Shuffle…clank…shuffle…clank…
Beatrix’s stomach plummeted to her feet.
Blimey.
That would be Cumberbatch making his—interminable—way down the corridor, carrying the tea tray.
Deverill’s brow creased, but he didn’t express a word out loud—blessedly.
After what felt like thirty years, but could’ve been no more than thirty seconds, Cumberbatch appeared in the doorway, tray held precariously before him, his mien dour and noble in the manner of a servant proud of his house. He and Beatrix might know the lie, but the outside world wouldn’t. At this moment, she felt immeasurable gratitude for the old grumbler.
Porcelain clanking ominously, he tottered into the room.
Deverill was regarding the proceedings as he regarded everything—directly…unflinchingly…
Unsparingly.
Beatrix cast her gaze toward her hands clutched in her lap. It was the safest option.
With everyclinkandclank, she winced.
Deverill would’ve noticed that, too.
Who knew disaster could unfold so…very…excruciatingly…slowly…
Deverill shifted forward and muttered, low so his voice wouldn’t carry, “Does he need assistance?”
The icy glare Cumberbatch shot Deverill froze the response in Beatrix’s mouth. “Of course, I don’t need assistance,” he intoned. “’Tis you who will need assistance, young man, if you dare to assist me.”
Deverill gave a nod that communicated both apology and suitable humility. Cumberbatch, however, was in no mood to accept either. “Do you know what they called my right fist when I was coming up in the rookeries?”
Beatrix knew the answer, but decided it best to let Cumberbatch inform Deverill himself.
“Destroyer of Worlds,” said the valet with a firmness that communicated his right fist could still wreak proper destruction, if called upon. “Now, I left that life behind when the Marquessof Lydon fancied having a boxer for a valet, but Destroyer of Worlds could be prevailed upon to come out of retirement.”
By now—bless the heavens—Cumberbatch had reached the table. So very slowly…so very deliberately…he bent forward with the tray held at a stiff right angle. It was all Beatrix could do not to wrest the tray from his hands and set it down herself. But if she took such action, Cumberbatch would be in a sulk for the rest of the week.
So, she sat, with her jaw clenched and her hands clasped tight, and kept half an eye on Deverill, his eyebrows reaching new heights of alarm as teapot, teacups, scones, and scrumptious strawberry jam threatened to slide off the tray and tumble onto the table in a messy heap.
Messy heap.
Well, there was a phrase that summed up her life these days, now wasn’t it?
However, by some mercy of the universe, no such happening occurred. At the very last moment, Cumberbatch released the tray and, miraculously, it landed flat. To be sure, there was a great clatter of porcelain that set Beatrix’s ears ringing and tea had spilled into the strawberry jam, but all wasn’t lost, which she would count as a win.
Wins were so very few and far between.
She mustered every last ounce of dignity yet in her possession and said, “Thank you, Cumberbatch.”
Already turning, he grunted and began very, very slowly shuffling out of the room.
Once she decided the valet was safely out of earshot, she said, “Cumberbatch’s hearing is excellent.”
“Oh, I think we’ve established that.”
She found herself biting back a smile as she reached for the teapot and commenced with the ritual of serving tea—pouring them each a cup, then placing a scone to either side of the table,the strawberry jam accessible between. Deverill took his teacup and saucer and settled back, watching her as he sipped tea that wasn’t much stronger than water.
Beatrix reached for the scone that she, at last, had permission to eat. Deliberately, she tore off a crisped edge with the intention of consuming the crumbly pastry with the elegant indifference of a lady. But one bite led to another delicious bite and, of a sudden, the scone was gone—save the final bite, which had become lodged in her throat. She reached for her teacup and swallowed a rather large, very decidedly unladylike gulp.
