Responding in anger would make things worse, especially when he needed Gantry’s help. “I’ll rest when things are settled. But this morning, I hired a maid and a spy. Patience LaCroy has infiltrated my household. You must find a replacement nanny.”
“LaCroy? She’s related to Markham’s footman from last night?”
“The footman last night was a footwoman.”
“Truly a spy?” As if Gantry couldn’t decide what to do, he folded his arms and sank against the dresser. “He was a she? Are you sure?”
Oh, Busick was sure Mrs. LaCroy was all woman. Curly auburn hair that looped behind dainty ears. Brown eyes of the deepest topaz and a figure full of curves . . . Well, none of that gave her away as the footman, but the unmistakable cleft in her chin on her heart-shaped face was the concluding evidence. That and his valet asking how he had theater makeup on his coat.
“Yes, Gantry, my nanny was the footman.”
“Duke, are you sure? Are we that out of practice socializing?”
The past years left little time for women.
Avoiding his wayward mother’s attention took up the rest. A hint of an injury would bring forth Lady Bodonel’s “caring” role. She’d find a way to enable a compromise with some socialite’s daughter for those grandchildren she claimed to want. But what she actually longed for was access to better parties, ones his union to a lady with the right connections would solicit.
“Yes to both. We are hermits, and she’s a spy. Is she working for Markham or someone else. Maybe Colin’s debtors?”
The viscount rubbed his jaw. “Not that it makes any sense, but why would a spy want the baby? And why did you give the boy to him—her?”
WhyhadBusick?
Was his vanity that great?
Or was it the sorrow in her eyes when she lay upon him, like her world would burst if he refused her. “I suspect she’s harmless but here to feed some information to someone.”
“And you are now dressed, shaved, and in one of your best coats to do what? Interrogate the lady spy?”
Busick fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat again, pushing the disks through holes. “I’m not sure, but I’ll need you to find a new wet nurse if I don’t get the answers I want.”
Gantry tapped the empty glass and smirked. “Well, if you are going to go interrogating, you’ll need sleeve buttons.” He yanked open the drawer and steeped his hands into cravats . . . and that mechanical thing, that awful thing.
Busick wasn’t quick enough to stop the viscount. He should’ve remembered that Gantry was similar to himself, not letting anything go until he’d found answers.
The silence deafened.
Then Busick heard his heart beat loud, loud, louder than the thunder outside. He counted the seconds for his friend to ask his questions.
Why didn’t Busick say he needed an amputee’s stump?
Does it hurt? Does he need to be coddled?
But Gantry didn’t lift his head. He poked at the leather strings attached to the lifeless piece of wood carved to take the place of a limb.
The fasteners itched and pinched when Busick strapped it to the stump that remained of his leg.
“I think my valet put the buttons in the second drawer.”
Gantry closed up the top one. “You’re right. No sleeve buttons here. You’re good without . . . them. I’ll keep looking.”
Busick kept his gaze steady. No signs of weakness or hesitation would show. He wasn’t defined by a leg. He was competent and in command, but others decided with their dour eyes and sappy pity that he was no longer of use. “Yes, do so. Check the second drawer. I’m good, but sleeve buttons will make me perfect.”
Gantry frowned, but still refrained from asking the things he must want to know.
So Busick decided he’d answer. “Badajoz. It took a year for the nerves to stop throbbing like fire and many more months to balance and then walk. Almost two years to mostly recover. And itwillrain.” He slapped his thigh. “What’s left of this leg says so. Anything else you haven’t asked but want to know?”
A knock at the door ended this one-sided staring match.
