Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Your eye,” Grimsby said.

Oh, right. He hadn’t seen Grimsby since his tussle with his lovely new cousin. Thomas gave him a flip sort of smile. “Perhaps we can choose a waistcoat to match.”

“I don’t believe we have one, your grace.”

“Is that so?” Thomas crossed to the basin. As usual, Grimsby had made sure it was filled with water. Lukewarm by this point, but he was in no position to complain. He splashed a bit on his face, rubbed himself with a hand towel, then repeated the entire process after a quick glance in the mirror revealed that he’d barely scratched the surface of his disrepair.

“We shall have to remedy that, Grimsby,” Thomas said, giving his forehead a good scrub. He looked back at his valet with a sarcastic grin. “Do you think you can memorize the hue for the next time we are in London?”

“Might I suggest, your grace, that you consider not subjecting your face to such abuse again?” Grimsby handed him another towel, even though Thomas had not requested one. “This would eliminate our need to consider the color when choosing your wardrobe for the upcoming year.” He held out a bar of soap. “You could still purchase a new waistcoat of the color, if you wish. I imagine the shade would be most handsome when displayed upon fabric, as opposed to one’s skin.”

“Elegantly said,” Thomas murmured. “It almost didn’t sound like a scolding.”

Grimsby smiled modestly. “I do try, your grace.” He held forth another towel. Good gad, Thomas thought, he must be more of a mess than he’d thought.

“Shall I ring for a bath, your grace?”

The question was purely rhetorical, as Grimsby had already done so before the your in your grace. Thomas stripped off his clothing, which Grimsby then picked up with tongs, and donned his dressing robe. He flopped onto his bed, and was seriously considering postponing the bath in favor of a good nap when a knock sounded at the door.

“That was quick,” Grimsby commented, crossing the room.

“His grace has a visitor,” came the unexpected voice of Penrith, Belgrave’s longtime butler.

Thomas did not bother to open his eyes. There could be no one worth rising for at this moment.

“The duke is not receiving at this time,” Grimsby said. Thomas resolved to raise his wages with all possible haste.

“It is his fiancee,” the butler said.

Thomas sat up like a shot. What the devil? Amelia was supposed to be here for Grace. It had all been planned. The two women would chitter chatter for an hour, and then he would make his usual appearance, and no one would suspect that Amelia had actually been at Belgrave all morning.

What could possibly have gone awry?

“Your grace,” Grimsby said when Thomas swung his legs over the side of the bed to get down, “you cannot possibly think of receiving Lady Amelia in such a state.”

“I do plan to dress, Grimsby,” Thomas said rather dryly.

“Yes, of course, but…”

Grimsby appeared unable to complete his sentence aloud, but his nose flared a bit, then wrinkled, which Thomas took to mean-Sir, you stink.

Nothing to be done about it, though. He couldn’t leave Amelia on her own if all had not gone according to plan. And indeed, Grimsby was able to work a small miracle in the space of ten minutes. By the time Thomas left his room, he looked wholly like himself again. (Himself in need of a shave, but this could not be helped.) But his hair was no longer sticking up like an exotic bird, and even though his eye still looked like death underneath, he no longer appeared quite so bloodshot and exhausted.

A bit of tooth powder and he was ready to go. Grimsby, on the other hand, gave every indication that he needed a good lie-down.

Thomas made his way downstairs, intending to head straight to the drawing room, but as he entered the hall, he saw Grace, standing about six feet from its entrance, gesticulating madly and holding one finger to her lips.

“Grace,” he said as he approached, “what is the meaning of this? Penrith told me that Amelia was here to see me?”

He did not pause, assuming that she would fall in step beside him. But just as he passed, she grabbed his arm and yanked him to a stop. “Thomas, wait!”

He turned, lifting one of his brows in question.

“It’s Mr. Audley,” she said, pulling him back even farther from the door. “He is in the drawing room.”

Thomas glanced toward the drawing room and then back at Grace, wondering why he’d been told that Amelia was there.

“With Amelia,” Grace practically hissed.

He cursed, unable to stop himself, despite the presence of a lady. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said, her voice quite snappish. “He was in there when I arrived. Amelia said she saw him walking by the doorway and thought he was you.”

Oh now, that was rich. Blessed with a family resemblance, they were. How quaint.

“What did he say?” Thomas finally asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. And then I couldn’t very well interrogate her in his presence.”

“No, of course not.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. This was a disaster.

“I’m quite sure he did not reveal his…identity to her.”

Thomas gave her a dry look.

“It is not my fault, Thomas,” Grace said angrily.

“I did not say that it was.” He let out his own irritated snort and then pressed on toward the drawing room. Mr. Audley was a cancer in their midst. In all the years Grace had worked here, they had never exchanged angry words. And God only knew what the man was saying to Amelia.

From the moment Grace rushed from the room, neither Amelia nor Mr. Audley had uttered a word. It was as if they had reached an unspoken agreement; silence would prevail while they both tried to make out what was being said in the hall.

But unless Mr. Audley’s hearing was superior to hers, Amelia accepted that they had both been stymied. She could not make out a thing. Grace must have intercepted Thomas at the far end of the hall.

Grace did seem exceedingly agitated that afternoon, which Amelia found strange. She realized that she had asked a great deal of her, especially when Grace’s friendship was more to her sister than herself, but surely that could not account for her odd demeanor.

Amelia leaned forward, as if that might possibly improve her eavesdropping. Something was brewing at Belgrave, and she was growing rather irritated that she seemed to be the only person left in the dark.

“You won’t be able to hear them,” Mr. Audley said.

She gave him a look that tried to be reproving.

“Oh, don’t pretend you weren’t trying. I certainly was.”

“Very well.” Amelia decided there was no point in protesting. “What do you suppose they are talking about?”

Mr. Audley shrugged. “Difficult to say. I would never presume to understand the female mind, or that of our esteemed host.”

“You do not like the duke?” Because surely the implication was in his tone.

“I did not say that,” he chided gently.

She pressed her lips together, wanting to say that he did not have to say it. But there was nothing to be gained in provocation, at least not at this moment, so instead she asked, “How long do you stay at Belgrave?”

“Eager to be rid of me, Lady Amelia?”

“Of course not.” Which was more or less true. She did not mind him, on principle, although he had been rather inconvenient this afternoon. “I saw the servants moving trunks about. I thought perhaps they were yours.”

“I imagine they belong to the dowager,” he replied.

“Is she going somewhere?” Amelia knew she ought not to have sounded quite so excited, but there was only so much disinterest a young lady could feign.

“Ireland,” he replied.