Chapter 12
“Pour me a brandy, will you, Har-ding?” Christopher collapsed into his armchair with a pained groan. It was well into evening now, though the unseasonable heat was not stopping for anyone, even Time. Christopher was sweating in his clothes. He so hated to sweat. “And one for yourself,” he added as an afterthought.
Har-ding paused in the middle of opening the decanter. “My lord?”
“Don’t ‘my lord’ me like that, not after the day I’ve had.” He rubbed at his tired eyes. There was far too much dust in this city. His nose especially felt clogged with it. His handkerchief would probably need to be burned; he had expelled a rather alarming amount of black soot into it over the course of the last few hours. And on top of the London air trying to murder him, Christopher had been expected to be sociable, which was a fate worse than murder in his opinion. “You have no idea how many times I had to bring that bloody horse to a halt to greet some ‘dear old friend’ of my father’s or a ‘distant but loving cousin’ of my mother’s. Lord above, you’d think my parents had connections to every single soul in the empire. Not that any of these people showed the slightest bit of interest in my well--being after their deaths, mind you! I deserve at least one glass of brandy, I should think.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Har-ding said. “I was actually questioning why I should pour for myself as well.”
“Oh.” Christopher dropped his hands, letting them flop onto the chair arms. “Well, I suppose I didn’t wish to drink alone,” he explained. “If you would join me, I’d be much obliged.” He tipped his head over the side of the wingback to look Har-ding up and down. “Do you drink? I suppose you at least drink beer,” he said, remembering the night he’d seen Har-ding at Eden’s End, “but if you’d rather not imbibe hard liquor—-”
“No, my lord, I do not mind brandy. If you insist, I will join you.” He righted another glass of cut crystal and filled it as well. “And I am sorry to hear that your ride in the park caused you so much distress,” he murmured as he brought both drinks to Christopher on a silver serving tray.
Christopher chose one of the glasses for himself. “Thank you, Har-ding. You’ve -really gone above and beyond what is expected of a valet.”
“Sharing a drink at the end of a long day is not much of a hardship,” Har-ding pointed out before taking his own glass, then stowing the tray back in its spot on the sideboard. He might have stood there all night, but Christopher waved him into the armchair opposite his own.
“Sit, sit. I’ll get a crick in my neck staring up at you.”
Har-ding folded himself into the chair, though he sat upright on the very edge of the seat as if anticipating the moment he’d be called upon to serve.
“Relax, if you can,” Christopher said with a smile. He sipped at his drink and watched Har-ding forcibly sit back another inch in the plush armchair, his own glass clutched in one hand. Better. Perhaps the best they could hope for, given Har-ding’s sense of propriety.
“So,” he said, unspooling his first conversational gambit, “the Leftmores’ ball is in two days’ time. Do you have any opinions on what I should wear to this dreary affair?”
Har-ding smiled into his brandy as he drank. “Several opinions, my lord. I’ve already laid out a few options on the bench in your dressing room, if you’d care to look them over later.”
Christopher gave a pleased hum. He sank even farther into the cushioned embrace of his chair. “If nothing else, at least I will get a chance to wear some of étienne’s latest confections. You did include the new coat with the silver buttons in your pile, did you not?” It was a coat of extraordinary make, just like Christopher himself, and he was eager to show it off.
“The alabaster silk?” Har-ding hesitated. “That particular coat is perhaps better suited to another occasion,” he finally said.
“What?” Christopher sat bolt upright. “What do you mean? It’s the perfect occasion for that coat.”
“But my lord, the buttons,” Har-ding said with a pained look. “The cut. It’s— Well, in some circles, such as that of the Leftmores, it might be considered exceedingly . . .” He took a long, deep drink from his glass as if to buy himself more time.
“Exceedingly?” Christopher pressed.
“French,” Har-ding finally said.
Christopher sighed and drank more brandy in a sullen manner.
“My lord, the entire point of your sojourn here in London is to present a perfectly normal picture of a young man so that you may find a perfectly normal wife,” Har-ding said. “If you want to blend in with the crowd, as you say, then you mustn’t wear that coat. In fact, I question whether you should wear white to the ball at all. The invitation indicated an avian theme.”
“There are plenty of white birds,” Christopher protested. “Doves! Swans! Those are exceptional birds, wouldn’t you say? Why shouldn’t I dress in my signature light colors?”
“I believe something darker might suit you—-and the occasion, my lord.”
Christopher scoffed. “You would shove me in a dour ensemble indeed. Black is for mourning, dear fellow, and I’m no widower.”
Har-ding looked upon him with something approaching pity. “If you insist, my lord. I only thought to mention it, if only for the sake of the lady you will soon be wooing.”
Christopher groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“So you will proceed as planned?” Har-ding asked. “You are interested in a marriage in name only?”
“Well, what’s the alternative?” Christopher tilted his head.
“You could marry for love,” Har-ding said, “if it pleased you.”
“Oh, I’m not so greedy as all that.” Christopher waved a hand through the air.
Har-ding’s handsome face creased in confusion. “It’s not greedy to seek happiness.”
Christopher pinned him with a startled look. “Isn’t it?” he asked, his voice taking on a queer waver. “Isn’t it just the height of greed?” He shook his head and forced a smile onto his lips. “There are many women in London who share my view, Har-ding. One should do what one can to oblige them. Time is not in my favor; I refuse to waste more of it chasing the ridiculous notion of love.”
“In that case, you may as well—-” Har-ding seemed about to say something, but shook his head and closed his mouth.
“What?” Christopher prodded. “Speak your mind, Har-ding. You have thus far done nothing but.” This last he muttered into his glass as he drank.
“No, my lord,” said Har-ding. “I overstepped.” Yet instead of looking chastened by his lack of decorum, Har-ding exhibited a gleam in his intelligent dark eyes, like some sort of artist who was overcome with the urge to paint his muse.
Christopher noted it with wariness. “Har-ding, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you had some sort of scheme in mind regarding my love life.”
“Scheme, my lord?” Har-ding schooled his face into the very picture of innocence. Cherubs had nothing on this man. “I can’t imagine what you might mean.”
Christopher finished his drink with an unamused grunt. “I beg you, my dear fellow, please do not meddle in my affairs. The entire situation is stressful enough without my valet skulking about the place.”
“I would never,” Har-ding said with a strange amount of sincerity. “I only thought—-” He licked his lips and leant forward in his armchair. “It might be nothing, or it might be a very elegant solution to your search for an unloving wife. I could make some inquiries—-delicately—-to determine the truth. If you would permit me?”
Well, how could Christopher refuse such a request?
He raised his empty glass with a sigh. “Carry on, then, Har-ding. But do pour me another first.”