“Time for your bath, Lionel, and to make an ointment for that bottom.”
Opening the window, I let a little fresh, cold air inside. The glimmer of Papa’s knife shined on the ledge. I stretched and put it in my pocket. It was good that it was here and not on my person when the duke inspected me. I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep it, and he’d think I was nefarious to have a weapon about a baby. Yet, until Lionel and I were at the docks in Demerara, we weren’t safe. This was a long war. The next battle would be fifteen past one.
CHAPTER 9
A VALET AND AVISCOUNTKNOW
Thunder growled outside his bedchamber window. Busick muttered to himself and rubbed his hip. The sense of imminent rain ached his bones.
Schedule change. No outdoor exercise today. A storm would come. Well, a second one. Shrewsbury and her young women were the first.
He stretched on the edge of his disheveled bed. The new maid he hired, Mrs. St. Maur, had stripped it of its sheets before he could blink. That servant was a good, industrious hire, even if he’d made it under duress.
The other one, LaCroy, was a different matter. Beautiful, deceptive, beautiful, bony elbows, nicely shaped . . . deceptive.
Well, some things didn’t change, like him finding the niceties about a woman, even if she was a spy. One of Markham’s no doubt.
Busick swiped at his freshly shaved jaw as he waited for the sharp pain in his back to settle. Sliding on his shirt even while seated still hurt sometimes. His valet left a half pour of rum atop his set of drawers. Rum eased the pain and left him with more sense of control than laudanum or the other medicines his physicians prescribed. He needed to keep his wits with spies and soldiers about.
Gulping a full breath, he pushed up on his staff. Standing, he smoothed the shirttails into his breeches. Done. He’d relearned to do most of his dressing seated instead of standing in front of a mirror. Anyone coming through his door would probably notice no difference.
Yanking his waistcoat off the chest of drawers, he looped it over his shoulder and swayed. He must look like a Morris dancer, a bad one. He’d been pretty good at preening with the latest feather at balls and private dinners. He was good at many things before Badajoz.
Struggling to button his bone buttons and keep from keeling over, Busick grabbed the knurled edge of the dresser. The glass of rum shook. The desire to down it pressed. It was the only thing calling him to sanity when he couldn’t do things that felt normal, but today, he needed a clear head to deal with a spy.
Being made a fool by a woman, a nanny in his household, was not normal. Far from it.
A knock on his door left little time to straighten the bandaging to his leg. The straps and ribbons fastened at his thigh needed a little adjustment, but a quick glance showed he looked decent. “Come in.”
Gantry pounded inside. “Duke, a young woman just shook me from my bed. Then I remembered the baby. I should’ve come and relieved you by . . . now.”
The viscount was in need of a shave. His eyes were half-open as his neck swiveled from side to side. “Where’s the baby? Duke, what have you done?”
Ahh. The joy of knowing something Gantry didn’t. Busick stretched his stiffening shoulder and pulled his cravat from the high back of the infernal invalid chair. “The babe is well. You should return to your room and get a few more hours of sleep. You look lost.”
Gantry wiped at his eyes. “If I remember correctly, I left you with a baby, Duke. What did you do with him?” The viscount clasped the drawer pull on the chest of drawers. “You didn’t put him away like a cravat, did you?”
“Of course not.” Busick put his hand on the ornately carved drawer, keeping it closed. “I didn’t fold him like a shirt, either. What do you take me for?”
Seizing the glass of rum, Gantry emptied it. “Sorry, I’m not fully awake. But you’re up and shaven. Where’s Master Jordan?”
Now was the time to look steady as a swan and pretend he did not stop his friend from opening the drawer. Probably needed more rum in that glass to dull the viscount’s wits.
“The babe is fine. He’s with the nanny upstairs, one I hired a few hours ago but must terminate now. Could you help me with my jacket? My valet left it over there, hooked to the bedpost.”
Gantry’s face became a mash of questions, but he moved, collected the jacket, and held it out.
Sliding one arm in the tailcoat of dark indigo and doing a little hop to tug the other sleeve in place, Busick then took a large breath. “Hopefully the rain will stop, and we’ll lead the troops through outdoor exercises tomorrow. Maybe my ward will watch, too.”
Gantry pushed a hand through his hair and swept aside his too long locks. “One, it’s not raining yet. Two, your ward cannot walk. Three. Why terminate the nanny you just hired? It’s not that Mrs. Kelly.”
“No, not her. A new one.” The way Busick’s thigh ached, it would rain today. But he couldn’t say that without sparking questions of his injury. “My valet is excellent at barbering. He could fix all that hair and put you back into military precision.”
“I served my time. My wife, she likes it . . . long.” Gantry shuffled his feet and looked down. “The length is fine.”
Busick noticed this was the first time he’d brought the wife up after weeks of not mentioning her. “We both know how to avoid talking of things, but you can tell me anything.”
“And you’ll do the same? Starting with why you can’t spend a week or two resting, getting to know your ward, before doing drills. You’re stunting your recovery. It’s been almost two years since Badajoz, and you’re still on a crutch. You must keep reinjur-ing yourself by not giving the bone the proper time to heal.”
