Nick could not stifle his frustrated sigh as he turned his head to follow Simone’s gaze.
A tiny white feather bobbed in an odd fashion around the opposite side of the bed. Up, down, pause. Up, down, pause. Up, down—
“What is hedoing?” Nick asked, his voice tight.
Simone’s hand flew to cover her eyes. “He’s attempting to sneak up upon us, I can only assume.” She dropped her hand and turned her head. “We can see you, Didier. What is it you want?”
Nick watched Simone’s forehead crease as she listened to her brother’s reply. She turned back to Nick. “My father approaches.”
He cursed under his breath just as a knock sounded on the chamber door. He extended a hand to assist his wife from the big, comfortable—much unused—bed, and turned to grudgingly thank the boy for the warning.
Didier’s feather was gone.
Nick shook his head and stepped into his boots. He didn’t bother with his tunic, but was content in his billowy undershirt. “Simone, why is it that Didier is never in the same room as your father?”
“I know not,” came the answer from behind him. “I’ve not noticed it before, but you are correct. ’Tis odd.”
Nick grunted and crossed the chamber where he unbolted the door. Armand du Roche stood in the corridor, just as Didier had predicted. Simone’s sire was a large man, a trait Nick guessed Armand used to his advantage at every opportunity. But unlike Nick’s own muscular build, Armand’s girth was composed of mostly flab where perhaps muscle used to lay. His strange afflictions of person—the scarred and oddly dented forehead, facial spasms, stunted right arm, and slow right leg—gave him a ghastly appearance. He was as tall as Nick, a fact that clearly irritated the man, as he was forced to address his son-in-law eye to eye instead of looking down upon him.
“Du Roche. Is aught amiss?”
“Naught of consequence.” Armand’s permanent expression of distaste was more pronounced than usual, and he dabbed a kerchief at the drooping corner of his mouth. “’Tis with regret that I must seek your assistance.”
Nick stepped away from the portal, admitting du Roche into the chamber. He closed the door reluctantly and turned to see Armand standing between him and Simone.
“Good day, Papa.” Simone sent her father a hesitant smile. “I hope you are well.”
“Simone. You look”—his eyes flicked over Simone’s wrinkled gown—“disheveled.”
Nick’s anger bubbled at Simone’s flush and downcast eyes. “What is your problem, du Roche?”
“’Tis the servants,” Armand began, dismissing his daughter completely and facing Nick. “I went to the docks this morn to arrange for Simone’s belongings to be separated from mine and readied for our journeys, but they refused. They said they would not so much as lift one trunk before payment.”
“’Tis strange, no doubt. William employs only the most capable and loyal of men.” Nick frowned. “Have they not already accommodated you in moving your possessions once?”
“Oui, mais,” Armand faltered and his complexion grew ruddy. He dabbed at his mouth again, and his shoulder hitched. “’Twould seem I had not the coin to fully compensate them.”
Nick heard Simone’s gasp, and when his eyes sought her, she was staring at her father in horror.
“Papa, you did not pay them?”
Armand’s eyebrows drew downward and he spun on Simone. “Do not rebuke me, Simone. If not for your empty-headedness, I would not be in this humiliating position.”
Simone flinched as if struck, and Nick drew a deep breath to prevent seizing the man by his thick throat.
“Du Roche, guard your tongue when speaking to my wife.”
Armand opened his mouth as if to reply, but apparently—wisely, in Nick’s opinion—thought better of it. Instead, he bowed almost imperceptibly in Simone’s direction and all but sneered. “My apologies. Of course.”
Simone swallowed and winced before she asked her next question. “But you did pay the innkeep, did you not, Papa?”
Armand’s jaw clenched, and the leather strip holding back his stringy brown hair trembled. He ignored Simone’s query and turned back to Nicholas. “If you would be so kind, FitzTodd. Had I the payment agreed upon for Simone’s hand, I would not require your assistance.”
Nick’s stomach soured at the greed and illogical actions of his wife’s sire. What had the man planned to do had he not quickly secured a match for Simone? If word had gotten around that a certain penniless lord left his debts unpaid, Armand could have easily been tossed in the gaol. And then what would have become of Nick’s raven-haired pixie, alone in London and without coin or even a lady’s maid to assist her?
“Then you are in luck, du Roche,” Nick said grudgingly, walking to the table where the small chest from Hartmoore sat. “Your coin arrived this very morn.” He rapped his knuckles across the top of the wooden trunk, then shoved it the length of the table.
Armand’s eyes widened, and he seemed to be frozen in place for a moment. His mouth twitched, and his arm drew tighter to his side. When Armand dabbed at his lips yet again, Nick got the distinct impression the man was drooling over the trunk’s contents. It was disgusting to watch.
