Page 18 of A Daring Desire

He nodded, but from the way his brow tightened, she knew he must be in a good deal of pain. His breathing was still shallow and careful, and he sank back against the pillows with obvious relief, falling instantly asleep.

Cat sighed, watching him as he slept more peacefully than she had seen until now, though it seemed by no means a restful slumber. His face was pinched with pain and exhaustion, and she knew he would rather do anything than accept any more of her help.

Gilbert came to relieve her so she might eat her dinner, and she left reluctantly, making her way down the grand staircase where generations of Kilbanes glowered at her progress. She had almost got rid of the lot of them, unsmiling and judgemental as they were, but they were his heritage, and she did not feel able to consign them to a dusty corner of the attic without his approval, though she had been ruthless in all other areas of the house, barring his office which she had left as she’d found it.

Cat had almost made it to the bottom of the stairs when the housekeeper came bustling up and went at once to Jefferies, the two of them putting their heads together.

“Mrs Mortimer? Is anything amiss?”

“Oh, no, not wishing to trouble your ladyship,” Mrs Mortimer said, looking a little harassed. “Only it’s Mr Jones, Lord Kilbane’s valet.”

“But he doesn’t have a valet,” Cat said in confusion.

Mrs Mortimer shook her head, her steel grey curls bouncing beneath the neat white cap she wore. “Beg pardon, my lady. What I mean is, his old valet, the one what he had before he left to go to France. Mr Jones couldn’t leave his poor mama to go too, and so his lordship found him another position. But he heard Lord Kilbane had returned—from whom I’m sure I don’t know, for my staff know better than to talk about what don’t concern them—but what must the foolish man do but tender his resignation and turn up here without a by-your-leave? I mean to say, I know the master needs a valet, and I’m sure as how Mr Jones is very good at what he does, but it’s the outside of enough for him to come to my door and telling me he’s come to take up where he left off when Lord Kilbane never asked him to do so.”

“No, but it certainly shows devotion,” Cat replied with a smile. “Show me this Mr Jones, if you would, Mrs Mortimer. I find myself fascinated to make his acquaintance.”

“Oh, but your dinner will spoil, and Mr Jones can very well wait until you are ready to see him.”

“No, no,” Cat soothed, smiling at the fretful housekeeper. “Please send Monsieur Fournier my sincere apologies and ask if he might hold dinner back for a few moments.”

Muttering under her breath about inconsiderate upper servants who thought to turn a household upon its ear for no good reason, Mrs Mortimer escorted her below stairs and Cat assured the housekeeper she could very well find her private parlour by herself whilst the lady hurried off to speak to Monsieur Fournier.

It took Cat a good ten minutes to make it from the bottom of the servants’ stairs to Mrs Mortimer’s rooms, as she fell into conversation with young Billy who had been a hall boy until last week, when Mr Jefferies had seen fit to promote him to footman. He looked so very pleased with himself in his new uniform that Cat could not help but take a moment to admire him, smiling at the pleased blush that went from his neck to his ears. She prided herself on being on terms with all the staff, especially those like Mrs Mortimer, who had remained from Lord Kilbane’s original household. She was exceedingly curious to meet a man who would have such intimate knowledge of her husband as his valet must and determined to be on the very best of terms with him.

“Mr Jones, how very good of you to come,” Cat said, taking in the man before her.

Mr Jones’ head snapped around at the sound of her voice and his eyes widened. He was a small man, smaller than Cat, with intelligent blue eyes, red hair, slightly thinning on top, and a stubborn, somewhat pugnacious round countenance that made her suspect he didn’t suffer fools. She could see at once why he had ruffled Mrs Mortimer so thoroughly. That lady hurried into the room behind her, a little breathless after her talk with the chef, and obviously eager not to miss the valet’s interview with her mistress.

Upon seeing Cat, Mr Jones’ expression changed from one of fierce obstinacy, softening to something far gentler, and he gave a low and respectful bow. “My Lady Kilbane, I am honoured, and beg you forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour. Indeed, it was very wrong of Mrs Mortimer to trouble you at this time of night,” he said, sending the housekeeper a glare of annoyance.

Mrs Mortimer immediately puffed up like an indignant hen and opened her mouth to retaliate in kind. Cat, eager to avoid a domestic dispute, hurried to intervene. “I’m afraid the fault is mine. I demanded to know what Mrs Mortimer was discussing with Mr Jefferies and so she was duty bound to tell me you see. I am given to understand you have left your employment to return to Lord Kilbane’s service?”

“That’s right,” the man said, standing straighter and putting his chin up, and Cat noted the country burr as he spoke again. Norfolk, she thought, if she placed him correctly. “I been with his lordship since he was seventeen and I would be there still if it weren’t for circumstances beyond my control.”

“Your poor mama,” Cat said, nodding sympathetically. “And how could you leave the dear lady? Indeed, I quite understand.”

“Yes, God rest her,” Mr Jones said. “But I have no ties now, and I believe I did not dissatisfy his lordship with my service, so I took the liberty of arriving before he had the opportunity to advertise the position. I am in time?” he added, looking at Cat rather anxiously.

“Indeed. Though I hope you are not too premature. For you must understand, I cannot employ his lordship’s valet in his stead. However, if perhaps you don’t mind waiting, I am certain Mrs Mortimer could provide you with some supper whilst I make enquiries.”

“My lady,” Mrs Mortimer said, in tones that suggested she was suffering a powerful upset. “That’s all well and good, but I beg you will speak to his lordship after you have eaten your dinner, for if I must tell Monsieur Fournier to hold your meal for a second time—”

“Oh dear, on his high ropes, is he?” Cat asked with compassion.

Her housekeeper let out a huff of irritation. “Well, of course he’s moped to death with having to prepare sickroom fare instead of his usual culinary arts—beneath his dignity, you understand—and with no one else having the time or the energy to eat more than a bite, being fretted to death, his pride has taken a blow,” Mrs Mortimer confessed, rolling her eyes.

“French, is he?” Mr Jones asked sagely.

“Lord, yes,” Mrs Mortimer replied with emphasis.

“Aye. Passionate lot, the French. Ask him for a soufflé or sommat tricky for your dessert, my lady, if you don’t mind the impertinence of the suggestion. But it’ll make him feel much more the thing, though he’ll no doubt kick up to make a bit of a show, like.”

Mrs Mortimer looked at Mr Jones, much struck by this wisdom. “Well,” she said, unwinding somewhat. “I must say, that does seem an excellent notion. If your ladyship wouldn’t mind?”

“No! Anything for domestic bliss,” Cat said readily. “A soufflé it is, and I shall return an answer to you, Mr Jones, as soon as I may, but I must warn you that Lord Kilbane has been very ill these past days and he is far from recovered. If he is sleeping, I may have to beg you to return in the morning.”

“Ill?” Mr Jones said astonishment. “But I never knew his lordship to be sick a day in his life. Unless you mean jug-bitten?” he said frankly.