Charles pulled on his breeches, then exited the chamber, almost colliding with a chambermaid in the hallway. She glanced at his half-naked form and tipped her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened in terror, and she let out a whimper.
John appeared at the doorway. “It’s all right, Millie; you’ve done nothing wrong. Come and see to his lordship’s bedchamber.”
If anything, her eyes widened further. Trembling, she approached the door. Charles stepped aside to make room, and she darted past him faster than a rabbit that had scented a fox.
Devil’s breeches, could he not wander about his own lodgings without instilling fear into every creature he encountered?
But at least, if she feared him, she’d keep out of his way from now on.
If only the rest of the world would keep out of his way.
Shortly after Charles entered the drawing room, John appeared brandishing a decanter half filled with a deep amber liquid and a glass on a silver salver.
Charles motioned toward a table and John placed the tray on it.
“I wouldn’t drink it if I were you,” John said. “The landlady charges extra, and it’s of inferior quality.”
How do you know? Have you been drinking it?
“I saw Milly polishing the silver with it.”
Who?
“That maid you startled just now.”
Charles let out a sigh.
He’d done more than that. The poor creature had looked terrified.
Give her a sovereign for her trouble when we leave London.
John’s eyes widened and he glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the bedchamber.
“Good God almighty! You’re not thinking…”
Devil’s breeches, did John think him so much of a beast that, not content with frightening a girl barely out of the schoolroom, he sought to defile her?
Charles fisted his palm, then shook his head, gesturing to his valet.
I pay you extra for enduring my poor temper. It only seems fair to pay the girl for the same thing.
John’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Perhaps her life won’t beentirely miserable.”
Who? The maid?
John backed toward the door. “Your bride—whomever the unfortunate woman may be.”
Before Charles could issue an admonishment, John darted out of the drawing room and closed the door.
Perhaps he paid the valet too much after all—though he wasn’t paying him extra for his impertinence.
But then, few, if any, would endure John’s role—and Charles’s temper—with grace, let alone aplomb.
Though Charles would never tell the impertinent fool that he valued John’s company almost as much as he’d valued his beloved horse.
Destriero…
Charles poured himself a brandy and sighed. It was insult enough to be forced to sell Destriero, but tomorrow night, he’d have to face the bastard who now owned him. Whitcombe might be an honorable fellow who’d paid a pretty price and made even prettier promises about caring for the horse, but nevertheless, he deserved to rot in hell for owning Destriero when Charles did not.
