He glared at Williamson. “What would make you think that?”
The spy allowed his gaze to travel down the length of Simon’s attire with the critical eye of a modiste critiquing a woman’s mode of dress she found lacking.
“I don’t want a blasted spy reporting back to you about what goes on in my household.”
“I am already aware of what goes on within these walls. The valet will be responsible for your protection.”
“It’s not myself I’m worried about. It’s Lady Bredlebane and the children and my staff.”
“All the more reason why you should have my man within.”
“Who is he and what are his qualifications?”
“His name is Mr. Jonathan Payne and this would be his very first assignment.”
Simon scoffed. “You must be joking. We don’t need a green agent who’s wet behind the ears.”
“You were once green yourself, as I recall.”
“And look where that got me. No, thank you. I can take care of my household on my own.”
“Like you were at the time of the fire when Lady Bredlebane was assaulted and her gown caught fire?”
The matter-of-fact tone in which he used to describe the second most frightening day of Simon’s life made Simon want to chop that damned tree down. And yet, he couldn’t deny the need for help.
“I’ll ask again. What are his qualifications?” He ground out.
“He comes highly recommended by someone with whom I believe you are acquainted.” Williamson pulled a letter from his jacket pocket and held it out.
Simon snatched the letter and opened it. It was written by none other than Caillen’s new brother-in-law, Elias Drake, Earl of Dorset.
“Poor Bastard,” he muttered.
“My brother-in-law is not a bastard. Nor am I, but I still find the word offensive. There are children in this household who might hear you.”
“I didn’t mean it in that way,” he blurted out.
“And yet you used it.”
“I have brothers and sisters?—”
“Who, I am certain, would not like you to use the word in their presence either.”
“Actually, my brothers?—”
The disappointment on her face was more than he could bear. Hash it all. “What I meant to say, was that it was ill-advised of me to use such a low-base word.”
Sir Williamson interjected. “The agent in question assisted the Earl of Dorset with your retrieval.”
“My ‘retrieval?’” Simon said. “Good God, I sound like a half-starved dog he found in the wilds of Scotland.”
“You were half-starved…in the middle of the ocean,” Williamson clarified.
“I was a prisoner of that bast—” he looked at Caillen who was watching him. “That arse, Napoleon, who thinks he’s king.” He faced Caillen. “I apologize for my language. I do not mean to offend you.”
“Your language is completely understandable under the circumstances,” she said.
“It is?”
