“It’s been snowing a lot, but Colin Jordan appointed me to be inside. I’m glad you’re here. There’s too much waywardness happening. I hope you’ve come to put things in order.”
To know Busick’s grandfather, the late Duke of Repington, the man knew Strathmore scandals. So, what type of order did he seek?
The pacification of an invalid father?
The firm hand offered by Grandfather?
The wild antics surrounding Mother?
“Your Grace?” The gardener-turned-butler stepped closer and swatted at Busick’s coat, brushing off white powder. “I heard you’d been mighty hurt in Badajoz or San Sebastián.”
No more hurt or broken than Busick’s surviving men. His soldiers looked resplendent in their cranberry regimentals. Unless one stared, one couldn’t see the missing arm or fingers that his valet’s padding hid.
“Badajoz. You’re dismissed.”
“But . . . But . . . Your Grace.”
“You’re dismissed. Get back in line or forgo your severance. Markham will be tossed out shortly. You can follow him. His household might need you.”
Busick powered across the hall and stormed into the drawing room. He rested a moment perched at the door, his eyes soaking in more changes. A pianoforte with an exotic olive patina sat in the corner where a suit of armor once resided. A new sofa and a sideboard completed the design.
New furnishings as well as a yellow paper treatment on the walls?
If he didn’t know how his mother, Lady Bodonel, loathed Hamlin, he would’ve thought she was here, readying Hamlin for one of her legendary parties. The notion burned his gut, stirring up feelings he’d rather forget.
Moving deeper into the room, Busick’s opinion changed. This was far too elegant and sedate for his mother. The light corn-silk yellow pattern of faint fleur-de-lis, the sea-blue chairs and matching sofa were warm, not ostentatious.
The drawing room would make an excellent base for his headquarters. Here he’d plot war tactics, instruct his ward, and maybe even plan a triumphant return to the field.
The Peninsular War still raged.
Napoleon hadn’t surrendered.
Strategists were needed as much as foot soldiers.
Winded, his arm going a little numb from strain, Busick made it to Grandfather’s desk and dropped like a rock onto the chair. He rubbed his palm along the rich claret-colored cushion of the newly sprung seat, then whipped out his pocket watch. Twenty-three after eleven. He was late, missing his adjusted schedule by three minutes.
Annoyed at himself, he laid his head back in the chair. He was still learning how not to fatigue so easily. Tiring tacticians were of no use to anyone.
The door slammed shut.
The viscount marched into the room, fists pumping.
Like a magician’s cloak, Gantry shed his dark chocolate cape, whirling it in the air before sending it flying to the sofa. It looked like one of his mother’s watercolors, the brown earth lying upon the blue sea, missing only nakedness—scantily clad sailors or mermaids.
“I can’t believe this, Duke.”
Busick should stand for his friend, his fellow officer, but his back wasn’t going to allow him to move fast, not if he wanted to be of use, not laid up and ailing in bed. “What has happened? Has Markham escaped? My ward?”
His friend undid the belting of his hilt, and his sword dropped to the floor with a clang. “No, the blackguard hasn’t escaped, and the baby seems well, a might scrawny for three months of age.”
“Scrawny? I knew Markham couldn’t be trusted. But if the boy is alive, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
The sneer on Gantry’s face could freeze the air and any of the rumored apparitions that walked Hamlin’s two-hundred-year-old grounds.
“I’ve a guard on the nursery. No harm will come to Lionel Jordan, but your uncle Markham . . . Well, I found him attempting to seduce the governess. The woman locked herself in the closet with some fit of hysteria. He’s getting dressed. They’ll both be down shortly.”
Markham couldn’t be trusted with anyone, let alone female servants. A man of honor couldn’t bed women in his employ. Servants needed to be safe, their wages based on the proficiency of duties, not whims or sexual favors.
