“Lord Christian?”
Hildie shook her head regretfully. “Nay, m’lady. ’Tain’t Lord Christian. Come, now, up and dress yourself.”
Her brows drew together. “Who, then?”
Since their father’s death, few had called at Westmoor. Even their closest acquaintances had ceased to visit after hearing the ugly rumors of Westmoor’s death, never mind that they were as yet unfounded.
Hildie mumbled something under her breath, and though Jessie hadn’t heard a word of the maid’s disclosure, her sorrowful expression made Jessie’s suspicions rear. “Who is it come calling, Hildie?”
The maid peered at her anxiously. “Lord St. John, m’lady... all the way from Charlestown.”
10
Christian’s mouth felt parched. His head ached—effects of the liquor, no doubt, though perhaps in part it was also a result of the momentous decision he’d come to last night.
God’s teeth, but he was glad for Quincy’s aid this morn, he thought, as he observed the wrestling match between man and boot.
White-haired Quincy had come to him along with Rose Park—a shabby, run-down estate and a dilapidated old man. Fitting pair. Still and all, Christian felt a certain attachment to the decrepit old fool, as he did to Rose Park. Knowing no one else would have hired him in his advanced days, Christian had kept him on. It seemed old age made Quincy an unwanted relic to be discarded as useless, and Christian felt a certain empathy for his plight.
He winced as the boot was shoved onto his foot, at long last, with more force than was credible for the old man. And then his brows collided as Quincy suddenly gave an offensive snort. He watched incredulously as the old man lifted his thin upper lip, spraying spittle through his teeth. The repulsive sprinkling landed squarely upon Christian’s right boot.
Christian reconsidered his employment at once. “God’s teeth, man! What the devil do you think you’re doing!”
“Buffing your shoes, m’lord.”
Using his faded sleeve, Quincy proceeded to buff the spittle from the tip of Christian’s boot.
Christian groaned.
“’Tain’t nothin’ quite the likes o’ good spit, to tidy a man’s leather.”
Christian grunted in response, too distracted by other matters to protest further. “If you must do so in future,” he added, “do it when I’m not about to witness it.”
Quincy chortled, and Christian grimaced, pressing his hand to his forehead to still the hammering in his brain. And raking his fingers through his hair, he willed himself to bloody blue blazes—perchance there he would be somewhat less tormented!
“Ye goin’ to Westmoor this morn, m’lord?”
Christian eyed the old man with an arched brow. “Aye,” he relented.
“To see the li’l miss?”
God’s blood, but the old man was bold. He frowned as Quincy grunted knowingly.
“That’s quite enough polishing for the one boot,” Christian announced.
Quincy peered up from his handiwork, nodding with pleasure. “Certainly, m’lord,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, and then left off with the polishing to retrieve the boot that was still lying upon the wooden floor. He rose to his knees, extending it for Christian’s foot. Christian proffered it, bracing himself for the impact of Quincy’s weight. Grunting, the old man shoved, but the boot proved more stubborn than he, and Quincy thrust again, harder this time. Caught unexpectedly, Christian was propelled backward over the bed. In the blink of an eye, Quincy leapt upon the mattress with him and stoodabove him, battering the upturned sole of his boot, threatening it physical harm. For a long moment, Christian could only stare, his expression screwing in disbelief. And then he came to his senses. “Enough already. Get off!” Then, more forcefully when Quincy made no move to obey, “Get the devil off my bed! I’ll put the damned thing on myself,” he groused.
Quincy ignored him still, shoving more forcefully, and the boot rewarded him by popping into place at last. That done, he lifted a sleeve and spat upon it.
Christian rolled from the bed, coming to his feet at once. “Damn it! ’Tis not my boots in need of acceptance, but my bloody proposal! Stay clear of me with that spittle-sodden sleeve!”
“But, m’lord!” Quincy objected. And then his eyes bulged. “Proposal, you say, m’lord? Well, now! Ye can’t go with one boot shiny as a copper and the other dustier’n me gran’s attic—specially not today. ’Tain’t right,” he objected. “What would the little miss say?”
Christian glared at him. And then, shaking his head with mute disgust, he slid into the nearest chair. What would she say, indeed? If Jessie didn’t agree...
Christ, he loathed the thought of making a fool of himself over some slip of a girl.
Quincy stared expectantly, and he sighed wearily, proffering his boot. “Do it,” he said sullenly. “But do it quickly.”
