Thomas considered, as though selecting the least damning number. “Near an hour, Your Grace.”
James’s irritation shifted direction away from time and toward himself. “And she ate nothing?”
“No.”
James exhaled through his nose. “She should have eaten.”
“That was suggested.”
“And?”
Thomas lifted one shoulder in a restrained shrug. “Her Grace said she was not hungry.”
James stood, crossing to the table. He lifted the lid from the dish. Eggs, perfectly cooked. A slice of ham. Toast. It would have been warm not long ago.
He replaced the lid without touching any of it.
“And then,” James said, “she retired to her room.”
“Yes.”
“And her maid brought her a tray.”
“She did.”
“And Her Grace refused it?”
Thomas hesitated. “She did not refuse it, precisely. She asked her maid to bring it to you instead.”
James’s throat tightened.
As if he were a child who could not be trusted to remember his own meals.
As if she were smoothing over his failure without complaint, without a scene, without even the satisfaction of being offended in a way he could observe.
He did not know what unsettled him more, her restraint, or her kindness.
James looked at Thomas. “Why did she do that?”
Thomas’s gaze was steady. “Her Grace said you would likely rise hungry.”
James stared at him. “That is all she said?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
It was not all, James suspected. Eleanor did not speak without layers. But Thomas, loyal devil that he was, would not betray her with speculation.
James dragged a hand through his hair. “What else have I missed?”
Thomas’s expression remained professionally blank. “Aside from breakfast?”
James shot him a look.
Thomas took that as permission to proceed. “Her Grace has made several adjustments to the household schedule.”
James moved to the washstand, pouring water into the basin. “Such as?”
“She has moved the household accounts review to every other day rather than weekly. She said it was easier to catch discrepancies early.”
