"What sort of conclusions?"
"The romantic sort, Your Grace. The housekeeper has already had to quash speculation about a village sweetheart."
Frederick nearly choked on his brandy. "A village sweetheart. Good Heavens."
"Indeed, Your Grace. I informed Mrs Patterson that such rumours were both inappropriate and absurd, and that Your Grace's interest in the village was purely administrative."
"Thank you, Boggins."
"However." The valet's expression remained perfectly neutral, which lent his words greater weight. "I confess I am curious about the truth of the matter. Your Grace was staring rather intently at the forge as we passed."
"I was not staring."
"Your Grace's head turned precisely seventeen degrees to the left and remained in that position for approximately three seconds. In the dictionary of ducal behaviour, Your Grace, that qualifies as staring."
"You counted the degrees?"
"I estimated, Your Grace. I have been in service long enough to develop a reliable sense of such things."
Frederick set down his brandy glass with perhaps more force than necessary. "There is nothing to tell. I noticed the blacksmith's niece because she was the only person in the village who did not immediately look away or make obscene gestures."
"Ah."
"What does'ah'mean?"
"It means I understand, Your Grace."
"You understand what, exactly?"
Boggins permitted himself the ghost of a smile, just barely visible, and quickly suppressed. "I understand that Your Grace is protesting considerably more than the situation would seem to warrant. In my experience, such protests often indicate…"
"Boggins."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"You are dangerously close to overstepping."
"My apologies, Your Grace. I shall endeavour to step more carefully." But his eyes, when they met Frederick’s, held a knowing gleam that suggested no such endeavouring would take place.
Frederick reached for the brandy, then stopped. "Boggins."
"Your Grace?"
"How long have you been in service to this family?"
The question appeared to surprise Boggins, though his expression barely changed. "Thirty-one years, Your Grace. I began as a footman under your grandfather and progressed through the usual channels until your father appointed me valet upon his ascension to the title."
"Thirty-one years." Frederick turned the number over in his mind. "You have served three generations of Hawthornes."
"Indeed, Your Grace. Though I confess the third generation has proven the most... interesting."
"Interesting how?"
Boggins' pause was microscopically longer than usual. "If Your Grace will permit an observation?"
"Since when have you required permission?"
"Since always, Your Grace. I merely choose to interpret silence as consent." The ghost of something that might have been humour flickered across Boggins' austere features. "Your grandfather was a passionate man. Volatile. He felt everything too intensely and made decisions based on those feelings that caused considerable difficulty. Your father, in reaction, became the opposite; calculating, controlled, determined, never to let emotion influence judgment. He succeeded, largely."
