Chapter Nineteen
FitzArden Hall was a welcome sight to James’s weary eyes.
From the outside, it looked a pleasant mansion, not overwhelming with pillars and columns, but welcoming with a blend of warm brickwork and creamy marble.
He noted that the trees he’d asked for had been planted, and made a mental note to himself to thank Paul for overseeing much of this. Trips to London were to be avoided as much as possible, but were a necessary evil, since his business interests had paid for the vista confronting him as he rode into his own driveway.
Lights permeated the growing early November dusk, an even more welcoming sight. Smoke came from the chimneys, which told him the cook and kitchen staff he’d hired had settled in.
Cantering up to the front door, he was pleased to see that it opened almost immediately, and a footman rushed out to hold his horse.
“Welcome back, sir.”
“Thank you, Henry. How’s everything?” James alighted and unfastened his traveling bags.
“Very good indeed sir. Mr. DeVoreaux has seen to a dozen things while you’ve been away. I think you’ll be happy with ‘em.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Another man walked to the horse’s head, doffing his cap respectfully. “I’ll take him now, sir.” He took the reins from Henry.
“And you are…?” asked James.
“Pewsey, sir. Just lending a hand in the stables, like. Yer stable master was kind enough to offer me a week or two’s work until everything gets sorted.”
“Very good. I trust Morton when it comes to my horses. So I will trust you too.”
“Won’t let yer down, sir.” He stroked the tired stallion’s nose and then led the docile beast back toward the stables, which James had tucked away behind a small copse of trees to the side of the Hall.
“I’ll take yer bags, sir.” Henry lifted them. “Mr. DeVoreaux is in the small parlour.”
“Then I’ll join him.” Paul stripped off his riding gloves and walked into his own home at last.
It was indeed a delightful sight to see Paul reading in a large chair near the fire, one ankle resting on the other knee, a snifter of brandy beside him. He looked up as James entered.
“Welcome home, Sir James.” He closed the book and grinned. “Your palace is most comfortable.”
“So I see,” chuckled James. “And my brandy—you have an opinion on that too?”
“Indeed.” Paul picked up the glass and swirled the liquid around. “I doubt any duty was paid on this. Far too good to have been soiled by something as mundane as a customs officer.”
“I will never reveal my secrets.” James walked to the sideboard and poured himself a matching glass, then walked to the sofa and settled himself into a contented sprawl.
“How was the greatest city in the world?”
James shrugged. “It was as always. Foul-smelling, noisy, and full of hypocrisy.”
“Ah, London. How I miss it.”
“Really?”
“No.” Paul chuckled. “Not in the least. Did you do the pretty with Society?”
“I went to a few affairs, if that’s what you mean.”
Paul put down his glass. “I suppose what I’m actually asking is if you saw Letitia, and if so, how your pursuit of the fair lady is progressing.”
“I don’t know.”
