Ambrose watched him set the tray down on a sideboard and set the dishes out. “You’re in danger here,” he said softly.
Virgil eyed him. “If you say so, my lord.”
“Perhaps you and Mary should leave. Take the others with you.”
“If I was meant to tuck my tail like a dog and run, I should have done so two years ago, my lord. I didn’t leave then. I shan’t now. Besides, I’m certain you would starve and never bathe were I to leave. That would be a curse on anyone.”
Ambrose’s heart warmed. “If ever there comes a time when—”
“There will not.”
“How can you be certain that I won’t become a danger to you and the others?” It was a question Ambrose asked himself daily.
“My missus has a sense about these things. She’s never wrong.” Virgil looked at the storm. “It’s begun to snow, as she said it would.”
“What else did she say?” Ambrose returned to his chair and accepted a bowl of stew.
“I ought not say.”
He paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. Virgil never withheld his thoughts. That was one of his finest qualities. Ambrose swallowed the bite of the savory stew and focused on his butler. “Then I insist that you do.”
The butler shifted from foot to foot. “The storm. It brings changes to us all.”
“What sort of changes?”
Virgil rearranged the position of Ambrose’s brandy on the small table beside him and set a plate of thick bread down.
“Virgil.”
“The storm brings someone with it.”
How the bloody hell could a storm bring someone here? “Who?”
His man shrugged. “The missus didn’t say, and I know better than to ask. As she often tells me, if I was meant to know, then I’d have the sense and not her.”
Regardless, the likelihood of someone traveling in this weather was quite slim, and no one came to Greyhaven. “Thank her for the delicious stew.”
“Of course, my lord. Might I get you anything further?”
“Has Alfred had his supper?” No sooner had the words left his mouth when a loud meow came from the doorway. Alfred the Great sauntered in, howling louder than the wind outside, his striped, orange tail twitching in irritation. “Apparently not.”
“His royal highness, Alfred, would have had his supper if he’d roused himself from the cushion in the drawing room.” Virgil narrowed his eyes at Ambrose’s cat.
“Be that as it may, we shall not hear the end of his complaints until his stomach is satisfied. You can bring the food in here. I’d enjoy his company for a time.”
Alfred hopped up on the arm of the chair and pushed his head into Ambrose’s arm, a rumbling purr vibrating through the touch. It settled the restlessness he felt. The fear and the worry for the future faded, along with the hollowness in his chest whenever he looked at the letters.
“As you wish,” Virgil said and quietly left the room.
“What do you think of this storm, Alfred?” Ambrose asked the cat.
His feline companion snorted and leaned more of his body into Ambrose, purring harder.
“Yes, I know. Your supper is far more important than a bit of rain.” Setting his bowl aside, he stroked Alfred’s short, silky fur. The storm might rage outside, but here in Greyhaven, nothing changed. It was as it always would be. He had to be content with that for as long as his sanity allowed.
Ambrose leaned his head back against the cushion of his chair and listened to the cat purr. It helped to block out the whispers that persisted at the edges of his hearing, and that was a blessing.
Chapter Three
