One Day for a Valet

Chapter 12

“Mary, Mother of God, that hurts!” Oliver shrieked, nearly leaping off the table as Dr Higgins poured a liberal amount of antiseptic on his abdominal wound. “That felt like straight whisky.”

“That’s because it was. My shipment of supplies was late,” the doctor said, his voice without inflection.

“Better in your wound than down your gullet,” Christopher muttered.

“Keene.” Gabriel’s warning was accompanied by a sharp glare from Oliver, his lip curling.

Christopher crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, let’s do be courteous to the man who allowed your governess to become so emaciated she fainted upon arrival,” he hissed. “The man likely to drink away every coin of her earnings. Who has ushered whatever trouble he doubtless instigated directly onto your doorstep.” Christopher paced to the corner, thrust his hands into the basin of water, and began scrubbing. “Any other employer would cast his bloody carcass back into the front garden and send Miss Lioni right along with him for the trouble she invited simply by having a complete and utter wastrel for a brother. Mr Lioni had no way of knowing that you are the most fair-minded man in the universe or that your wife is more likely to coddle him like a three-legged pet rabbit than to turn the pair of them out in the dead of night.” Hurling the towel onto the table, he stalked back to Gabriel. “And he’s bled all over my favourite yellow waistcoat!”

Gabriel filled the silence that followed with a lift of his brows, awaiting the next round of Christopher’s frustrated tirade. When nothing more was forthcoming, he nodded. “Feeling better?”

Christopher shrugged. “Yes actually, I am.”

“Good.” Gabriel laid a hand on Christopher’s arm and squeezed. The pair of them had supported one another through challenges, large and small, over the course of three decades. There wasn’t a person in this world whose counsel he valued more… nor anyone he could depend on more readily to offer it than Gabriel.

“Mr Lioni.” Gabriel turned his inscrutable gaze on Oliver, who made no secret of his distaste for both men, his expression pinched and surly. “I’m certain a guest room is already being prepared. I’ll see about some clean clothes. Do you have belongings nearby I can send for?”

“No.”

The lack of honorific hung notably in the air.

“I will, of course, give Miss Lioni the remainder of the week off so she can stay with you until you are through the worst of it. If she wishes to do so, that is.” Oliver winced as the doctor tied off the last in a tidy row of sutures and began rolling a bandage around his torso.

Gabriel watched the doctor work in silence for another minute, then gave a brisk nod. “Thank you for your prompt arrival, Dr Higgins. You may send your bill to me. Mr Lioni, we can talk more tomorrow.” Christopher almost smiled at Gabriel’s subtle intimidation. “I’m sure you two have things to discuss”—he looked meaningfully at Christopher—“and I need to see to the comfort of my duchess and Miss Lioni. I will bid you goodnight. Keene, you will see that our guest receives whatever assistance he requires to his bedchambers?”

Christopher nodded, then watched as Gabriel swept from the room with all the poise and grace of an aristocrat exiting the opera rather than a blood-spattered kitchen. The doctor checked Oliver’s bandage one last time before packing away the rest of his supplies.

“I will stop by again tomorrow if there is time. Have a good evening, Mr Keene.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

With the soft click of the door, Dr Higgins was gone, and the two men were left alone, the tantalising aroma of biscotti an oddly cheerful contrast to the uncomfortable awareness between them.

Christopher crossed to the long-abandoned biscuits, avoiding the few that had slightly charred around the edges, and retrieved one. Placing it on a plate none too gently, he stomped across the room and held it out to Oliver, who eyed it—and Christopher—with a wary expression.

Christopher sighed. “I am angry. But I recognise that I may not have offered a fair opportunity for you to explain yourself or your reasons for leaving Sofia in such a state. She did not appear altogether surprised to see you, only surprised to see you bleeding in the kitchen.” Not that there was an explanation Christopher would find acceptable for abandoning one’s sister to homelessness and starvation. His body took that opportunity to remember the feel of her fragile form in his arms, and he grew livid all over again. Oliver took the biscotti, gobbling up the crisp dessert in two large bites.

“Sofia is it?” Oliver asked, emphasising the casual use of her Christian name.

“It is.” Christopher ground his teeth against any further explanation. Her brother didn’t deserve it. Hell, the bastard didn’t deserve the hospitality he’d already received, let alone an explanation of Keene’s affection. He’d forfeited his right to that measure of respect long ago, further damning himself the prior night when he’d sent Sofia out into the torrential rain with a bruise the approximate size of a grown man’s hand on her wrist. Christopher had no doubt now where she’d been the night before.

Christ, it would be satisfying to kick this brute in the bollocks and shove him out the kitchen door.

Christopher reached for a loaf of bread, cutting two thick slices and slathering them both in butter. He knew well enough that thick padding over bones wasn’t always a good indication of a well-fed man… especially in a man who clearly prioritised drink over sustenance. Oliver sported the blotchy, red cheeks of a person more familiar with the bottom of a bottle than the world outside of it. Like the biscotti before it, the bread promptly disappeared.

“I won’t ask you who gave you that thrashing, but I do wish to know if the perpetrator is likely to follow you here.”

Oliver shook his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, I love my sister.”

Christopher swallowed back his retort and worked to control the riot of anger burning its way through his insides. “You’re already eighty percent black and blue. It would be unsporting of me to colour the remaining twenty percent. For now, let’s leave your brotherly affection out of this conversation.”

Oliver shrugged, then grimaced. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ll be healed up and gone before it matters.”

Those words, more than any others Oliver had said, shifted Christopher’s perception of the situation. On nearly every occasion that the topic of Sofia’s brother had arisen, longing had been written across her face. No matter Christopher’s personal opinion of the lout, he would do whatever he could to erase Sofia’s sadness… even if that meant hiring Oliver Lioni.

“Your father was a botanist,” Christopher began. Oliver remained silent. “We lost one of our head gardeners at the start of the summer. Are you interested in work? It would keep you close to Sofia.” Every warning bell in Christopher’s mind chimed in unison at the thought of bringing this man into their home permanently. He ignored them all, picturing instead Sofia’s peace knowing that Oliver would remain safe and under her thumb.

Oliver had gone silent, his gaze fixed on the window beyond Christopher’s shoulder.

Christopher carded both hands through his hair. “It’s late and you have quite a bit of recovering to do before choices must be made. Think on it. Talk with Sofia. The offer stands for as long as you want it.”

“Why?”

Christopher didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Because she is Sofia to me and, misguided or not, she loves you.” Christopher rang for a pair of footmen who must have been lingering outside the door given the speed with which they arrived. “Assist Mr Lioni to his room, if you would. I will let Miss Lioni know where to find her brother.”

Sofia arrivedin the library to find Violet sitting cross-legged on the plush Turkish carpet, her chin resting in one hand as she shuffled several pieces of a shattered dinner plate. A snifter of some unknown amber liquid sat untouched beside her on the floor.

Violet looked up and smiled. “I saw Dr Higgins on his way out. He said Oliver’s wound closed up well and that he will return tomorrow to check on him. You’re looking much better. Also, I recommend not partaking in whatever this is.” She waved vaguely toward the liquor. “It tastes like old shoes and burns like lava all the way to your toes.”

Sofia sat down beside the duchess and lifted the discarded glass, her eyes trailing the rich amber liquid as she gave it an experimental swirl.

“Centripetal force,” Violet said, watching the smooth glide of the alcohol. “A stunning example of Newton’s third law. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Everything in balance with its matching pair. Beautiful.” Violet’s gaze had gone almost wistful in her recitation.

“Indeed. A full glass of water could spin above your head without losing a drop so long as the speed of the glass was greater than the force of the gravity.” Sofia paused, saluting Violet with the drink before swallowing three massive gulps.

Her eyes went wide, and her throat and ears burned as she forced the liquid down.

Violet continued on as if Sofia was not twelve inches away and perishing from toxic poisoning. “It would be an excellent experiment for the children’s study of natural sciences.”

An amalgamation of laughter and coughing sputtered up from Sofia’s chest. The release of emotion felt good. She heaved a steadying breath and took another gulp. This time, her drink slid down with greater ease. “What are you doing with the dinner plate? Do you not have countless more in the matched set to replace the broken one?” Sofia asked.

“Oh, I don’t give a whit for the plate, I just enjoy the challenge of reassembling it. I’m not even sure what happened to this one or how it ended up here.” Reaching for a tiny vial of glue, Violet carefully brushed a line across the edge and brought two of the pieces back together. Her tongue slipped the side of her mouth as she concentrated, looking as little like a duchess as a person possibly could. “Do you wish to talk about it? About your brother?”

Sofia wrinkled her nose, then washed her feelings down along with the remaining liquid in her glass. “Assolutamente no. May I refill this?”

“Of course. Although, I can’t say exactly what it was. I added a bit from all four bottles.” Her lips tipped up in a mischievous smile. “It seemed more adventurous than just drinking the one.”

Sofia crossed to the sideboard and poured her own mixture—a trickle of the mahogany, a splash of the amber, a drizzle of something caramel coloured. She topped it off with a liberal bit of the wheat-coloured drink. Her glass refilled, she settled again beside the duchess. This time, her experimental sip flooded her with a tingling softness, like the stroke of a feather down the length of her spine. “Your duke. He loves you quite soundly. I didn’t think English aristocratic men were capable of such emotion… or men in general, if I’m to be honest. Not in the way he adores you.”

The duchess blushed prettily. “Gabriel is capable of nothing less. I wasn’t expecting to find the sort of emotion that rearranges your insides, but here I sit, completely reconstructed with him at the centre of my heart. He loved Emma… loves her still. But there seems to be an abundance of space for all of us in that heart of his.”

Sofia found two slivers of the plate and matched them together with more glue. “This plate will never be the same, you know,” Sofia said.

“No, it will not. No matter how careful I am with the glue, it always comes together a little bit bumpy. It’s changed forever when pieces never meant to be separated are ripped asunder. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth repairing.”

Sofia cut her an incredulous look. “I see we are speaking of my brother in dinner plate analogies.”

“Perhaps.” Violet shrugged one shoulder, then gesticulated. “No, not that one. Try this.” Violet passed over another shard, and they worked in companionable silence until the sound of throat-clearing shattered their mutual concentration.

“Ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting.” Northam leaned over his desk searching for something, then lifted a quill and began to write. “Miss Lioni, I’m told your brother will be situated in the east wing. First room on the left. Mrs Janewood has arranged for the housemaids to check on him throughout the remainder of the night and again tomorrow, so he will be well cared for. I instructed them to wake you if he becomes febrile. I assumed that would be your preference, but if not, I will?—”

“No. Grazie. That is exactly as I would wish.” She looked down at the jagged shard of porcelain in her hand, unable to meet the duke’s sympathetic gaze. “I am so sorry, Your Grace. I am ashamed to have brought this into your home.” His soft footsteps neared and then he was beside her, lowered to his haunches, watching her with those unfathomable brown eyes.

“La vergogna appartiene solo a tuo fratello.” Soft words in her native tongue. And then he smiled at her. The austere lines of his face smoothed into an expression that held only tenderness and understanding. Again, this man brought on a desire to weep like she had not experienced in years. The shame belongs only to your brother. His words, and the forgiveness they encompassed, reduced her thoughts to mush. Or possibly the alcohol had taken away her will to think. Either way, she was grateful for the relative silence in her head.

He stood and returned to the desk. “My duchess and I will retire, as Christopher will be climbing the stairs any moment, I predict, and it is late.” He paused. “That is, if you’re amenable, my love?” Northam turned to Violet, who gazed upon her unfinished project with noticeable ambivalence.

“But the maids will—” Violet fell silent when Northam presented her with a piece of parchment scrawled with his elegant script:

Violet’s pile of important rubbish. Do not disturb by order of the Duke of Northam.

Stooping to assess the shattered plate, he gingerly placed the decree upon the porcelain pile and extended a hand to help his duchess rise, his expression brimming with affection.

Violet all but leapt to her feet, worry over her unfinished project extinguished by his thoughtful gesture and the clear promise of more enjoyable activities. It was enough to make Sofia blush and look away.

“Good night, Violet. Thank you, again, Your Grace,” Sofia murmured.

He paused in the doorway. “If you are to call my wife Violet, then you must call me Gabriel. Or Northam at the very least, should you prefer it. Pleasant dreams.”

With their departure, the room felt large and quiet, leaving space for all the feelings temporarily swept away by the warm whisper of alcohol and her charming company. She took another swallow of her drink, relishing the fire it kindled inside of her.

When she lowered the glass, she found Christopher watching her from the doorway, his fingers still resting on the handle. Concern and wariness were evident on his face, unnatural expressions for a perpetually cheerful man. Her stomach tumbled with the queer sensation of witnessing all the feelings she was attempting to conceal play out in the lines and angles of his face. His solemn grey eyes held hers as she stood and took a step in his direction. His hand sliding away from the still open door, he crossed to her, pausing momentarily at a polite distance before breaching that invisible barrier with two large steps.

“What do you need?” His hand rose to her cheek, his fingers hesitant against her skin. “I will leave you to your solitude if you ask it of me, but”—he paused, eyebrows furrowing—“I do not want to leave you Sofia, not looking as you do now.”

“And how is it that I look?” She sounded small and lost even to her own ears.

“Like the last leaf on an autumn oak, clinging to the branches all alone despite the inevitability of winter, a victim of its own resilience.” His thumb grazed lightly across her cheek. “Tell me I do not have to abandon you to your troubles. That you will let me be your friend.” He paused, and she watched him swallow.

Sofia could feel her muscles unfurling, her fortitude crumbling. She swayed with a bone-deep desire for more of the comfort that the simple stroke of his thumb imparted on her wary soul. Her heart thrashed in her chest, trapped in a cage forged of her own deceit. Unable to suffer another moment of his gentle, pleading eyes, she closed her own and pressed her cheek into his hand, absorbing the warmth of his palm against her face.

“Sofia, I fear you will break my heart in two.”

The truth of his words bit into her. She did not want to hurt this man. Yet she knew she would if she didn’t remove Oliver from this house. And still, even at her angriest, she could not turn her brother away to bleed out in the front garden. It was like possessing a finite quantity of water for two plants—giving water to one meant turning her back on the other, though doing so would make it wither. Even as determined as she was to stop Oliver, keeping his secret, choosing to conceal the threat that his very existence held to this family, was a poisonous deceit. Remaining silent was a choice, and looking into this man’s eyes, she could not pretend otherwise… but telling him the truth would be every bit as horrific.

Christopher sighed and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. “What aren’t you telling me Sofia?” His voice remained soft despite the obvious thread of frustration. She hated that she had put it there.

The temptation to unburden herself was overwhelming, but she could not. And so she did the only thing she could think to do to stop his questions—she pressed her lips to his.