The Perfect Arrangement (The Not So Saintly Sisters #4) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,3

a vender’s cart and he and the vendor backed up against the storefront behind them. The horses swerved, but the coach smashed into the poor vender’s cart, sending various fruits and vegetables onto the walkway and into the street.

But for a few inches to spare, both Christian and the man tending the cart would have been in the same condition as the hundreds of smashed tomatoes strewn at their feet.

Black edged Christian’s vision and his heart felt as though it had jumped into his throat.

But for the vendor’s cart, he would have met his demise today.

He needed to protect Bernadette, by God, and he needed to do something soon.

* * *

Two days later, Christian laid in bed staring at the blurred colors of the ornate ceiling he’d not yet become accustomed to. Sleeping in this room felt all wrong. It was his father’s room, or one of his older brother’s. It was never meant to have become his. He closed his eyes and raised one arm to shut it out.

The solicitors hadn’t come up with any new fail-safe plan for Bernadette. He was of a mind to hire someone new, as they’d all but dismissed his fears as baseless.

Christian wished he could dismiss them so easily as well.

As a result of the runaway coach incident, he’d not stepped out of the house even once since arriving home that evening. The event had been a harsh reminder of the fate he faced and although he knew he could just as easily be killed in a household accident, he’d felt some semblance of safety locked away inside of Master’s House.

He’d have to force himself outside today, however, as he’d promised Bernadette he’d escort her to a particular museum exhibition she was interested in. That was, unless he could persuade her to postpone the excursion.

He’d speak with her right away, before she was dressed and became too set on going out.

Lunging forward, he tossed back the counterpane. “Simmons!” he called out. “Has my sister taken breakfast yet?”

“Your Grace.” The short but stout valet entered as though he’d been standing at the ready. “I believe she is doing so this very moment. There is another matter—“

“I need to speak with her at once.” Christian hopped to the floor and reached for the linen shirt he’d worn yesterday, pulling it hastily over his head.

“I do have a new shirt and trousers laid out for you, Your Grace.” Simmons frowned and disappeared into the dressing room. “About the other matter—“

“I won’t be going out today, Simmons. I’ve estate reports to read and I’ve already put them off for far too long.” Christian had tucked the long garment into his breeches and was just fastening them when Simmons returned, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

Before Christian located the waistcoat he’d worn yesterday, his dedicated valet stood smoothing Christian’s shirt and holding out a newly pressed coat for Christian to slip his arms in.

“She will be most disappointed, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I know, Simmons.” He daren’t risk it, however. If there was nothing Christian could set up legally, perhaps he’d have to go another route. Oxley might be willing to steal her away until she was of age—set her up in one of his country estates.

The idea would have to be a last resort, as it would ensure she’d never have a season. Good lord, Society might consider her ruined. Unless either Ox or Cornelius consented to marry her.

But she would be safe.

“Oh…” Simmons mourned “Will you at the very least allow me to shave you before you go down, Your Grace?”

Christian had shunned the idea of keeping a man on staff to dress him for most of his life and it was taking a bit of getting used to. The valet looked quite pained.

“I’ll only be a moment. You can do what you like with me after I’ve had a word with my sister.”

“But, Your Grace—.”

“Where are my damned boots?” Christian ran his fingers along the brown stubble that had grown overnight at the same time Horace, his average-sized mutt of undetermined pedigree, jumped up from the dog bed placed near the door and shook himself from head to toe before ambling over with one of Christian’s well-worn hessians in his mouth.

“Jacket first, Your Grace.” Christian worked his arms into the tightly fitted coat, bent down to rub the mutt’s head and then rose again, allowing Simmons to tie his cravat.

It wasn’t until Christian had already escaped his overzealous valet and was halfway down the