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Leke had known his niece since she was a mere bantling, and he took her dramatics with a grain of salt. Moreover, he and Rosy’s mum had agreed that Rosy was a headstrong girl, and the better for working under her uncle’s eye. “Now what did you do? I’m guessing that you earned the phrase the earl called you. What was it again?”
“Hell-begotten brat!”
“Nothing that I haven’t thought myself,” Leke said, eyeing her. Rosy was just fifteen, but her bouncing ringlets and saucy manners had started to bring entirely too much attention for her own good. The sooner they found her a solid husband, the better. “Rosy?”
Her pout turned sulky. “It’s the master’s own fault for not hiring enough staff.”
“I’m in charge of hiring the staff,” her uncle pointed out. “If we don’t have many, it’s because I won’t hire the ones who aren’t straight, and the others don’t want to work in this house.”
“Well, I burned his neck cloth, ironing it,” Rosy said in a rush. “But if he had a proper valet, I wouldn’t have had to go near an iron!”
“Bring him another cloth, girl. Step to it.”
“There aren’t any more!” Rosy moaned.
“What do you mean, there aren’t any more? The man has at least five cravats. Mind you, in a proper household, he’d have upwards of two dozen.”
“I ruined them,” Rosy admitted.
“You ruined them all?”
“Honestly, Uncle John, I didn’t know I was doing it! You know how untidy he always looks. I thought I’d better starch them. I did it just as mama does, with a cloth over them. Course the iron was sizzling hot, but I was thinking about not burning myself, and there was a terrible amount of steam, and then I don’t like the smell of starch, so I just rattled through them as fast as I could—”
“You burned them ALL?” her uncle roared.
“They aren’t exactly burned,” Rosy protested. “The starch just put yellow streaks…”
But Leke was already bounding up the servants’ stairs. He found the earl seated on a chair by the fire, scribbling on a piece of paper. He was tapping his finger against the armrest, looking as balmy as a breadbasket.
Leke gave a silent sigh of relief. Godwin didn’t show signs of being driven mad by Rosy’s ironing. “I am distressed to hear that your neck cloths have suffered an injury due to my niece’s inept ironing, my lord,” he said, bowing.
Godwin looked up, pulling his hand through his hair. He must have been dressing for the evening when he discovered the loss of his cravats; at any rate, he was wearing pantaloons. “Never mind about that,” he said with his sudden smile. “My fault for not wanting a valet around the place, fussing with my clothes. Likely my neck cloths should go out of the house for laundering along with Lina’s clothing. Could you send Sims out to buy a few more?”
“I’m afraid that the Christian & Sons have closed their doors for the night,” Leke observed. It was at moments like these that he remembered why he hadn’t yet deserted Earl Godwin, even when the rest of the household staff had fled like fleas from a dying dog. The man lived an irregular life, and one could not approve of the fancy piece living in the countess’s quarters. But there was something disarming about Godwin, and he was far more reasonable when it came to household crises than many a gentleman Leke could bring to mind.
Rees grunted. “Well, if they’re all closed, perhaps you could just pick out the least singed of those cloths, Leke. I can’t say it really matters much to me.”
Hell-born brat, indeed, Leke thought, turning over the cravats. Had Rosy confessed her ironing failures immediately, he could have bought more cravats, and no one the wiser. Instead, here was the master going out for the evening, and nothing to wear but yellowed cravats.
“I believe, sir, that if you tie a Mathematical with this pale pink cravat, the discolored starch will be inconspicuous. And may I offer my deepest apologies for this deplorable event?”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Godwin said. “Does it have to be the pink one? I feel like a man-milliner in it.”
“The white cloths are beyond use,” Leke admitted. “I shall obtain new cravats at first light tomorrow.”
“Right.” Godwin bounded up from his chair and threw the cravat around his neck. Far from tying a Mathematical, he merely pulled it into a rough knot.
Leke restrained himself. He was no gentleman’s gentleman; he was a butler. “Will Miss McKenna join you this evening?” he asked, backing toward the door as Godwin wrenched on a tailcoat in a russet color that clashed abominably with his pink cravat.
“No,” Godwin said, folding up the paper he was working on and sticking it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I’m off to Lady Hamilton’s ball for her daughter.”
No more needed to be said. The strumpet (as Alina McKenna was known to the staff) obviously wouldn’t be welcomed by Lady Hamilton. Leke bowed and retreated back to the butler’s quarters. But he was burning with curiosity.
Why was Rees Godwin attending a ball being given for a debutante? Could it be that he was the girl’s godfather? Surely they would have heard something of that in the past.
“You are a hell-born brat,” he told his niece severely. “I’m docking your wages to pay for those cravats, girl, and you’re lucky to be a family member or I’d have you out the door in a twinkling!”
Rosy scowled but kept her silence. Neither the earl nor her uncle had noticed the little brown tinges around the cuffs of Lord Godwin’s shirts, and she didn’t want to push her luck.
