As if in response to this dire prediction, the sound of carolers began to drift through the window. Alaric closed his eyes in an expression of profound suffering.
"Grimsby, we leave immediately."
"The carriage has been ready for an hour, Your Grace. I anticipated your desire for a swift departure when I saw Mrs. Rhodes organizing the street's caroling schedule yesterday evening."
"Remind me to increase your wages."
"You said the same last Christmas, Your Grace."
"Did I follow through?"
"You did not."
"Well, consistency is a virtue."
The carriage, a magnificent beast of black lacquer and gold trim that proclaimed its owner's consequence without the vulgarity of ostentation, stood ready in the mews. Alaric's matched grays stamped their hooves against the cobblestones, their breath forming clouds in the cold morning air. The coachman, Bridges, touched his hat as Alaric approached.
"Fine day for travel, Your Grace. The roads should be clear as far as Nottingham."
"And beyond Nottingham?"
"Well now, that would be what we call an adventure, Your Grace."
"I do not care for adventures, Bridges."
"No, Your Grace. That's why I didn't mention the reports of highwaymen on the North Road."
Alaric paused with one foot on the carriage step. "Highwaymen? In this day and age?"
"Desperate times, Your Grace. Though between you and me, I'd wager they're just local lads playing at being Dick Turpin. A stern word and a glimpse of your pistols should send them scurrying back to their mothers."
"How reassuring." Alaric settled into the carriage's leather interior, which smelled of polish and money; two of his favorite scents. "Do try not to overturn us in a ditch, Bridges. I should hate to die in December. The eulogy would undoubtedlymention the season, and I've no wish to be forever associated with Christmas."
"I shall do my best, Your Grace, though if we do perish, I promise to ensure it happens on the twenty-sixth."
"Your consideration is noted."
Grimsby climbed in opposite him, somehow managing to make even this simple action appear dignified.
As the carriage rolled away from Grosvenor Square, Alaric allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. In approximately ten hours, he would be installed at Hollingford Hall, where he could spend the next days in blessed solitude as he hoped, reviewing ledgers and avoiding anything resembling festivity. No balls, no dinners, no insipid conversations about the weather or the latest fashion in sleeve decoration. Just himself, his accounts, and the rational pleasure of properly balanced books.
"Your Grace," Grimsby said, interrupting this pleasant reverie, "I should perhaps mention that I took the liberty of packing your evening clothes despite your earlier instruction."
"Why on earth would you do that?"
"Call it intuition, Your Grace. Or perhaps experience. You have a remarkable talent for finding yourself in situations that require formal dress despite your best efforts to avoid them."
"That was once. Once, Grimsby."
"Three times, Your Grace. There was the incident with the Archbishop's daughter, the situation involving the runaway horse at Lady Rhodes's garden gathering, and that memorable evening when you accidentally attended the wrong funeral and ended up giving the eulogy."
"The deceased's family said it was very moving."
"You didn't know the man's name, Your Grace."
"I used generalities. 'He was a man who lived' seemed to cover the essential points."
"Indeed, Your Grace. Nevertheless, I've packed the evening clothes."
