But he blinked, ever so slightly denying her the opportunity to speak with him.
* * *
He readily submerged himself in his work. Breakfast was one thing, manageable. The egress of all the guests to church services was a blessing. He was able to find a few minutes to himself between the demands of luncheon service, a footman who fainted and the scullery maid who cut her fingers on a carving knife. Worst of all, a fire broke out in the bedroom of Riverdale.
“What the hell happened?” he asked his friend when his four footmen had departed Riverdale’s rooms with the fire water buckets in their hands.
“I’d say someone needs to clean the flue, old man. The maid came in early to start up the morning fire and things were fine until they weren’t. Suddenly the hearth rug was aflame.”
“Would you prefer to move?” The sitting room and bedroom were filled with smoke. “Your clothing will smell like smoke.”
“Let’s open the windows.”
“Cold as Hades out there. You are not be chilled!”
“Ives, I’ve lived through worse than this.”
“Go to the library then. I’ll bring you soup and tea.”
“Wonderful,” Riverdale mourned. “Now I’m an invalid.”
“Hardly! You could probably wrestle a bear to the ground.”
Riverdale closed one eye. “Not today, please. I’ve other problems that stinky clothes might help.”
Simms barked in laughter. “Like what?”
“Keeping the damsels away from me.”
“Oh?” He was curious who might find his handsome friend appealing. “Who pursues you?”
“Lady Wittmore.”
“Dear god, Riverdale. She’s twice your age!”
“And has no reservations about a union with a much younger man.”
“Dissuade her. Tell her stories of your escapades with Napoleon’s mistress, the opera singer.” As Riverdale grumbled, Simms waved himadieu. “Back to work for me.”
“And wait! What is your current thinking about the lovely Lady Eliza Kent?”
“You would ask, wouldn’t you?” Simms picked up the last of the iron fire buckets. He had to tell Riverdale the resolution because if he didn’t, the man would be after him like a bee to flowers. “We are, I am happy to say, to be wed.”
Silence and a flinty stare greeted those remarks.
He didn’t like being pinned down. “Happy, aren’t you, for me? Congratulate me, you old sod.”
“I would if you sounded ‘happy.’ But I don’t hear it. Why not?”
Simms strode for the door and solitude.
“You cannot leave without telling me,Ives! What in hell is wrong?”
“It seems I have a problem!”
Riverdale crossed his arms. And there in his steely look wasMonsieur, the stubborn, peerless, resolute intelligencer who looked at a man and knew all. All!
Simms flapped an arm. “I give good lip service to equality. But when it comes to living it, I balk.”
