"What did you do?" I asked. "Before this. Specifically."
"SAS," he said simply, and there was pride in it. Earned pride. "Twenty-two years. Started as regular army, then passed selection on my second attempt. Spent most of my career in counter-terrorism and covert operations."
He paused, considering how much to say.
"Mostly wet work, though we didn't call it that," he continued. "Hostage rescue. Target elimination. Infiltration and exfiltration in denied territories. The sort of thing that doesn't make it into the official record. The sort of thing that gets filed under 'training exercise' if anyone asks, which they rarely do."
"Iraq?" I asked.
"Three tours. Afghanistan as well. Northern Ireland before that, though that's dating me rather badly. Some other places that are best left unnamed."
I straightened slightly, respect shifting my posture. "You miss it."
"Every day, sir." His smile was faint but genuine. "The adrenaline. The clarity. Knowing exactly what needed to be done and having the skills to do it. Having brothers beside you who'd die for you without hesitation and knowing you'd do the same for them."
He adjusted his cufflinks—a small, precise gesture that somehow felt significant. Like he was buying himself a moment to gather his thoughts.
"Retirement is supposed to be restful," he said. "Everyone tells you that. Your commanding officer. Your mates. Your wife, if you're lucky enough to have one. They say you've earned it. That you've done your bit. That it's time to let younger men handle the sharp end."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"But rest, I've found, is vastly overrated when you've spent your entire adult life in motion. When you've spent decades doing things that actually matter—saving lives, stopping threats, making the world marginally safer even if no one knows you did it—puttering about a garden loses its appeal rather quickly."
I could hear the frustration in his voice. The sense of being benched when you still had gas in the tank.
"When Mr. Dane approached me," he continued, "I thought it was a joke at first. A recruiter from some private military contractor, I assumed. One of those outfits that hires former operators to stand around oil fields looking intimidating. But then he said 'butler' and I nearly laughed in his face."
"But you didn't."
"No, sir. Because he kept talking. And the more he explained, the more I realized this wasn't about serving tea and answering doors. This was about building something. Creating a network of safe houses and resources for operators who needed them. Providing support in the field. Being part of something that mattered."
Ellsworth's expression shifted into something almost mischievous.
"Plus, the pay is quite good. And they cover expenses without asking tedious questions about receipts."
I grinned despite myself. "I'm impressed."
"Thank you, sir."
I pushed off the desk and moved closer, closing some of the distance between us. "Have you ever done something like this before? Been a butler, I mean."
Ellsworth's mouth twitched again, fighting another smile. "Do you mean the domestic service aspect, specifically?"
"Yeah."
He chuckled—a low, genuine sound that made him seem a decade younger. "Not even remotely, sir. I can field-strip an assault rifle blindfolded and conduct close-quarters combat in pitch darkness, but I hadn't the faintest idea how to properly fold a pocket square or which fork to use for fish."
"So, what did you do?"
"I watched every season ofDownton Abbeyto get the job done right."
I stared at him.
He stared back, his expression completely deadpan.
Then I laughed. Actually laughed. A deep, genuine laugh. The kind that loosened something tight in my chest.
"You're serious," I said.
