It was plain, made of hardwood, with a wide head. Trevillion leaned heavily on the cane, bracing his crippled right leg as he heaved himself to his feet. He paused a moment to adjust to standing, ignoring the ache that shot through the leg. The ache was bone-deep, which made sense, since it was a bone of that leg that’d been broken—not once, but twice, the second time catastrophically.
It was the second break that had cost him his army career in the dragoons. The Duke of Wakefield had offered him another job instead—although Trevillion still wasn’t entirely sure if he should be grateful for that offer or not.
He glanced out the window as he waited for the ache in his leg to die down. He could see several gardeners laboring over a crate in the back garden. As he watched, the top was pried off, revealing rows of what looked like sticks packed in straw.
Trevillion raised his brows.
He pivoted gingerly and limped out his door and into a hallway in Wakefield House—the duke’s London residence. His room was at the back of the house, at the end of one of the corridors. Not a servant’s room, certainly, but not a guest’s, either.
Trevillion’s mouth quirked. He lived in a strange limbo between.
It took him five excruciating minutes to negotiate the stairs down to the floor below. Just as well that the duke had been so generous with his living situation.
The servants had the topmost fifth floor of Wakefield House.
He could hear feminine laughter now as he laboriously approached the Achilles Salon. Quietly he pushed open the tall, pink-painted doors. Inside, three ladies sat close together, the ruins of a full tea service on the low table before them.
As he began limping toward them, the youngest, a pretty, plump, brown-haired girl, turned in his direction a full second before the other ladies looked up as well.
He marveled at how Lady Phoebe Batten was always the first to be aware of his presence. She was blind, after all.
“My warder comes for me,” she said lightly.
“Phoebe,” Lady Hero Reading whispered, chiding. She was the middle Wakefield sibling—younger sister of the duke, elder of Lady Phoebe—but the two women looked nothing alike. Lady Hero was taller than her sister, with a willowy figure and flame-colored hair. No doubt she thought he couldn’t hear her undertone, but alas, he could. Not that it mattered. He was fully aware of what his charge thought of him and his duties.
“Won’t you have a seat?” the third member of the tea party asked kindly. Her Grace the Duchess of Wakefield, Artemis Batten, was an ordinary-looking woman—excepting her rather fine dark-gray eyes—but she held herself with all the command of a duchess. If one were unaware of her history, one would never guess that she’d served as an impoverished lady’s companion to her distant cousin until her marriage to the duke.
A formidable lady indeed.
“Thank you, my lady.” Trevillion nodded and chose a chair a discreet distance from the trio. However much she hated it, it was his job to watch over and protect Lady Phoebe. Obviously he wasn’t needed when she was with her sister and sister-in-law—or indeed anywhere in Wakefield House—but should she wish to go out after tea, he was bound to accompany her.
Whether she liked it or not.
Lady Hero rose. “I ought to get back to Sebastian anyway. No doubt he’s woken from his afternoon nap.”
“So soon?” Lady Phoebe pouted, then immediately brightened. “We’ll take tea next week at your house—preferably in the nursery.”
Lady Hero laughed gently. “I fear taking tea with an infant and a small child in leading strings is a messy business at best.”
“Messy or not, Phoebe and I look forward to seeing our nephews,” the duchess said.
“Then please come.” Lady Hero smiled ruefully. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you leave with mashed peas in your hair.”
“A small price to pay to spend time with Sweet William and baby Sebastian,” Her Grace murmured. “Come, I’ll see you to the door. I’ll be leaving shortly anyway.”
“You will?” Lady Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together. “But you were gone this morning as well—quite mysteriously, too. Where are you off to now?”
It was small, but Trevillion caught it—a slight waver in the duchess’s gaze, swiftly corrected before she replied. “Just to visit Mrs. Makepeace at the orphanage. I shan’t be long—I’ll certainly return by supper, if Maximus ever emerges from his study and wonders where his wife has gone.”
“He spends entirely too much time in there. Truly Parliament won’t fall apart if he takes one day away.” Lady Hero bent to buss her sister on her cheek. “Next week, then? Or shall I see you at the Ombridges’ soiree?”
Lady Phoebe sighed heavily. “Maximus says I can’t attend. Too crowded, it seems.”
Lady Hero darted a glance at the duchess, standing behind Lady Phoebe. The duchess’s mouth flattened as she shrugged.
“It’s sure to be a terrible bore,” Lady Hero said cheerfully. “A crush like that. You wouldn’t like it anyway.”
Trevillion felt his own mouth tighten as he looked away in irritation. Lady Hero was trying to soften the blow, he knew, but she was going about it in the wrong way. He’d not been serving as Lady Phoebe’s bodyguard for long—only since just before Christmas—but in that time he’d come to realize that the girl loved social events. Musicales, balls, afternoon tea parties, anything with people. She lit up when she was at these gatherings. But her elder brother, Maximus Batten, Duke of Wakefield, had decreed that such outings were too dangerous for Lady Phoebe. Thus she went to very few social events outside her family—and those were carefully vetted.