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“Sod off,” Ronan mumbled sleepily, his face mashed into his pillow. Burrowing further into the comfortable bedcovers, he drifted back into slumber’s welcome embrace.

Rap. Rap.

“My lord?”

Ronan pulled a pillow over his head. He couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour or two. Every limb felt weighted with lead, and for certain, someone had stuffed his head with wool. Dirty, wet wool.

Rap. Rap. RAP.

The last knock rattled the door and jingled the lock.

Bloody persistent bugger.

“’Tis Pillington, your lordship.”

Blister and blast.

Groaning, Ronan flopped onto his back and covered his eyes with a bent elbow.

What in Hades was one of Father’s footmen doing here?

One thing was for absolute certain. The loyal servant wouldn’t go away until he’d delivered whatever message he’d been sent across London at—Ronan raised his arm and squinted at the table clock—seven of the clock to do so.

Father must be in fine fettle to send for him at this deplorable hour.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

“My lord?” An edge of impatience had crept into the dutiful servant’s voice. “Your father requests your presence straightaway.”

Not just a message then, but a royal summons. By none other than the Marquess of Trentholm himself. One did not ignore such a directive and not suffer unpleasant consequences.

Heaving a resigned sigh, Ronan sat up. He shoved the bedcoverings aside, then yawned widely, raising his arms overhead and stretching.

Rap. Rap-rap-rap. Rap-rap-rap. Rap-rap-rap-rap-rap.

Sounded like a demented woodpecker.

Despite his exhaustion, Ronan chuckled.

“I’m coming, Pillington.”

Groggy from lack of sleep, he swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed. Standing on the clothing he’d unceremoniously discarded less than three very short hours ago, he raked his fingers through his hair.

Catching sight of his naked form, he grinned. He had best throw on a banyan, or he’d shock the staid footman. It would serve Pillington right for waking him if Ronan flung open the door naked as a robin.

Yawning again, he shrugged into the jade and black striped silk robe. Tying the garment loosely at the waist, he strode to the door, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor as the silk swished around his ankles.

He threw the panel open, and with his forearm braced against the doorframe, he cocked a lazy grin.

“Yes, Pillington?” Ronan couldn’t quite keep the drollness from his tone.

Well trained, the disciplined servant’s gaze never drifted below Ronan’s nose.

“The marquess requests your presence straightaway,” he repeated unnecessarily. “A coach awaits you outside.”

Of course, it did.

Father left nothing to chance. Ever.