Page 3 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

"I see you remember him too. Well, he's traveling with the carriage and our belongings, so he can't protest too strenuously if I'm clean before he arrives. I have no doubt our dinner wear will be laid out and presentable, all at his able hand, before we're out of the bath."

"Knowing Worthington, he may well somehow have it done before you're in the bath. Best hurry before he proves me right." Uncle George's words were made droller yet by the depth of his voice.

Charles felt Fairburn and Hewitt exchange a surprised glance as they heard George's voice properly for the first time. As a footman escorted them up to their rooms, Benedict breathed, "He ought to have been a politician, with that voice."

"I believe he was slated to be," Charles murmured in response.

"But he fell quite in love with my aunt rather than make the fortuitous marriage my grandfather had arranged for him, and in pique the old man cut him off.

They retired to the country to live on Aunt Sylvia's younger brother's sufferance, but he died in a riding accident when I was only a child.

There being no others of her lineage, she inherited this house and lands.

It nearly gave my grandfather apoplexy to have his disinherited son come into such comfort. "

"Charming family," Hewitt muttered.

Charles chuckled as they were led into their separate rooms. "Cast no stones, Evan. Heaven knows what we all are, beneath the surface."

For a country estate with no pretensions at grandeur, Worthington decided the Dalton house was tremendously well presented.

The room appointed to his immediate employer, young Master Dalton, was spacious enough to house a large bed and wardrobe with a vanity without crowding, yet small enough that the generous fireplace would easily warm it on a cold winter's day.

Even the uppermost corners were clean of cobweb and soot.

The leaded glass windows fit snugly into their frame, and the shutters were padded to hold in heat.

The colors were, if not fashionable, at least pleasant, and were kept up; there were no faded patches in the duvet cover or on the upholstered chair, and the mirror above the fireplace reflected wallpaper of handsomely striped cream and burgundy.

He had been suitably welcomed by the staff.

The butler himself had shown Worthington the way to Charles Edward's room while the three footmen carried luggage to each of the young men's rooms. When the footmen were gone, Worthington had, in a politely conspiratorial voice, wondered if there was anything within the household of which he should be aware.

He was informed in an equally conspiratorial tone of the set-to betwixt Miss Dalton and the Lads upon their arrival, observed, the Dalton's butler murmured, by a maid watching from an upper window.

Worthington extended his gratitude for the bit of knowledge, and butler and valet alike had shared the brief, expressionless look perfected by servants the world over that spoke volumes about the ladies and gentlemen they served without ever betraying a word or a thought of it on their faces.

Both parties departed the discussion with the satisfaction of knowing they could work comfortably with the other man.

The young master's clothes were, of course, unpacked, and a suit pressed and laid out for the evening before he emerged from the bath.

For some reason that caused Charles Edward to laugh, but laughter had been rare enough from him in the past months, and Worthington was glad to hear it.

He now helped Dalton slip a deep blue, double-breasted tailcoat over his shoulders as the young master observed himself in the mirror, Worthington an unremarkable shadow in its background.

Dalton turned twice, examining the fall of the tails to the backs of his knees and the admirable upward nip of the front, then brushed his thumbs down the lapels with satisfaction.

"I believe that will do, Worthington, thank you.

Tell me, is my aunt and uncle's house a tight ship? Do you approve?"

Worthington lifted his eyes to meet Dalton's in the mirror, his own non-committal brown; Dalton's a lazy hazel. "Of course, sir." He took precisely enough breath after the last word to leave things unsaid, and Charles Edward, of course, seized upon them.

"But?"

"It wouldn't be my place to say, sir."

"Oh, please, Worthington. I know we're back in civilized territory, but must we return to all that prattle?

" Dalton shook off Worthington's hands so he could face the valet with all the laziness gone from his hazel eyes.

"Haven't we been through enough to forgo the niceties of society, at least in private? "

"What is practiced in private cannot be forgotten in public," Worthington replied, but held up a hand to forestall his master's complaint. "Very well, sir. I may have heard that your companions, Master Hewitt in particular, were badly behaved toward Miss Dalton."

"Oh, that." The laziness came into Dalton's eyes as he waved the concern away. "I've spoken to them already, Worthington. They'll apologize, both of them. Anything else?"

Worthington hesitated, examining his employer's features.

Dalton was monied, of course, his parents having easily afforded a commission that the young man had not necessarily required.

Nor had he needed to serve at the front; he might have had a safe and respectable desk job that no one would have sneered at, but such caution was not in Charles Dalton.

Serving had been a passion; serving well, an obligation to that passion.

Similarly, Worthington might have stayed behind, sending a more adventuresome valet in his stead, or indeed allowing Dalton's person to be cared for from within the military ranks.

But Worthingtons had served Daltons for over half a century, and James Allen Worthington would not be the son to abandon his duty.

He had grown up with—or near, at least—Dalton, who was only a few years his junior; they had been man and servant since Dalton's eighteenth year, just under a decade now.

There had never been any real question that Worthington would join Charles wherever he went.

Nor was there any question that if Worthington felt strongly about any topic that he should, in time, be able to make his employer aware of it, though that was in Worthington's opinion the duty of any valet.

It was somewhat less expected, perhaps, that a man of Dalton's stature might deign to listen to his valet's opinions, but listen he did.

That did not mean the moment was always right to express one of those opinions.

Worthington, judging Dalton's pleasantly curious guise, concluded that this was not the time.

The softness had already slid once from Dalton's gaze, and Worthington knew well what dangers the harder edge in Dalton's eyes could unveil.

So rather than pursue topics that could ignite a fire, the valet straightened the tall and slim lines of Dalton's ballroom cravat and, with a step back, said, "Nothing, sir, now that I've got that tidied. "

"Very good. I'll call for you after dinner, Worthington. I think I can manage until then."

"Probably not, sir," Worthington said dryly, "but I'm sure you'll muddle through."

Dalton grinned, the familiar and friendly smile of an equal, and clapped his hand to Worthington's shoulder before hastening to the dinner call.

Worthington trailed a few steps behind, retreating as the other Lads came down an opposite stair to meet Dalton at the landing.

Worthington, silent and attentive, might have been no more than another sculpture.

But he watched Evander Hewitt, and as the Lads departed, Hewitt's sharp gaze met Worthington's neutral one. The valet lowered his eyes as was appropriate to his station, and knew that Hewitt could not read the mistrust that Worthington felt in his bones.