Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,44

like your dressing gown? I can lay it at the foot of your bed or assist you with it.”

He had a dressing gown? Nash scooted to the edge of the bed, reached for the nightstand, and grasped the pistol. He didn’t point it at the stranger. A man with a dressing gown was not too much of a threat, but Nash felt better having the weapon in his hands.

“What are you doing in my bedchamber? Did my father send you? Are you from the asylum?”

“I am from Bath, sir. Mr. Payne hired me.” He made a tsking sound. “And not a moment too soon.”

Nash tried to imagine the state of his room. Clothes were probably strewn about, left wherever he had dropped them. Mrs. Brown made certain his sheets were clean, but he chased her out of his chamber if she tried to dust or do much more than gather his clothing for the laundry.

“Why would Mr. Payne hire you?”

“Mr. Payne was detained in Blunley. He hired me to serve as your valet.”

“Well, you can go back to Bath. I don’t need a valet.”

“I beg to differ, sir. I will leave the dressing gown on the foot of the bed. I asked a woman I found bustling about to heat water for your bath. I suppose there are no other servants in residence.” The valet sounded rather put out by this fact.

“I don’t need any servants. Tell Mr. Payne I sent you on your way.”

“I will not be leaving, sir, though I must admit it is beneath my station to carry water, but I will make the sacrifice today. I can see this is an emergency.”

“Get out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nash let out a breath.

“I will be back with tea and your bath, sir.”

“No, you won’t.” Bloody, bloody damn hell! “If you come back, I’ll shoot you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you hear me, Clapton—”

“It’s Clopdon, sir.”

“I don’t care what your name is. You’ll be dead.”

“Of course, sir. Do you take sugar in your tea?

“No!” Why the hell would this man not leave?

“Very good, sir. I never take sugar either—slave labor, you know. I can see I will have to find soap and towels and the bathing tub. I may not return as quickly as I would hope.”

“Do you know who I am, Clopdon? Do you know I shot a man—a friend of mine—only a few months ago?”

“I did not know that, sir. If you give me his name, I will be sure he is not admitted again.”

This was ridiculous. “I want you to leave, Mr. Clopdon.”

“It’s just Clopdon, sir, and no.”

Nash raised the pistol. “Then I have no choice but to shoot you.”

Clopdon sighed. “Very well then.”

“You don’t care if I shoot you?”

“Of course, I care, sir. But you won’t shoot me.” His voice grew fainter as, presumably, he began to move toward the door.

“And how do you know that?”

“I took your pistol balls and gunpowder, sir.”

“The hell you did!” But a quick check of his weapon showed this to be true. His balls and powder were missing. Clopdon must have come in while he was sleeping, taken the pistol, disarmed it, and set it on the nightstand.

Nash would kill the valet. Then he would kill Rowden.

Nash jumped out of bed, realized he was naked, and reached for the damn dressing robe. It was easily within reach. Damn Clopdon. Nash pulled the garment on and realized it was clean and starched. Clopdon, again. Damn him!

Nash would throw him out of the house. He would shove his boot—if he could find his boots—up Clopdon’s arse.

That’s when the hammering started.

Nash knew it was hammering. He knew the workmen were back, but he couldn’t stop his body’s response. He fell to the floor and took cover. And even though he told himself no one was firing upon him, no cannon balls or pistol balls were incoming, he could not seem to stop cowering at the edge of the bed.

He did not know how long he lay there, rigid with fear, but at some point Clopdon returned, and from the sound of it, he was hauling something heavy. It thudded on the floor, and Nash realized it must be the tub.

“Sir,” Clopdon said between ragged breaths. “If you must lie on the floor, I would prefer you not do so until I have it mopped and cleaned. I shall have to wash that dressing gown again.”

Nash let out an involuntary laugh that was somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. In that moment, it was clear Clopdon was not