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“Thatcher, you speak in eternal verities.” Also in riddles.
Thatcher went mumbling on his way, leaving Stephen alone in the ducal estate office. He was having a much-needed lean against a massive desk, and debating whether to engage in a bit of casual snooping, when the door opened, and a man in a dressing gown and slippers stepped into the room.
An interesting pause ensued, during which Stephen did his best to look harmless and unassuming. The other fellow swept him with an imperious inspection.
“What are you doing in my house and who the hell are you?”
My house?
“Lord Stephen Wentworth, at your service.” He pushed away from the desk enough to sketch a bow. “I’ve brought some clothing for my sister Lady Althea, also some ginger for the patient, in case Althea’s remedies occasion dyspepsia.”
Stephen could not have named the emotions crossing the man’s countenance. Dismay and consternation flickered in his green eyes, followed by fear or possibly anger. He bore a close resemblance to Rothhaven, both in his features and in the way he held himself, though his complexion was very fair and his eyes a lighter shade of green. He wasn’t quite as tall as Rothhaven nor as robust, but he was still a substantial specimen.
“You should never have been allowed into the Hall. This is Thatcher’s doing, I take it?”
“He went off in search of toast or the Holy Grail, I’m not sure which. He believes I’m here to discuss quarry stone.”
“He believes German George still sits on the throne. You are brother to Lady Althea?”
Stephen took a step forward, thinking to heft the panniers from the floor to the desk, and the man in the dressing gown stepped back. The movement was reflexive, as a groom turning out a horse in a pasture will step away if the horse has been too long confined in a stall.
For in distance lay safety.
“I am her ladyship’s younger brother. Are you Master Robbie?” Stephen’s host was at least twice as old as any Master Anybody of Stephen’s acquaintance.
More complicated emotions went flitting past. “You may call me that, but it’s best if you say nothing of this encounter. I’ll show you to the library, which is more commodious than this office.”
Who was the patient, where was Althea, and what the hell was going on in this household?
Master Robbie led Stephen down another paneled corridor, this one tastefully appointed with flowery landscapes, an interesting collection of scrimshaw carvings, and an occasional porcelain bowl of venerable pedigree.
“Who’s this?” Stephen asked, pausing before a portrait of an old gent in a splendidly embroidered coat and powdered wig. Nothing about the man suggested humor, warmth, or even human frailty. His eyes could have been chips of green ice.
“The old duke. He was hanging in the estate office, but—”
“Treegum! Treegum, where the devil have you got off to!” That sounded like Rothhaven, coming down the main stairs at a good clip. “The patient has eloped, and I refuse to lose my brother twice in two days.”
“I’m here,” Master Robbie called, which solved one mystery.
A rather large one, while it raised more riddles.
Rothhaven strode up the corridor, then came to an abrupt halt and scowled mightily at Stephen. “What in damnation areyoudoing underfoot?”
The footman, Thatcher, emerged from the kitchen steps at a stately pace, a silver tray in his hands. “And isn’t this just the way?” he groused. “I have Cookie put together this lovely tray for the gentleman in the estate office and now you’re making off with him. First proper guest we get in donkey’s years, and you lot can’t leave him be long enough to enjoy a plate of toast. I ought to give my notice, I really ought.”
“Now, Thatcher,” Rothhaven said quietly, “you know we’d be lost without you.”
“I’ll just retrieve a book and return to my room,” Master Robbie said. “Lord Stephen, a pleasure.” He bowed with more dignity than a man in slippers and a dressing gown ought to be able to muster, then departed in the direction of the estate office.
“Into the library,” Rothhaven said, holding a paneled door open. “Please.”
Stephen limped forward, more entertained than he had been in ages.
“And what am I to do with this tray, I ask you?” Thatcher muttered, following in Stephen’s wake. “I’m not getting any younger, and I have better things to do than watch you lot waste good food.”
Rothhaven held the door for the footman. “On the reading table, please, Thatcher. I believe it’s time for your morning tea break too.”
Thatcher set the tray on the table and fairly sprinted for the door. “I do fancy a spot of tea from time to time. Mind you finish every bite, Master Nathaniel.”
