When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,10
in dark blue to best show off his golden hair and pale complexion. The valet had been with Julian since both were teenagers—probably the only reason Vanderberg put up with a pittance in pay.
The valet leaped to his feet, assuming an expression of stoic servility, patently in contrast to his usual demeanor when alone with Julian. “Mr. Greycourt! I had no notion you had returned to the hall. And in dishabille.”
His glance at Julian’s hair was full of badly concealed horror.
“Quite,” Julian said reprovingly. He hadn’t time to smooth Vanderberg’s ruffled sensibilities. “Fetch a bucket of water.”
The valet opened his mouth, closed it, and turned. An earthenware cistern stood in the corner of the kitchen, and Vanderberg swiftly filled a bucket with water and brought it to Julian.
Julian jerked his chin at Quinn. “Douse him.”
Vanderberg raised an eyebrow but obeyed, throwing the bucketful of water into Quinn’s face.
Quinn straightened, sputtering. “What? Wha—?”
“Bathe him and make him presentable,” Julian ordered the footman before glancing at Lucretia. “Have a cup of tea. I’ll be ready in a half hour.”
He didn’t wait for her reply but strode from the room and back into the hall, Vanderberg trotting to keep up. Julian took the wooden stairs two at a time, careful not to use the banister—it had a tendency to fall off.
“Pack my things,” he called to Vanderberg as they made his room.
Julian ignored the valet’s mutter and stripped off his coat and shirt.
Behind him something clattered to the floor.
“Don’t,” he snapped, pouring water from a jug into a basin for washing.
“But, sir, your back,” Vanderberg protested.
The valet was impertinent. Julian ignored him as he rubbed himself down with the cold water and a bit of cloth. He pulled a fresh lawn shirt over his head before dressing as quickly as he could in a silvery gray suit. He was relieved when he turned and saw that Vanderberg had finished packing several trunks.
“May I at least dress your hair?” the valet asked, his voice sounding injured.
Julian sat on a stool and submitted to having his hair tamed, the long wavy locks brushed and braided tightly. His hasty toilet was finished with a black ribbon wound around the end of the braid.
Vanderberg stepped back, surveying Julian. “As good as I can do in such a hurry.”
“No matter,” Julian replied. “Have the carriage driver help you with the trunks.”
Downstairs he found Lucretia peering at a dusty shelf in the library, a cup of tea in one hand and a slice of seedcake in the other. “We leave in ten minutes. Get in the carriage.”
She sighed. “I’m going to need another piece of cake in that case.”
He didn’t bother answering and left for the kitchen.
Quinn didn’t appear any more sober, but at least he was clean. He looked up with bloodshot gray eyes when Julian entered. “Where’re we goin’?”
“London,” Julian replied curtly, taking one of his brother’s arms while the footman took the other.
“Why?” Quinn slurred.
“Because,” Julian said grimly as they staggered to the front door. “We have to put a stop to whatever Augustus has planned.”
* * *
The sky wept on his wedding day although the bride did not, Gideon mused late the next morning.
The splatter of rain hitting the window was a drumbeat accompaniment to the bishop’s droning voice. A bishop, and on less than a day’s notice. Gideon eyed the cleric and wondered what spur the duke had used to obtain both him and the special license. Blackmail, judging by the way the bishop nervously eyed the old man. Gideon could almost feel sorry for the clergyman—if he ever wasted time or emotion on any aristocrat.
He put the bishop’s distress out of his mind as he studied the duke. Windemere’s expression was that of an indulgent uncle, but his eyes were filled with dark glee.
Last night the old man had been set on seeing them married at once. Gideon had argued for more than half an hour before the duke conceded and agreed to wait until the more civilized morning. As it was, they had only Messalina’s maid and the Windemere House butler as witnesses. Well, and Keys, if one could count him as a witness. The young man lurked in the corner.
Gideon finally looked at his bride. Messalina wore a dark-gray gown that nearly matched the shadows under her eyes. Her complexion was sallow with fatigue, her mouth thinned into a stoic line, and her dark hair drawn into a tight, unbecoming knot.