentleman of Dubious Reputation (The Lord Julian Mysteries #2)

Chapter Two

I had learned a few lessons at the Makepeace house party.

First, country air was good for me, provided I protected my eyes from bright sunshine.

Second, country air was good for Atlas, who tolerated Town well enough, but as an old campaigner, he preferred grass to hay and a good gallop across open country to a sedate hack in the park.

Third, I could endure a lot of annoyance provided I could periodically withdraw to privacy in even minimally commodious quarters. My old rooms at Caldicott Hall fit that definition, but I preferred a guest apartment to a bedroom in the family wing. The staff would report my comings and goings to His Rubbishing Grace, but I knew the Hall’s every closet and coal chute.

I had eluded Napoleon’s best spies and keenest lookouts. I could limit Arthur’s surveillance of my activities, provided I kept myself as far as possible from the ducal quarters.

I’d had my effects taken to the Azure Suite. A parade of footmen filled a capacious bronze tub, and when they departed, I locked the door and sank gratefully into the water. No former soldier took cleanliness for granted, any more than he took warmth, a functional hat, or fresh water for granted. I scrubbed my hair clean—my no longer exclusively white hair—and lay back amid lavender-scented bubbles.

Above me, the ceiling fresco presented a blue sky, puffy white clouds, and soaring larks. The carpet and curtains repeated the blue-and-white theme with dashes of soothing forest green. I fell asleep pondering Arthur’s real reason for summoning me.

When I awoke, the water was cool, my fingertips were wrinkled, and somebody was tapping on the door.

“Best get dressed, my lord,” Cheadle said. “A coach is coming up the drive, and I suspect Lady Ophelia is soon to arrive.”

“‘Boots and Saddles.’” I cursed quietly in French as I rose, then switched to English as I toweled off. I’d left Ophelia in Kent less than a week before and had not expected her in Sussex for a fortnight at least.

By then, I might have been on my way back to London, doing my best impersonation of a ship in the night.

My godmother was a force of nature capable of decimating even Arthur’s monumental self-possession. She could reduce me to blithering profanity without so much as raising her voice, then chide me for my loss of composure.

As a youth, I’d regarded her as something between an ally and an embarrassment, and as an adult, my affection for her was liberally laced with caution. Ophelia was devious and shrewd, for all she played the part of the scatterbrained, aging flirt.

“You come home,” Arthur said when I presented myself, groomed and polished, in the family parlor, “and women tool up the drive.”

“ I tool up the drive at your invitation,” I retorted, pouring myself a glass of lemonade from the offerings on the sideboard, “and mine host comports himself like a dowager who has misplaced her lorgnette and her ear trumpet. Why weren’t you in Town this spring, Your Grace?”

“Why would I be? London during the Season is distasteful. Smithfield Market with the livestock in ballgowns and top hats.”

Arthur would never be so gauche as to help himself to a drink before his guests had arrived. But then, he’d never known the pounding agony of dehydration, or the temptation to beg his captors for even a sip of water.

He was too well mannered to take a seat while he awaited his callers, but he’d also never been so exhausted he’d fallen off his horse and needed assistance to rise.

I settled on the sofa, lemonade in hand. “Is this why His Grace of Devonshire spends so much time traveling? He doesn’t want to be auctioned off like a prize bull?”

Arthur winced. “When did you become so vulgar, Julian?”

“You’re the fellow who brought up livestock.”

Cheadle stepped through the open door. “Your Grace, my lord, Lady Ophelia Oliphant and Miss Hyperia West.”

I was on my feet in an instant, both pleased and surprised that Hyperia had made the trek to Sussex with Ophelia.

“Lollygagging, Julian?” Ophelia said, swanning up to me and presenting her cheek for me to kiss. “Your Grace, don’t look so dour. I’m here to help.”

“Miss West.” I bowed to Hyperia, who looked a bit fatigued, but as dear as ever. “You’ve come to help, too, I hope?”

“Help with what?” Arthur asked, bowing over Hyperia’s hand, before she could answer.

“I’ve come to offer aid and wisdom regarding whatever situation required Julian to hare off hotfoot from a perfectly lovely house party.” Ophelia and exaggeration were old and dear friends.

“Shall I order tea or something more substantial?” Arthur asked.

“No need.” Ophelia beamed at him and settled into a wing chair. “I instructed Cheadle to rouse the kitchen. I’m famished, and this delightful creature”—she nodded at Hyperia—“is too polite to admit she’s hungry as well. What seems to be the problem?”

Arthur muttered something about a surfeit of uninvited females, while I handed Hyperia onto the sofa and took the place a decorous foot from her. This was a ridiculous display of punctilio. We’d all but grown up together, been nearly engaged, and were honestly friends. Hyperia knew many of my secrets, and I hoped I was in her confidence as well.

“Waltham missed me,” I said as a footman rolled in a trebuchet of a tea trolley. He fired off libation, biscuits, sandwiches, and cakes at the assemblage, all of which Arthur declined and Ophelia nearly inhaled.

“If His Grace missed you,” she said around a mouthful of cheese tart, “he might have called on you in Town in recent months. He might have called on me, but no, of course not. They’re starting to refer to our Arthur as His Grace of Wallflowers.”

Nobody, with the exception of honored family or very close friends, ever referred to a duke by his first name. Nobody except Ophelia, who probably addressed Wellington as “Artie, my boy.”

“Maybe I missed my brother,” I said, rising to refill my glass of lemonade, “and being an obliging sort, His Grace invited me home for a repairing lease. House parties can be taxing.” Particularly when an uninvited guest has been dragged to the gathering by his supposedly loving godmother.

“It’s that Valmond woman, isn’t it?” Lady Ophelia said, narrowing her gaze on Arthur. “She’s plaguing you, so you summoned Julian to distract her. A ducal heir will do nicely when the duke himself can’t be led to the altar. Clarissa is pragmatic, we must give her that.”

Arthur shot me a look that was equal parts vexation and bewilderment: How did Ophelia know these things?

Ladies were great ones for keeping up their correspondence. When it came to social epistles, they were more conscientious than any senior clerk in the City or peer in Mayfair. My sisters doubtless traded dispatches with Ophelia, and her staff and the staff at Caldicott Hall were chummy.

“I’ll thank you not to spy on me or my family,” Arthur said mildly. “More tea?”

“I am family, you daft boy.” Lady Ophelia passed over her cup. “Your own dear mama asked me to have a look in on you two, and so I came posthaste. She’s fine, by the way, but considering a remove from Lyme Regis to Bath.”

Hyperia had been quietly demolishing a good portion of beef and brie sandwiches and was on her second cup of tea. I understood why Ophelia was on hand. The fireworks at the Makepeace house party were over, and Ophelia had come in search of fresh entertainment.

Why had Hyperia tagged along?

“I like Lady Clarissa,” Hyperia said. “She doesn’t put on airs, and she’s all but raised her younger siblings.”

“She puts on airs,” Lady Ophelia said darkly.

“Not the sort of airs that stir unkind gossip in the ladies’ retiring room,” Hyperia countered. “Not the sort of airs that result in hurt feelings and ruined reputations. She’s beautiful, her papa is an earl, and she hasn’t settled for the first fop to fawn over her fortune. I commend her for that.”

Before I’d gone to war, I’d regarded Hyperia as suitable wife material—pretty enough, though hardly gorgeous. Practical, unaffected, nice . We’d rub along when I eventually capitulated to fate and spoke my vows.

What an ass. What asses most wealthy, titled bachelors likely were.

My former intended had perfected the art of hiding her light under various bushel baskets. Hyperia dressed almost plainly. She danced adequately. She played the pianoforte competently and carried the alto line well in any duet.

Hyperia West was also blazingly intelligent, subtly stunning, and ferociously loyal. I was inordinately glad to see her. Missing a dear friend was a fine, normal emotion. One I’d not felt since returning from France.

I’d missed nobody and nothing for months, except a decent night’s sleep, my appetite, and my manly humors.

“You must come with me,” I said to Hyperia, “when I call on Lady Clarissa. Viscount Reardon is in the final throes of preparing for his first major London exhibition, and I have been invited to preview his offerings.”

“He’s quite good.” Hyperia poured herself a third cup of tea. “A very talented artist. He aspires to study in Rome. Didn’t he do a portrait of you, Your Grace?”

Arthur passed her the sugar bowl. “I seem to recall standing about looking ducal for a few afternoons last year. The result must be around here somewhere.”

“Perhaps Lord Reardon should do a portrait of you, Lady Ophelia,” Hyperia said. “He’s quick, and a commission from you would lend him cachet.”

If Ophelia sat to Reardon while he yet bided in the shires, that would keep Ophelia underfoot at Caldicott Hall.

Though it might also keep Hyperia underfoot, and I liked that notion quite well.

“You should consider it.” I rose to take my glass to the sideboard, and because I needed to move.

“Have we any portraits of you since you were breeched, my lord?” Ophelia retorted.

“We do not,” Arthur chimed in. “Julian was too eager to go up to university. He refused to sit for a coming-of-age portrait, and then he thought it bad luck to sit for a going-off-to-war portrait.”

“And,” I said, “I refuse to sit for a wearing-odd-spectacles and prematurely-going-gray portrait.”

“Your spectacles are merely tinted.” Ophelia had moved on to the jam tarts. “Your hair turned white, not gray. There is a difference, as you’d know if you weren’t little better than a stripling.”

I was approaching my thirtieth year. I did not know Ophelia’s age. She was tallish, slender, and holding her ground in the battle against time. Hyperia, by contrast, was of medium height and had unremarkable brown hair and unfashionably abundant curves.

Ophelia dressed in pale silks and pastel muslins, accented with an assortment of jewelry, often even in the daylight. Hyperia had set aside the virginal palette for rich hues of burgundy, brown, and blue. She wore the colors not of the schoolgirl, but of the lady who knew her own preferences.

“I must have a bath,” Ophelia said, rising. “Hyperia will want one too. What time is supper?”

The interrogation was apparently over for the nonce.

“Country hours,” Arthur said. “Supper is usually at six, though I’ve asked to have the meal moved back an hour in the event you ladies are inclined to nap. We do not dress for family supper except on Sundays.”

“Splendid,” Ophelia said. “Seven it is. I assume I’m in the Peacock Suite as usual? Where have you put Hyperia?”

Arthur rose and tugged the bell-pull. “Miss West will be in the Emerald Suite. Julian, perhaps you’d escort Miss West to the guest wing?”

“I’d be happy to.”

Arthur deputed a footman to escort Ophelia from the family parlor, and thus I found myself arm in arm with Hyperia and standing in the doorway of the suite right next to my own.

Hyperia joined me in the rose garden, which was still making an effort, though past its peak. The gardeners were assiduous about removing any spent blooms, and that annoyed me. Blown roses had a beauty of their own and, in my opinion, ought to be left in peace to fade among friends and scatter their petals upon the good earth.

“Getting Miss Cleary situated was the work of a moment for Ophelia,” Hyperia said, referring to a guest at the Makepeace house party who’d been in need of a change of scene. “Ophelia declared that she was bored. I suspect she’s worried.”

We ambled along a crushed-shell walkway between fragrant beds. My mother appreciated the scent of roses as much as their visual appeal, and thus the garden had a fair sampling of damasks. The requisite fountain several yards off—Cupid and Psyche reconciled—added the music of splashing water to the late afternoon warmth.

I wore my blue spectacles, but the closer the sun sank to the horizon, the less I’d need them. “What could Lady Ophelia possibly be worried about?” Besides me, of course.

“Your brother. Waltham has been least in sight during the Season for the past three years.”

We ambled along side by side, while I examined my own anxiety where Arthur was concerned.

“For some of that time, he was mourning Harry.” We knew not where Harry was buried, but Arthur had insisted on proper mourning rituals.

“And His Grace was mourning you, too, Julian, or preparing to. Let’s look in on Atlas, shall we?”

Hyperia had guessed my intended destination. On reconnaissance and on the battlefield, my life had often depended on the courage, stamina, and gallantry of my mount. A gentleman did not neglect his cattle. A military scout took the welfare of his horses as a sacred trust.

“Waltham has become something of a recluse,” Hyperia said. “You thought he was leaving you in peace in London, but that doesn’t explain why he’s all but dropped from sight socially. He’ll take supper with the neighbors occasionally—he’ll accept Osgood Banter’s invitations without fail—but he doesn’t entertain much himself.”

“I haven’t badgered my brother to share his calendar in recent years. What do you mean?” I’d been too busy badgering the French and then recovering from their kind hospitality.

“Waltham never goes north for the shooting,” Hyperia said. “He refuses all house-party invitations.”

“Wise man.”

“He sits out the Season even if he votes his seat. The press of business and prior engagements prevent him from accepting any invitations. I’m told he doesn’t even frequent his clubs much.”

The stable sat on the other side of a copse of maples, just east of the garden. The whole was a two-story U-shaped structure that included grooms’ quarters, carriage bays, a mares’ wing, hay mows, harness and saddle rooms, and an assortment of loose boxes with adjoining runs.

A massive field maple held pride of place in the center of the stable yard. The tree was less than forty feet tall, but at nearly two hundred years old, it was full and sturdy. In autumn, the foliage turned to such a vibrant yellow that the whole yard seemed aglow, as if illuminated by a giant bouquet of daffodils.

I’d spent many a boyhood afternoon on the benches situated at the base of the tree, listening to the grooms gossip and swap stories while cleaning harness.

“What is it?” Hyperia came to a halt beside me. “We can call on Atlas another time.”

“Ghosts.” The ghosts of Harry and my father, the ghost of me before my memory had become problematic. They all haunted this peaceful, pretty stable yard. Pots of red salvia sat at regular intervals along the gray stone facade. A cat dozed in the shade cast by one of the water troughs. Horses lipped hay and regarded Hyperia and me over half doors as we approached one of the three entrances opening onto the yard.

“Happy ghosts?” Hyperia said. “Sad ghosts? Restless ghosts?”

“Dead ghosts, so a little sad, but they were happy in life, so let’s not dwell on them. Tell me more about His Grace’s situation.”

“Not much to tell. Ophelia fears he’s melancholic, but he never appears sad. Serious, reserved, preoccupied. Many weighty adjectives, but not sad.”

Melancholia often marched alongside the common soldier and his superior officers. “The low spirits aren’t always obvious. One of the most cheerful men I knew took his own life.” An Irishman who’d seen his three brothers killed in battle on the same day. We’d buried him with full honors, and bedamned to what the churchmen thought of that. “My brother takes his ducal responsibilities seriously.”

A vast understatement that I meant as a defense of Arthur’s social deficits.

“Waltham takes everything seriously. Have you ever heard him laugh, Jules?”

I had not. Not even when we were children. “We can’t all be like Lady Ophelia, flitting from one lark to the next.” And yet, Ophelia had buried two husbands and two half-grown children. Was her determined good cheer simply melancholia stood on its head?

“She’s worried, Jules. I suspect you are too. The Duke of Wallflowers is not a kind nickname. For a time, there were bets placed about his matrimonial prospects, but even those have stopped. He will soon be regarded as an eccentric, and that’s never a good thing.”

We ambled into the barn, greeted by the predictable scents of horse and hay. I took off my glasses and looked about for Atlas.

“I am the family eccentric, thank you very much. Waltham is the family duke. We are quite clear on that. Where is my horse?”

“He’s here somewhere,” Hyperia said, stroking the velvety nose of Arthur’s black gelding. “Greetings, Beowulf.” She produced a carrot from a pocket and fed Bey half of it. “Shall we call on Lady Clarissa tomorrow?”

“I’m torn between ‘best get it over with’ and ‘next year would suit.’ Clarissa is up to something.”

“Because she calls at Caldicott Hall where not one but two socially reticent titled bachelors can be found? Whatever could her motive be?” Hyperia held up a finger. “I have it—she’s trying to be a decent neighbor! How devious of her. Surely, we must suspect her of nefarious motives.”

“Cut line, Perry.”

“I have a point, Jules. If Clarissa had been Vicar or Squire Huber come to swill tea and have a look at you, you would think nothing of it.”

“Huber would be calling to gloat over my reduced state.” He’d been the local justice of the peace for a time in my boyhood, and a more vindictive, pompous excuse for a magistrate had never befouled the English countryside. Harry had picked a few berries from a hedge, and Huber had tried to charge him with theft. The neighbor who owned the hedge had refused to testify against a hungry boy, and the matter had gone nowhere.

Of course, that boy had been the ducal spare and the neighbor nobody’s fool.

“Huber’s a twit,” Hyperia said. “A lot of former officers become twits. Don’t you be one. We will call on Lady Clarissa tomorrow and learn what the neighbors think of the local duke. Your father was generally well liked, but your brother hasn’t earned such a warm reception.”

“Arthur inherited at too young an age. He’s been preoccupied seeing our sisters settled, and his brothers haven’t exactly made his life easier. There’s an end to it.”

“Oh, right, by decree of Lord Julian, subject closed. Behold, your horse,” Hyperia said, leaning on an open half door. “Jules, you rode him to flinders.”

Atlas lay flat out in the straw of a roomy loose box, a posture a horse adopted only when sleeping deeply. He was covered in dust and breathing in a slow, deep rhythm.

“Somebody let him have a roll,” I said, mildly disturbed to observe my noble steed so done in that he’d surrender all dignity within the confines of a stall. “He’ll spend the night at grass and be fit for duty in the morning.”

“Good. We’ll ride over to Valmond House and then call at the vicarage. Stop for a pint and a pie at midday at the inn and have a nose around the village shops before returning to the Hall.”

I was being managed by a commanding officer with a fine grasp of strategy. “You know I will oblige you because I’d rather not spend my morning dealing with Lady Ophelia.” Then too, a call on the vicar and some excellent ale would be no imposition. “I will get even, Perry.”

She patted my arm. “I’m counting on it. Until supper, my lord.”

She swanned off, leaving me to regard her departing form with some puzzlement.

I was not keen on being touched. The French had handled me rather more than I preferred and in ways intended to convey pain and disrespect. Hyperia knew this, and yet, she also knew that with her I managed the usual courtesies comfortably.

A stroll arm in arm, a hand to hold when rising from a chair, a hug from my friend in parting or greeting.

That pat on my arm had been our sole contact for the day. Was she respecting my bodily privacy or being coy? If so, coy for what purpose?

I watched Atlas’s slow breathing and pondered the possibilities while dust motes danced on the afternoon sunbeams slanting across his stall.

“You might as well show yourself,” I said after a full minute of silence. “I know you’re up there, and eavesdropping is an offense that should cost even a trusted retainer his post.”

“How’d ya know?” A slight boy of modest height dropped from the rafters as nimbly as a sparrow lit upon a breadcrumb. He was dusty, skinny, and grinning like a pirate newly arrived to his home port.

“Every time you move,” I replied, “you disturb a raft of dust, and that dust wafts about, shouting of your presence. First rule of rural survival: If you seek refuge in a barn, keep still. The swallows, the cats, the horses, the dust, the hay and straw, the very dirt in the aisles… They all betray your presence should you so much as take a deep breath. What are you doing here, Atticus?”

The boy had no last name and little shame. I’d taken him into my employ at the Makepeace house party, with the understanding that he’d not change billets until the gathering disbanded. On Lady Longacre’s staff, Atticus had been growing up illiterate, underfed, and without anything approaching a trade. My sensibilities had been offended by the waste of a bright young fellow eager to get on in the world.

My sensibilities were offended by the same fellow’s unkempt appearance and complete lack of remorse for disobeying orders.

“Lady Ophelia said we shouldn’t let you go off all on your own, what with you being dicked in the nob and all, and I was done at Makepeace, and everybody knew it. Canny sends greetings, and so does Miss Maybelle and Mr. Banter. I ain’t never been to a duke’s house before.”

I used the handiest weapon of every governess, drill sergeant, and disaffected spouse in the realm and treated Atticus to a hard, silent stare.

“Wot?”

“You might well never see the inside of Caldicott Hall, young man. I gave you a direct order: Remain at Makepeace until Lady Longacre has wished her guests farewell. If you can’t follow orders under calm conditions, how can I ever rely on you in battle?”

Atticus eyed me back steadily, offering a silent reproach of his own: I’d relied on him at Makepeace, and he’d not failed me.

“If Lady Ophelia was invitin’ herself to trail you,” Atticus said, chin coming up, “then I figgered you’d want me trailing her.”

That defiant little chin yielded an insight. “You figgered ,” I said, exaggerating his informal diction, “if you showed up here at Caldicott Hall, then I’d have a harder time changing my mind about hiring you. I do not go back on my word, Atticus.”

He scrubbed dirty hands over his dirty face. “Not sayin’ you would, but you might forgetlike. You forget a lot. Said so yourself.”

Atlas stirred, legs twitching. He lifted his head and assumed that “nestled in the straw” posture of all oxen assigned to nativity scenes.

“You woke the baby,” Atticus said, peering over the half door. “Halloo, Atlas.”

Atlas stood, shook like a wet dog, and came over to the door. Atticus, to my surprise, produced a lump of carrot.

“I do forget a lot,” I said, yielding a fair point. “But not often. When my bouts are upon me, Atticus, I won’t know my own name, much less what employment arrangements I’ve made with various retainers. I forget what country I’m in, what day of the week it is, and where I live.”

“You forget everything?”

I’d never considered that particular question. I took my turn feeding Atlas a treat. “Not everything. I know the difference between French and English when I’m non compos memoria . I know I am male. I can ride a horse easily enough, add figures, and mind my manners. But much else is temporarily lost.”

“So you’d forget me?”

Touché. “I have forgotten who Miss West is, and I’ve known her for ages, though even in the throes of my befuddlement, I know instinctively that I can trust her.”

“You should add something to the card in your pocket.”

Clearly, while I was afflicted with a faulty memory, this boy had a mind that hoarded up every detail. A fine quality in a reconnaissance officer, but sad to see in a young child.

“I’m listening.” All the card in my pocket said was that I was given to temporary bouts of forgetting, along with a few other and further particulars intended to get me safely home.

“Add a line about ‘Atticus works for you, and you can trust him too.’”

This was why I’d taken the boy into my employ. He’d been going entirely to waste polishing boots and cadging meat pies belowstairs. He was not only smart, he was canny .

“I will consider your suggestion. You will consider my warning: You disobey direct orders at your peril, Atticus.”

“Did you ever disobey direct orders?” He’d put an element of na?ve curiosity into his question, which was clearly intended to distract me from my displeasure with him.

“Yes. I followed my brother Harry out of camp in the dead of night—that’s about five standing orders violated right there—because I thought I knew better than those silly old generals.” I began to pace, rather than grab the boy by his worn shirt.

“Harry died in French hands,” I went on, “I nearly died because I had the hubris to think I could free him. My stupidity has seen me labeled a traitor, because somebody let those nasty old Frenchmen know where to ambush an advance party of British infantry. A man who will disobey orders will likely betray his country, too, of course. But please, don’t obey orders just on my say so. Consult your own vast stores of experience and make whatever decision suits your taste at the moment.”

More than I usually admitted to anybody about my misadventures in France, and my diatribe was meant as a warning rather than a scold.

My horse, having exhausted the available supply of treats, ambled out of his stall into the adjoining run.

“Why is Lady Ophelia here?” I asked when Atticus merely regarded me with puzzlement.

“Don’t know. She were twitchy as a skinny cat to get on the road, though. Your duke was invited to that house party.”

“Many invitations are sent to ranking peers as a courtesy. In the same spirit of good manners, the peer declines the invitation.”

“Waste of paper and ink. Lady Ophelia says the duke ought to marry.”

God have mercy. If Ophelia’s mission was matchmaking—again, some more—then there’d be no peace at Caldicott Hall until she was evicted, or until Arthur was ensnared in parson’s mousetrap.

“You have an assignment,” I said, heading for the nearest exit. “To the extent you can, you are to keep a discreet eye on His Grace, especially if eligible ladies are underfoot.”

“The duke is frisky?” No judgment colored that question, nor did much curiosity.

“No, but my brother is a duke . Young ladies coveting the family tiaras might think to press their favors upon him just when a convenient sounder of gossips comes trundling along.”

“A sounder is a group of swine.”

“Right you are.” I withdrew my tinted spectacles and emerged into the sunshine. I’d taken to testing myself, leaving the glasses off and trying to manage transitions from light to darkness without their aid.

The sunlight stabbed at my eyeballs, but not as it once had. The piercing daggers of pain were muted to mere darts, though at high noon, the story might be different.

“The duke is my only extant brother,” I said, donning my spectacles. “I will defend his liberty as if it were my own.”

Atticus hustled along at my side. “What’s the difference between liberty and loneliness?”

Dratted boy. “To be imprisoned for life in marriage with the wrong person has to be the loneliest sentence known to man or woman. Arthur needs heirs, my humble self being a dodgy bet in terms of securing the succession. His marriage would have at least some intimate aspects.”

“Ya mean he’d tup his missus. To hear the footmen tell it, that’s the closest a feller gets to heaven, having his own missus to cook for him and cuddle with.”

“And footmen are the wisest counsel to be had. Nearly as wise as grooms, undermaids, drunks, or courtesy lords. Before you show yourself belowstairs at the Hall, have a thorough wash at the pump. Comb your hair, take special care to get the dirt out from beneath your fingernails. Address Cook as ma’am and any male staff taller than you as sir.”

“I know that part, and they’re all taller than me.”

Taller than I. I left the grammar lessons for another time. Rome wasn’t sacked in a day. “Become equally well acquainted with the getting-clean part. Nobody likes to take his supper sitting next to a reeking urchin.”

“Aye, guv.” Atticus gave me a jaunty salute. “Any other orders?”

Yes, my lord. “None. Do you even have a comb?”

Now, he looked abashed. “Was going to borrow a comb the grooms use on the horses’ manes.”

Borrow being a delicate reference to larceny, no doubt. I passed over my pocket comb. “ Ask , for the love of God. Ask . I am your employer. Your kit is my responsibility. Your turnout reflects upon me.”

My comb, a pretty little affair inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, disappeared into a pocket that likely held bits of string, linty lemon candies, a pair of dice, and an eye or two of newt.

“Maybe Lady Ophelia coming here wasn’t such a bad idea,” Atticus said as a trio of grooms came down the steps from the quarters over the mares’ wing.

“Why do you say that?”

“When it comes to defending your liberty, you didn’t manage so well in France, didja, guv? You might need some reinforcements, methinks.”

I hoisted him over my shoulder, divested him of his boots, and deposited the naughty, disrespectful, clever, laughing whole of him into the nearest horse trough.