Of course Busick was winded, but he loathed admitting weakness. “Stop, mother hen. Save the smothering for the young soldier inside.” The duke waved his hand forward but controlled the motion as to not sway and prove the viscount right. “See, I knew you’d be perfect for this mission. I’ll meet you in the drawing room at twenty past. A slight adjustment since my caution is slowing me.”
“More schedules? And all this over a baby. Just a baby.” Gantry shook his head and entered the house.
It wasn’t “just” a baby.
It was all that was left of Busick’s cousin, Colin Jordan, the man who’d been like a brother to him before wealth and women and war came between them. Was it Busick’s fault his line was to inherit the dukedom? Or that he and Colin fell in love with the same beautiful women?
Well, that part probably was Busick’s fault. Before war sobered him, there wasn’t a pretty face he’d refuse. His position and inheritance garnered many offers.
His cousin gave him no credit for falling out of false love quickly. The last heiress disagreement birthed a ten-year silence. Then, when trouble befell Colin, there was no one for him to turn to but Markham.
If Busick hadn’t been nursing his injuries, he would’ve come to his cousin’s aid, apologized again, and stopped the man from giving in to despair. Too many of his fellow veterans wrestled with the same fatal decision.
Thoughts souring, Busick shifted and turned to view the estate. Torches highlighted the enormity of Hamlin as his men took positions along the walls of the perimeter.
The young footman stood at the gate leading to the surrounding park. Busick swiped under his chin, a final signal sent to his guards to allow LaCroy safe passage.
The swinging motion of his arm whipped up that familiar scent. A milky, slightly soapy, slightly sweet fragrance permeated his greatcoat sleeve.
It was unforgettable.
The perfume of a mother and babe. His top officer, a studious young lieutenant brought his wife and newborn to the Iberian war front.
A mistake, a costly one.
But LaCroy probably had a wife, a woman nursing her child. “Good for you.”
Sullen, more than a conquering warrior should be, Busick entered Hamlin, then rested under the massive wrought iron chandelier. The limbs of the light carved in the ornate style with ribbons and filigree, towered above like an octopus caught in a crystalline net.
Lifted high by ropes and pulleys, the chandelier was brilliant, brighter than the sun, illuminating the ice-blue walls of the hall.
Blue?
Not stark white? Hmmmm.
He brushed the irritation from his mind. “The man who lowered the chandelier and lit it, an extra guinea is yours.”
None of his men answered, and the reward didn’t stop the grumbles uttering from servants his soldiers had roused from their beds. These men—stocking caps, unshorn beards, and slouching postures—all lined up, being given severance, then let go.
No loyalty problems. None.
Busick passed them, his pace slowing as he reached the nook of statues by the stairs. It had been ten years since he’d last seen the three enormous marble warriors, classic Roman soldiers bearing armor and sharp spears.
A curse jumbled with his titled name made Busick look to the line of terminated servants. “Did someone call?”
A portly fellow jerked away from the soldiers. Unlike most of the others, he was dressed in a silver livery and wore a powdered wig like LaCroy.
“Yes, Your Grace. It was I.”
Busick signaled to his men to allow the grump forward. “You are?”
“Charmers, Your Grace. I worked for your grandfather. I’m the butler now.”
This man Charmers was not charming but frumpy in his wrinkled clothes. “I don’t remember you.”
“I was the undergardener for your grandfather.”
“Well, with the unkempt lawn, I suspect you’ve been busy in the house?”
