Morag’s lips were thinned with satisfaction. “He has. Good riddance, I say. Filthy creature, that Frenchman. Now, Mr. Diggory, that’s a good man to have about the house.”
I listened with half an ear as she chattered on about the coachman’s virtues. A house without Renard would be very pleasant indeed. But perhaps complicated. Brisbane might have questions for him, and I could not take the chance that another member of my staff would slip from his clutches.
“Where is he bound?” I asked casually.
“Lord Crayforth. The brewer,” she said with a meaningful arch of the brows.
“Morag, you’ve become a thorough snob, do you know that?”
“It is true and well you know it, my lady. A jumped-up brewer with dirty habits. I hear he don’t change his underlinen but once a month.”
I pushed my toast away uneaten. “Good Lord. I suppose Renard will not perish of overwork, then, will he?”
But I felt better at this bit of intelligence. Lord Crayforth was a fixture in London. He was famous for his hatred of the country. His summer house was only as far away as Chelsea. If Brisbane wanted to find Renard, he should not have far to look.
“We shall have to find someone else to tend to Sir Simon, I’m afraid.”
“Won’t have him to worry about much longer, either,” Morag put in darkly. “He’s had a bad night and his cough is worse.”
I pushed back the coverlet and swung my feet to the floor.
“Why did you not say so? I will go to him before breakfast.”
By the time I reached the breakfast table, my appetite was well and truly gone. Simon had indeed had a rough time of it. There was a little blood now when he coughed, and I sent word to Aquinas to send for Doctor Griggs. The prospect of seeing him again, and of bearding Brisbane in his den afterward, robbed me of any hunger I might have had.
Aquinas brought food, anyway. There was always enough to feed a regiment keeping warm in the chafing dishes, and Aquinas always made a point of entering the room with a rack of fresh toast and a basket of rolls precisely when I appeared.
“Good morning, my lady. I have dispatched Henry with your note to Doctor Griggs. He has replied that he will be here very shortly. Also, I have had Renard’s resignation this morning. He wishes to enter service with Lord Crayforth.”
I buttered the toast to give myself something to do. “I know. Morag happened to overhear something to that effect.”
We exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Morag’s habit of “happening to overhear” was famous. And though Aquinas’ demeanor was perfectly neutral, I knew he would miss Renard as little as I did. “I have no objection. When does he mean to leave us?”
“As soon as possible. I gather his lordship is eager to secure his employment. His own valet left rather abruptly.”
“Ooh, do tell. I smell scandal,” I said, moving on to the jam pot.
“His lordship struck his valet with a riding crop.”
“Goodness! Whatever for?” I took a bite, anyway. The jam was extraordinary. Cook had put up dozens of jars from the tiny strawberries my father sent from his hothouse.
“I understand his lordship’s shaving water was tepid.”
“Indeed. Well, his lordship and Renard should get along rather well together.” I took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. Aquinas busied himself at the sideboard, testing the temperature of the eggs and kidneys and so forth, although I do not know why he bothered. Simon barely nibbled at food these days, and my appetite was wildly variable. Val was the only other person in residence, the Ghoul having taken herself off to Twickenham for a few days’ holiday with her constipated niece—a protest against my abandoned widow’s weeds, I suspected—and I doubted he would bother with breakfast. I wondered briefly what would become of the piles of leftover ham and rashers of bacon, but decided I would rather not know. Surely someone would eat it. They would not just throw it out. Would they?
“We shall have to see about finding someone to care for Sir Simon,” I said. I glanced down, surprised to find only crumbs where my toast had been.
“I thought Desmond, my lady. He is rather peaky and I do not like to send him out. Perhaps if he stayed in, taking care of Sir Simon until other arrangements can be made…”
He did not finish his thought, but I did. He meant until Simon died and Desmond could be moved to the country to handle Father’s dogs. Well, it was not pleasant to think of, but it did kill two birds rather nicely. Desmond was cutting a rather poor figure in his livery. Unlike Henry, he had never preened in it, lording his finery over his lessers. He was a quiet, modest boy, in spite of his strikingly delicate good looks, and I was glad we had found a means of keeping him. I had little doubt he would thrive in the country. I would have been sorry to lose him altogether, although I admit I was beginning to mark the weeks until I could dismiss Henry.
“Tell Desmond he needn’t bother to wear livery as he will no longer be going out or greeting callers. A plain suit should be sufficient for tending Sir Simon. Father will want him in something serviceable at the Abbey in any case.”
“Very good, my lady. Will you be going out this morning?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”
A question flickered in his eyes, but he suppressed it.
