A footman came in, different from the night before. This one studied Gideon with naked speculation and a canny intellect. “Mr. Marshall assigned me to be your manservant, you coming without one.”
Marshall. The assigning of servants should lie with the butler. Gideon knew a spy when he saw one. “What is your name?” Gideon asked.
“Jem.” The footman knelt and lit a fire. “A tray is coming. I didn’t know if you would want tea or coffee. I ordered both,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’ll join Mr. Tavernash in the breakfast room,” Gideon replied, pushing himself up. He still wore his shirt from the day before; it hung in wrinkles almost to his knees.
Jem snorted. “That one? He won’t rise before noon.”
Yet the unexpected intruder was to be rousted at dawn.If Marshall planned to make Gideon uncomfortable enough to drive him out, he’d find Gideon to be tougher than that. Planting a spy in his room was equally transparent, but Gideon could work with it. There was a middle ground. He would project his authority while sparring with Marshall and still encourage the man to underestimate him. At least for now.
Jem finished fiddling with the hearth and stood, wiping his hands together.
Gideon spoke with the tones he used to keep miners in line. “Pity Tavernash is a sluggard. I’m generally up at dawn, and I’ll take my meal in the family breakfast parlor. When you finish helping me dress, go down and tell cook I want my coffee strong, my eggs coddled, my ham thick, and my toast unburned. I loathe kippers.”
Their eyes held for a moment too long, and Gideon braced for open rebellion. Jem broke contact and glanced at the suit Gideon had worn when he arrived, unbrushed but lying in a neat pile on the chair.
“The rest of my luggage will arrive today or tomorrow. You may unpack and press them. There is a clean shirt in my saddlebag,” Gideon said. “Help me out of this one.” He turned, providing this uninvited would-be valet a view of his back, and raised his arms. Jem tugged the shirt up, and a breath, raggedly sucked in, rewarded Gideon. Gideon knew what Jem saw and deliberately intended to give him something to take to his master. He withheld any comment.
Gideon’s spine twisted in a sharpS. The doctor Daniel Kendrick had forced him to see in Cardiff had pronounced it the worst curvature he’d ever seen. Gideon knew from hard experience that many folks took physical deformity as a sign of mental deficiency; Marshall could make of it what he wanted. Jem would have also discovered that Gideon’s shirts were fine linen, well made, and expensive. Unfortunately, Jem’s inspection would also feed the narrative that would flood the neighborhood.The half-wit cripple has returned.
Having made his point, Gideon dismissed the servant. He’d grown used to servants since his childhood in his mother’s tavern but never to someone helping him dress. He certainly didn’t plan to allow the man to shave him; the last thing he needed was a razor to his throat.
The distance between rooms gave him trouble. He had left his walking stick in the baggage coach; he didn’t often resort to using it, but Woodglen’s stairs and long corridors would challenge his ability to manage without it.
Still, he found the breakfast room easily enough, grateful it hadn’t changed since he’d left fifteen years before. By the time he had shaved, finished dressing, and walked the length of the house to get there, his eggs were cold and congealed, the ham thin and striped with grizzle, and toast not only burned but cold. He caught a footman lurking in the hall and sent it back.
So it begins…
An hour later, filled with a tolerable breakfast, he faced an empty house. Neither Fillmore nor Marshall put in an appearance, and he wasn’t in the mood to search the maze of rooms for them. He could demand their attendance, but it was early yet. No one except servants appeared to be up. That message about his place in the house wasn’t lost on him, either. He decided to check on his mount in the stable. He half feared they’d treat Hannibal as poorly as they treated him.
He found Hannibal well cared for, however, groomed and fed but happy enough to see him and have his neck rubbed. He found the grooms as surly as the house servants. “Does Pritchard still work here?”
“Horse is fine. Whaddya want Pritchard for, then? ’e’s not much use with that one arm,” the groom grumbled without glancing up from his work.
One arm?“Is he here?”
The man shrugged. “Was studying that peculiar tack of yours a bit ago,” he said, gesturing toward the tack room with his head.
The saddle!Gideon’s heart sped up.If they damaged my saddle, I’ll—He cursed himself for letting his emotions about Woodglen distract him from taking time to instruct the groom about his custom gear.
He found his saddle safely stored over a sawhorse, the side braces for his stirrups leaning against it. He leaned one hand on it in relief.
“Y’ve come back, then. I knew it was you when I saw this gear. Fancier ’n the one we made up for you back in the day.” A wizened old man, thin and shrunken, gray of hair with the sleeve of one arm pinned up, spoke from the corner of the room. In the shadows, Gideon never would have recognized Pritchard if he hadn’t spoken.
Pritchard was the one who’d believed he could ride if they fashioned a saddle to give him support and keep him from listing to the side. It was Pritchard who had done it. The man approached, his gait slow. “They said you were dead.”
Gideon nodded. “The old duke lied.”
“Th’ young one know? He’s not been around much.”
“Phillip knows. He found me last year. He turned up at my colliery without warning.” Gideon smiled at the memory.
“Yourcolliery? Done well for yerself, have you?” Pritchard shook his head.
“Three of them, actually,” Gideon said allowing his pride to show.
Pritchard cackled with glee. “That oughta show ’em. Thought they left you for dead.” He sobered at the thought. “Bad doings that night,” he murmured.
