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“I was afraid something had happened to you. A few people came by asking after your well-being.”
“I am quite all right,” Jarvis said with a smile.
Helen cocked her head to the side. “Are you? You look… sickly.”
“I assure you, I am well. Where is Greyson?”
Helen bit on the inside of her cheek. Jarvis narrowed his eyes, trying to discern her mood.
“He… is unwell,” Helen finally said. She tried to stay brave, but her voice was feeble. “He hasn’t been himself since the Kensington masquerade.”
I bet.“May I see him?”
“You may, but I am afraid it won’t do you any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is not lucid.” Helen wrung her hands in front of her.
Jarvis raised his brow. What an interesting choice of words. “Where is he?”
“In his study.”
Jarvis nodded and turned to leave, but Helen’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Please do not make anything worse,” she pleaded.
“I am afraid it is impossible, cousin, to make anything worse than it already is.” Jarvis tipped his head and left the room.
He opened the door to Greyson’s study and the scent of spirits, combined with an unwashed male body and what smelled like vomit, hit his nostrils hard.
What did Helen mean when she’d said to not make it worse? There could be nothing worse, Jarvis was certain. Jarvis took out a handkerchief, put it over his nostrils, and stepped inside the room.
The study was dimly lit, and it wasn’t easy to make out his cousin. The furniture was overturned, there were documents and books lying around everywhere, a few things were burning in the hearth, which Jarvis was certain did not resemble logs.
Jarvis sidestepped all the mess and made it to his cousin’s desk. There seemed to be no one around until the betraying clink of a bottle gave away Greyson’s location.
Jarvis bent at his waist and peered under the table.
Greyson smiled a drunken, wobbly smile as he saw Jarvis and waved. “Come on in,” he slurred. “You’re juss in time… I juss finish”—a hiccup—“Finished a bottle. Bring me another!”
Jarvis shook his head. “You’ve had enough, cousin. Now get out from under the desk.”
“No, never.” Greyson placed his head against the side of the desk and closed his eyes. “Never getting out. I only cause trouble.”
“You’ll cause even more trouble if you don’t get out.”
Greyson shook his head and relaxed, seemingly lost in slumber.
Jarvis straightened, adjusted his jacket, and rang the servants’ bell.
“I need you to bring a hip bath to your master’s chambers and fill it with cold water. I’d also need help from a couple of your strongest footmen.”
“Certainly, my lord.” The valet disappeared, and a few moments later, two footmen appeared in the doorway.
They hauled Greyson from beneath the desk and carried him to his room, where the bath was already filled with frigid water.
“Drop him in there,” Jarvis commanded.
