“If I may be so bold, sir…” the valet began, and Charles moved his hands.
When are younotbold?
John smiled. “Mr. Stockton was right on one matter, at least.”
Are you about to lecture me on the merits of duty?
“Not duty, sir. The merits of ready cash.”
Would you have me sell the shirt on my back? I’ve nothing else to sell.
“There’s one thing, sir, if I may be so bold.”
Bold? Why would John confess boldness as if he expected fury from his master? What could he possibly suggest that Charles could sell which would elicit such a response?
Unless…
Charles turned to stare at his valet. Fear flickered in the younger man’s eyes before he blinked, and the veneer of stoicism returned.
Do you mean…
“Begging your pardon, sir, I wouldn’t make such a suggestion unless out of absolute necessity. But it—”
Charles gestured, then punched his palm with his fist.
He’s ahe, not an it.
The valet flinched. Doubtless, most servants were used to their masters roaring at them in fury. But John had long since understood the potency of dark stare and angry gesture. Over the years, he’d learned to recognize Charles’s tempers such that he regulated his conduct, knowing when to be silent and attentive and when to steer clear. That was the curse of being in service—to be beholden to the whims of another.
It was a curse that he paid John for handsomely. Until now, when ready cash had been almost exhausted.
“Forgive me, sir. I wouldn’t mention it—him—if there were any other option. But Destriero is a valuable horse. I could arrange a sale at Tattersall’s, or privately if you prefer.”
Charles closed his eyes.
Curse you, Father. Not only have you cost me my home, but my horse, whom I loved a great deal more than you.
Perhaps he should have attended the old bastard’s funeral. Then he could have spat on the coffin.
“Sir?”
Charles opened his eyes and a needle scratched at his heart at the compassion in his valet’s eyes. But compassion was the last thing he needed. Compassion made a man weak. And Charles had no intention of growing weak.
Not again.
I’d prefer a private sale. But only with a man I trust.
John nodded. “That narrows down the list of potential purchasers. But I’ll start making inquiries before we leave London.”
I’ll accept nothing less than five hundred guineas.
“Very good, sir.”
And an assurance that the horse will be treated well.
“Naturally.”
Charles let out a sharp sigh and resumed his attention on the world outside—the soulless London townhouses that the creatures of Society valued so much. As unappealing as it may be, his exile to Penham Parkwould at least remove him from London.
