It was like looking at the world through window shutters. It was not ideal, but at least he had not allowed the insult to Lady Viola to pass by unanswered.
Markson knocked and then brought in his breakfast tray. When his valet had first caught sight of him last evening, Roland had worried that he might have some sort of fit.
His valet had then blathered on about how when one went to the theater, one ought to watch the play—not chase after fellows and roll around the street with them.
Roland had pointed out that a lady’s honor had been at stake. Markson had said any ladyhemight associate with could find herself insulted down to her shoes with nary a shrug from him. Women were not the delicate creatures they were made out to be and could fight their battles on their own. His evidence for this theory was the two washerwomen who had apparently done just that not a week ago when he was out for a stroll.
Had Roland been not quite so bruised up, he might have scolded his valet for placing Lady Viola in the same category as two bad-tempered washerwomen.
At least this morning his valet had seemed to have regained his composure. “There’s a letter on the tray, just delivered,” Markson said.
Roland nodded, though it hurt his head to do so. “I see you intend to mock me, as I cannot possibly read anything just this minute.”
“Gerald is fetching some ice from the icehouse,” Markson said. “Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes, go ahead,” Roland said. He was fairly certain Markson made himself free with reading various letters he left around anyway.
Markson opened the letter and scanned its single page. He dropped it on the carpet.
Roland sat up straighter. “What is it? Who is it from? What does it say? Why are you looking as if you’ve seen a ghost?”
“I ain’t seen a ghost this very morning,” Markson said. “But I expect to see one soon and he’ll be driftin’ round inyourclothes.”
“What are you talking about? Clarify yourself.”
“This here is from a Mr. Berger and he says considering the actions taken last night at the theater, he must demand satisfaction. He inquires about who your second might be.”
Roland leaned back into his pillows. Another duel? That was three!
“Turn it down,” Markson said, “tell ’em you already got a duel scheduled so your calendar is full.”
“Two.”
“Two what?” Markson asked.
“Two duels,” Roland said quietly. “Chelderberry wrote yesterday.”
“But,” Markson said, sputtering, “this would make three! A fellow is lucky enough to come out of one duel alive—how is he to come out of three of them?”
“I do not know,” Roland said in a tone of resolve, “but I have scheduled the other two for the same morning. I might as well throw this one in there too. Get a sheet of paper and I will write back.”
Roland paused, then said, “No, I will dictate and you will write. I can barely see and do not wish for my handwriting to give away any weakness.”
“Yourhandwritingto give you away? It’s your face that will give away the weakness!”
“My eyes should be a deal better by the morrow,” Roland said, hoping that was indeed the case. “In fact, get me a second sheet of paper too. I would not like Lady Viola to see me in my current condition—it might put her off—but I must reassure her of my continuing devotion.”
“I see. You’ll write a love letter to the lady,” Markson said. “Or, rather, I’ll write a love letter to the lady.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Roland said. “I cannot write anything over-personal until I’ve spoken to her father, and I cannot declare myself until I have come out the other side of these duels.”
“Ifyou come out the other side. But wait, if it’s not a love letter, what is it you’re sending then?”
“A ham,” Roland said. “That will say more than my words ever could. The note will simply read: To Lady Viola, from an admirer. Tell the footman who delivers it to wear his own coat—no livery. It would not be seemly to be able to so easily identify the admirer.”
“A ham,” Markson said quietly.
“She adores ham,” Roland said. “What could be more obvious?”
