Page 25 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

For he had no doubt in his mind now that he was courting Belinda Morrison.

He wanted more from her than a holiday dalliance.

He wanted her lifted eyebrow, her hair in all its different shades of brown, her clever conversation across the dinner table, her joyful vigour on a country walk, her confidences entrusted to him, her duty pledged to him and his.

At the end of a long day, he wanted both her and her magpie cat to sit on his lap.

From the window of the carriage, he saw a larger, more impressive chaise pulling into the innyard.

“Who has Mrs. Brownlee invited this time?” said Jack Ferris, squinting out the window with a wrinkled brow, but neither of them could make out the occupants of the chaise before their own carriage had turned the corner.

Within ten minutes, the younger Mr. Ferris had set down Nigel at Audeley House and was waving cheerfully from the window.

Nigel went inside, hoping that Archie had ironed his cravats.

If he was going to let the lad make the attempt at tying them, he must be ready for a good half-dozen to be wrinkled beyond use and tossed aside.

He took the stairs two at a time and hurried into his bedchamber only to see an unexpected set of shoulders standing by his wardrobe.

“Simpson? Hound’s teeth! What are you doing here?”

“Merely my duty,” he said with a sniff, only adding a perfunctory “your grace” as an afterthought. “I’m looking for some suitable evening wear amongst the lot I sent down for you. The servants here are a surly bunch, but they indicated that your grace will be gracing an assembly tonight.”

“Your duty?” Nigel threw his beaver at Simpson as if he were hurling a quoit. “That stinks like a French cheesemaker. Was it your duty to inform Lady Maltrousse that I was in Derbyshire?”

Simpson paled. “Your grace, how was I to know you wanted that kept secret from her? You’ve been at home often enough to Lady Maltrousse when no one else was allowed entry—” His eye caught on the worn places where Archie had overbrushed the beaver, and he gave a cry of affronted honour. “Fiend take it! This hat is ruined!”

Nigel ignored the outburst. “You should have known that when I said, ‘send my togs to this address, and tell no one of my whereabouts.’ Basic comprehension, you nitwit.” He growled. “How did you get here, anyway?”

Simpson put the beaver down and looked even more uncomfortable.

“I’m not in the mood to be trifled with. Answer me, Simpson.”

“She said you would need my services as she didn’t intend to ride all the way back to London with a shabby-coated sheep farmer. Begging your pardon—her words, not mine.”

Nigel held up a hand. “Are you implying what I think you are implying? Do you mean to say that Lady Maltrousse brought you to Derbyshire?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“And is Lady Maltrousse downstairs?” Perish the thought! Nigel could think of nothing less desirable than having Callista Fernley’s ample charms spilling over Lady Kendall’s parlour—charms he had always resisted on his own account since his brother had been there before him .

“No, your grace. She said she’d take a room at the inn.”

Nigel froze. She was at the Jester’s Arms? The inn where the Boxing Day ball would begin in less than an hour? The inn where Bel Morrison was waiting unprepared for such an apparition? This new development was even less desirable than having her downstairs.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in.”

It was Archie, his mottled face a bright shade of red, and his voice brimming with affront.

“Yer grace, this fellow says that he is your valet and will attend to you. But I told him as he’s mistaken and that you’ve filled the position with a local man.

” Archie stuck out his thin chest proudly, hopefully.

Nigel looked between the two valets. Sartorially speaking, Simpson, who had served his brother and who had been recommended to him by none other than Lady Maltrousse, knew what he was about. But the man was a serpent in the wardrobe whereas Archie was true as a Trojan.

Still, if Nigel was to return to the inn as soon as possible—and forestall any unpleasant encounter between Callista Fernley and Bel Morrison—he needed to be turned out in full kit as soon as possible.

Archie might have a heart of gold, but on the outside, he was all thumbs. Simpson was the only logical choice.

“I’m sorry, Archie,” Nigel said to the lad. “Simpson will do for me tonight. Run along and tell John I’ll need the carriage as soon as possible.”

Archie’s hopeful face crumpled, and Nigel instantly felt like a cad of the worst sort. As the boy left the room, Nigel pulled off his coat and barked instructions at Simpson. “A fresh shirt. And the mulberry waistcoat. Be quick about it. ”

Simpson, unusually unctuous, worked his hardest to soothe his employer’s ruffled feelings.

But Nigel was not amused. He would use Simpson’s services tonight, but it would be the last time he let that spy dress him.

God willing, tonight he would see the last of both the valet and the vicious harpy that had set his steps on the path to vice.