Reputation be damned.
Chapter Seven
Thursday, 4 August 1825
Ashton House, London
Half-past one in the afternoon
Michael read thenote one more time as Booth sorted through the starched cravats in Michael’s dressing room for one that matched Robert’s purple and silver waistcoat. A twinge of nerves twisted his stomach again as he took in the words again.
What a risk she had taken sending it! When one of the hall boys had tapped on his door with the odd request to come to the servants’ hall, Michael had been curious enough to go. But, startled to find Radcliff waiting for him, he had accepted the proffered note more out of pure astonishment than curiosity. No one sent him messages now, and few had ever sent them, even during his year of making the rounds of Society balls and soirees. Once he had made his association with Eleanor Carlson clear, they had stopped altogether. And after she had ended their relationship in such a scandalous way, he had vanished into London’s underworld—which was not a place that traded in handwritten missives.
He had retreated to his bedchamber to read it—twice—before checking the time and ringing for Booth. Michael had shown the note to Robert, asking for advice on dress and comportment, which had resulted in the borrowed waistcoat. Robert, whose lopsided grin had only added to Michael’s nervousness, had encouraged him to relax and avoid stairs and mud puddles.
Advice that did not help one whit.
“Here, sir.” Booth emerged from the dressing room with a pale gray cravat. “Allow me.”
Michael stood as still as possible as the valet wound the cloth around his neck and deftly tied the requisite knot. At his side, his fingers fidgeted, and he clinched his fists trying to stop them. “You would think I had never called on a lady before,” he mumbled, annoyed at his own nervousness.
“You have not done so this season, my lord.” Booth stepped back to check his work. “At least as far as I know.”
“No. It has been a while.”
Booth reached to adjust the cravat a bare fraction. “How long?”
Michael hesitated. “Four years.”
Booth’s gaze shifted from Michael’s garb to his face, his eyebrows arching. “Four...years?”
“I might be a bit out of practice.”
“I would think that to be a distinct probability, my lord. If you do not mind me saying so.”
Michael shook his head. “I do not mind. I appreciate honesty in a valet, Booth. It will help prevent me from looking like a fool even more often than I do.”
“At least where your wardrobe is concerned, my lord.”
Michael smothered a laugh. “So do you approve of this waistcoat? It feels a bit tight.”
Booth tugged at the bottom of the waistcoat and checked one of the buttons. “Your brother has a slighter build but not significantly so. But if you wish to wear more than black and white on your outings, you might consider visiting your tailor soon.”
“These changes were all so... unexpected.”
“I had assumed so, my lord.”
Michael focused on Booth’s face. “You did?”
Booth’s mouth jerked, becoming a thin line.
Michael stepped away from him. “All right, Booth. Speak. What are they saying downstairs?”
Booth’s cheeks reddened. “My lord, I really do not wish to—”
“Tell me.”
Booth stared at the floor a moment. “They say”—he took a deep breath—“the ones who have been with the household for many years. They say your time away changed you.”
