‘I am not sure. I can hardly ask, but I suspect not.’
Sophie got the point immediately. ‘That is disgraceful. People’s evil minds, I mean. Not whether she and her husband share a bed.’
‘It is certainly unpleasant. Which is why I want to be at the ball tonight so I can guard Lady Northam without appearing to attend in company with both her and her husband,’ Jared said.
‘You all have unpleasantly convoluted minds,’ Sophie said severely. ‘Poor woman. Is she able to confide in her friends or must she suspect everyone?’
‘She has no friends. She is not an aristocrat, her origins, at least so far as the ton is concerned, are obscure, and she has caught a rich and titled husband very much older than she is. She tells me no-one is actively hostile, merely distant.’
‘I will not be distant,’ Sophie declared. ‘I shall make her my friend and where the Duchess of Calderbrook leads others will want to follow.’ She tipped up her chin and then laughed when she caught her husband’s eye. ‘I still cannot quite believe I am a duchess, so I had better practise.’
From the expression on Cal’s face as he looked at his wife, with her famous guinea-gold hair rumpled and her blue eyes dancing, Jared guessed he wanted to spend some time ensuring she was thoroughly convinced she was a duchess – and whose duchess she was. He felt a sudden, unpleasant, stab of jealousy for what they had and got to his feet. ‘I must go, but I’ll come back here if I may this evening to see if Flynn has worked miracles on my clothing and change before the ball.’
‘Come to dinner,’ Cal said.
‘And borrow a waistcoat,’ Flynn muttered as Jared let himself out, pausing to lift Sophie’s hand to his lips with an extravagant flourish, just to tease Cal.
It was despicable to feel jealous of his closest friend, the man who was like a brother to him. Jared’s thoughts juddered to a halt, shied away from the word. Cal was more than a brother could ever be. Jared had recreated himself and in the process had invented a man who could never marry a lady of rank. But there were other women in the world. One of them, perhaps, was for him. One of them who was not already married.
Jared spent a couple of hours over beyond the Tower, catching up on neglected business with the swordsmith he patronised. When he finally reached Great Ryder Street it was to find that the builders had made good progress. The interior was virtually ready for the carpenters to install the doors, panelling and trim and for the decorators to turn it from a building site to an elegant masculine haven.
Upstairs the great bed was installed with a note propped up on it to say that the foreman had checked the beams beneath the floor and were satisfied they were strong enough. The big copper bathtub stood in wha
t would become his dressing room and Jared regarded it with a longing for hot water and plenty of it. Another cold scrub would have to suffice – and he must find a manservant very soon.
The distant thud of the knocker on the front door reached him up the stairs. That was another thing… He jotted doorbell on a scrap of paper on his way past the table. When he opened the door the young man on the other side visibly braced himself to face the scowl.
‘Yes?’ Jared demanded, impatient.
‘I have come to apply for the position of gentleman’s gentleman, Mr Hunt. My name is Anthony Dover.’
‘You are a mind reader?’ Jared studied the youthful, freckled face.
The lad – if he was more than eighteen Jared would be surprised – looked back stolidly. ‘I understand you require someone in that capacity. I am an acquaintance of Michael Flynn, the Duke of Calderbrook’s man, sir.’
‘Are you, indeed?’
Dover coloured up. ‘Not that kind of friend, sir.’
‘Flynn’s personal preferences are his own business,’ Jared said mildly. ‘As are yours, providing you can avoid getting arrested for them on my time.’ He and Cal had rescued Michael Flynn from a beating on the streets of New York and neither of them regretted it, despite Michael’s illegal sexual inclinations occasionally making life more than a little interesting in the course of their travels.
The blush deepened, but Dover persevered. ‘I happened to see Flynn this afternoon. This is my half-day off. I am an under-footman, sir, with Lord Porton. But I have ambitions to better myself.’
‘And you think working as the sole servant to a non-titled swordmaster will do that?’
‘I wish to learn swordsmanship, sir. I am willing to work for board and lodgings and tuition. Flynn says that you won’t always be living in the middle of a building site and that I’d do well to attach myself to you now.’ He was taut with earnestness, Jared saw, keeping himself still with an effort, like a gundog puppy quivering in anticipation of the order to retrieve.
‘Come in.’ He walked through to the salle d’armes, unlocked a cupboard, took out two foils and without warning tossed one to the young man who caught it by the hilt. ‘Defend yourself.’ And then he attacked.
A frantic two minutes later Anthony Dover was flat against the wall, his foil on the other side of the room and the blunted point of Jared’s blade at his throat.
‘Not bad. How do I know Flynn sent you?’
Dover swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the cold metal. ‘He said perhaps I could persuade you to wear colours, sir, and that he had a purple waistcoat that would be a good start. And he said you had a magnificent figure and would do my reputation as a valet a deal of good if I didn’t make a hash of dressing you.’
Jared lowered his foil and went to pick up the other one. ‘When can you start?’ he said when he turned, his face straight again. Magnificent figure indeed. Michael would pay for that crack.
‘Tomorrow, sir. Lord Porton’s closing up the London house and going to the country and I was to stay as part of the caretaking staff, so I think the butler will let me go without me working my notice. He’ll give me a character, sir. Not that he likes me much, but he’s fair enough.’