That got Grey’s eyes wide open. “She? Er, we didn’t bring her home last night as well, did we?”
That got an actual grin from his batman. “No, my lord. Nothing but Dragoons in the house ’til she arrived.” He scowled a bit. “Well, and the young people.”
That made Grey flinch. Another surprise inheritance he’d discovered upon arriving home. “And the young people are?”
“In the breakfast room trying to see if they can finish the cinnamon buns before you get down there.”
Grey bolted to his feet, his distress was so great. “Good God, man. Why didn’t you tell me? If I don’t save the bakery products, we’ll have a disaster all over the dining room table.”
“Yes, my lord.”
By the time Grey had managed to shave, dress, and brush his hair into some semblance of order, Braxton’s magic elixir had begun to work. At least Grey could turn his head without feeling as if it would spin off across the floor, and his stomach mostly stayed in place. His civilian attire still felt odd, especially since he was fifteen pounds shy of that long-ago day when he’d had it tailored. The tobacco brown jacket hung loose, and he thought he’d need to move the buttons on his pantaloons. He supposed that sooner or later he’d have to get into Weston for some new togs. Especially since he would soon have the money to do so.
Ah, and there went his stomach again.
“Braxton,” he said, buttoning his coat. “I don’t suppose I had a nightmare where I agreed to marry a perfect stranger in order to save other perfect strangers.”
“No such luck, my lord. We believe congratulations are in order.”
Grey closed his eyes again for a moment. The future suddenly looked far bleaker than the battlefields of Spain. In another week, he would have to face the battlefields of Wales. Wales, by God, which according to his mother’s description was more foreign a country than Spain. And including, as Braxton put it, ‘the young people.’ And all that after he met with the eighteen-year-old virgin he was to take to wife. Why had he ever left the battlefield?
Sighing, he straightened his shoulders, as he did every time he went into battle, and strode from the bedroom that was as new to him as everything else in his life.
At least he hoped his imminent wife might have better taste than his cousins had. The master bedroom he had inherited with its heavy maroon flocked wallpaper, velvet hangings, and elk heads, for the love of all that was holy, was just as liable to give him nightmares as the Brown Guestroom.
“Where is the, uh, visitor?” he asked as he descended the stairs, Braxton following behind.
“The gold parlor, my lord. It seemed the least...”
“Distressing?”
“Indeed. Place to wait.”
“Well, I will be with her after I make sure the breakfast room is still in one piece. And Braxton?”
“My lord.”
“Please see to it that I do not see another dead animal head in this house. Or on the property, come to think of it. My digestion is perilous enough as it is.”
His first indication that more disasters lay in wait for him came as he stepped off the staircase.
“I cannot get down!” He heard a piping young voice protest, as if it were a grave injustice to her. Which, having gotten to know Sophie over the last few days, he was certain she felt it was.
“That,” a strange woman’s voice answered quite calmly, “is a problem.”
Grey stopped on the spot. Why was a strange woman in his breakfast room sounding very much like a governess? He turned to Braxton, who simply shrugged.
“You have to get medown!” Sophie insisted.
“As a matter of fact,” the voice responded. “No, I do not.”
There was a pause. “Then what shall Ido?!”
He knew he should be in there. It occurred to him that Sophie’s voice was not only beginning to sound frantic, it was coming from well above the floor. Even above the table. Oh, lord. The shelves.
He resumed limping at a faster pace. Then he heard the quiet voice again and slowed just outside the door.
“Well, I am not quite sure what you shall do,” the calm female voice answered. “It might be something you consider before you climb shelves the next time. There might not be anyone around to get you down. Which means you could easily fall trying it yourself. Or you might simply be stuck up there all day long. And then you would miss out on this cinnamon bun. Would you like another piece, Amelia?”
