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“When she tidies up,” Seb said flatly, “I can’t find anything.”
Without a word of warning, Beale reached out and grabbed a handful of Seb’s hair.
“Beg pardon!” Seb cried.
“A good thing I brought my tools,” the valet said. “This needs work. I’ve seen less thatching on a Buckinghamshire cottage. And this.” He released his hold on Seb’s hair and ran a palm down Seb’s cheek. “Did you shave with a trowel?”
It had, in fact, been the most attention Seb had ever paid to his toilette, but here again, he evidently had no understanding of what was required.
“Um—”
Beale held up his hand in a demand for silence. “Never mind. Strip to your smallclothes so I have a blank canvas.”
Seb threw a worried glance at Rotherby, who had made himself comfortable by shoving a stack of books off the settee and taking a seat.
“Do as Beale says,” his friend advised. “I find it best never to argue with him.”
“Fine—but have a care with my books, old man. We can’t all of us afford enormous personal libraries.” Any further comment Seb might have made was silenced by Beale’s impatient tugging at his clothing.
One hour and a considerable amount of work later, a dressed, shaved, and barbered Seb stood in the middle of his parlor as the valet circled him. Beale’s eyes were narrowed, and he tapped his finger against his chin, evidently in deep contemplation. From his place on the settee, Rotherby also studied Seb.
“Well?” Seb burst out after several agonizing moments.
Silence. And then Beale gave a small nod. “I am a virtuoso.”
Seb regarded the valet cautiously. Was Beale being ironic, or was he sincere?
“What do you think?” Seb asked Rotherby.
“The most important thing is,” his friend returned, “what do you think?”
“I . . . don’t know.” Seb looked down at himself. All the hues of his garments harmonized—at least, he believed they did, since he had little understanding of color theory. There were no frayed cuffs, no loose buttons or worn patches. That was an improvement.
When he’d refused to work at Holloway Ironworks, his father had severely reduced his allowance, which meant severe economizing. He had grown used to looking shabby—it was an indicator that he didn’t have to be John Holloway’s obedient son. Still, he hadn’t realized just how threadbare he’d become.
As little as clothing indicated a person’s integrity and the truth of their heart, pretending as though garments didn’t matter was naïve. It was slightly galling.
But to play the game, one had to obey the rules, as well as wear the uniform.
“Take a look in the mirror,” Rotherby said.
“I don’t have one.”
Rotherby shot to his feet. “You truly do not possess one? Not a pier glass or even a tiny looking glass?” When Seb shrugged, his friend let out a noise of frustration. “How the hell do you shave?”
“By touch. My hands are perfectly capable of sensing the amount of beard on my cheeks and chin. I don’t need to see anything.”
“That explains why you always look like a threadbare carpet.” Rotherby waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Never mind. Trust me when I say you look the epitome of a stylish rake. Wouldn’t you say, Beale?”
“The image of you in that abomination of an ensemble has been burned into my mind.” The valet clicked his tongue. “But, was I not scarred by that mental picture, I would consider you the most modish rake in London.”
Rotherby pointedly cleared his throat.
“After Your Grace, of course,” Beale added. He stepped back, permitting Rotherby to approach.
Seb watched his friend’s expression carefully. “You’re certain? I look presentable?”
“More than presentable. You are an Incomparable.” Rotherby kissed his own fingers. “Beale has transformed you.”
Seb exhaled. He wanted, needed, to be everything Grace desired him to be, and he could not consider failure. He’d been a disappointment to his family—he refused to disappoint someone he truly cared about.
“But none of what I or Beale say signifies.” Rotherby tapped a finger to the center of Seb’s chest. “It’s what’s here that matters. Think of all the lessons you’ve learned over the past week, all the confidence you’ve gained.”
