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He took up his traveling desk and made his way to the front sitting room, meaning to see to his correspondence. The room, however, was not empty. Mr. Walker was inside, discussing with the footman the height and size of a particular table and its potential use as a dining surface in Mrs. Brownlow’s sitting room while she regained her strength. Scott didn’t care to interrupt, and not merely because the matter was wholly unrelated to him. He also found himself struggling to feel charitable toward the butler.
As Mr. Walker dismissed the footman, he spotted Scott and offered the expected bow. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“You might answer a question for me.”
“Of course, Mr. Sarvol.”
Scott watched him closely, wanting to catch the man’s unspoken responses. “Why is it you dislike Miss Phelps?”
Shock. That was the only way to describe Mr. Walker’s immediate reaction. “I do not dislike Miss Phelps.”
Scott shook his head. “Anyone who watches you interact with her can see that you do. Clearly see it. You are formal in your treatment of others, but you are cold to her. Dismissive. And I assure you she has not failed to notice.”
Mr. Walker didn’t seem to know what to say. Scott took advantage of that and pressed on. “I will not be here much longer, but while I am here, I would ask you to treat her with a degree of kindness, or at least with less insult. And before I go, I will have a conversation with Mrs. Brownlow on this matter. She has welcomed Miss Phelps to her home. You making someone she considers family feel unwelcome here cannot be permitted to continue.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, though somehow not ominously. “You are threatening me on Miss Phelps’s behalf?”
“No. That would imply that I had the right to do so and would further indicate that Miss Phelps had discussed this matter with me and asked for my intervention. She has not. She hasn’t needed to. I’ve watched as your treatment of her has dampened her spirits, and I do not like it. I amsuggestingyou sort that out.”
Mr. Walker dipped his head but this time a little less stiffly. “I will take that under consideration, Mr. Sarvol.” And then he left.
Scott set his traveling desk on the round table and pushed out a breath. It seemed “take up his lance and avenge her” had been the approach that morning. He’d not anticipated it, and he hoped his intervention didn’t make things worse. He simply didn’t want Gillian to be unhappy in her own home. He knew how that felt, and he wanted better for her.
He’d not even had a chance to sit when Gillian stepped inside. As it did with unwavering predictability, his heart soared at the sight of her. His day instantly looked up. Even the weight of his worries eased when she was nearby. There was no point denying his partiality, a fondness he suspected was reciprocated.
She seemed a little surprised to find him there but not displeased. “I don’t intend to interrupt. I thought I would write a letter to the Huntresses and update them on Mrs. Brownlow’s recovery.”
He nodded. “I came here to write a letter as well.”
“You? Write a letter?” She pressed an open palm to her chest and let her mouth drop open in feigned shock. “Are you certain you are feeling well?”
“Keep mocking me and I won’t send you any letters after I leave,” he warned.
“You truly would write to me?” That she looked excited at the possibility did his heart a tremendous amount of good.
“I would happily write to you. How else am I to tell you how dilapidated my properties have become?”
Her eyes lit up the way they did when she genuinely smiled. “And I will write back and tell you which exaggerations I am currently telling Mrs. Brownlow about my popularity.”
“I look forward to it.”
He pulled a chair back from the table for her and saw her settled. She directed him to where the letter-writing implements were in the room, then thanked him when he placed the items on the table for her.
“I do hope Thimbleby is not in as much disrepair as you fear,” she said. “You deserve for one of your worries to prove less crushing than you anticipate.”
“For my part, I hope to find that Thimbleby is in such a pristine state and is so grand and welcoming that I need simply startwhispers in Society about its being available for tenancy and all of London will clamor to call it their country home.”
She straightened the parchment in front of her. “You would have income enough to put your own house to rights.”
“I would settle for income enough to keep myself out of debtors’ prison.”
She paled. “Prison?”
He’d not meant to confess to that. She would worry, and he truly didn’t want her to. “It’s either that or running away, and you know how I feel about fleeing from my responsibilities.”
Gillian didn’t seem to believe his attempt at levity. “Prison?”
He reached over and set his hand on hers. That had become a common gesture between them the last day or so. He meant it as an offer of comfort but had found it was more than that for him. It was a connection, a heart-lightening touch that he needed more and more.
