James stared at him.
Then, because there was no defense, he let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have all taken my wife’s side.”
Thomas’s tone remained even. “We have taken the side of the household.”
James turned back to the tray, lifted the cup, and took a swallow. The tea was still warm.
Too warm to have been neglected long.
He set it down carefully. “Where is Her Grace now?”
“In her rooms, Your Grace.”
“Sleeping?”
“I believe so.”
James’s chest tightened again, the image of her sitting at the long dining table while food cooled in front of her pressing against something he did not wish to name.
He had promised her breakfast.
He had promised, without thinking, that he would be present.
And she had waited anyway.
James pulled on his coat, movements sharper than necessary. “Send a note to Mrs. Hargreaves. Tell her I will not take luncheon.”
Thomas blinked. “Your Grace.”
“I will be out.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He reached for his gloves, then paused.
“And Thomas?”
Thomas waited.
“When Her Grace wakes… tell her I regret missing breakfast.”
Thomas’s expression softened a fraction. “Very good, Your Grace.”
James hesitated, then added, because he could not bear the inadequacy of it, “Tell her it will not happen again.”
Thomas held his gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”
James turned toward the door, then stopped once more.
“The tray,” he said, gesturing vaguely, as though the food had become an intolerable symbol.
Thomas took one step forward. “Shall I have it removed?”
James looked at it again, then shook his head. “No.”
Thomas waited.
“I will eat it,” James said curtly. “It would be a waste.”
