The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 24

Despite the threat of imminent rain, Christopher took his time in returning to the house. He felt that when two strong--willed men such as himself and Har-ding disagreed so vehemently, they needed time apart to cool their tempers. Not to mention, the thought of seeing that sneer on Har-ding’s face again made him want to weep. What was it about the man that turned him into such a quivering pile of jelly? He had no answer, and so there was nothing to be done but take Orion on another hard ride through the wood before returning him to the stables via a meandering route.

By the time Christopher was back in his rooms, he felt more certain about what needed to be done. Har-ding had cut him deeply, yes, but only because he had misconstrued Christopher’s own meaning. Cornered foxes tend to bite, or so he’d heard. In short, all he had to do was approach his wounded valet—-no, his hurt friend—-and explain that it wasn’t the thought of the two of them marrying that disgusted him, just the painful circumstances.

Although how he would say that without revealing his increasingly improper feelings for the man was another matter. One wrong word and he would lose him anyway, and Har-ding was too precious to risk.

With that notion firmly in mind, he marched to Har-ding’s door and rapped at it smartly. “My dear fellow,” he called, “I would have a word.”

He waited but received no reply.

He knocked again. “Har-ding?” His voice took on a pleading note. “I’d rather we clear the air.”

Nothing.

Christopher reasoned that this was urgent, so he shouldered the door open. The little cell was empty. The ashes in the grate were cold, and the narrow bed was neatly made. Har-ding’s black valise, however, was nowhere to be found.

Christopher rushed to the trunk at the foot of the bed and opened it. Inside were a number of clean shirts and a few bits and bobs of a servant’s wardrobe: the livery coat, a powdered wig, a few pairs of stockings, a cheap sheaf of paper, and an inkwell. Har-ding wouldn’t have left all this behind. Would he?

He dashed down the stairs in a daze and barreled into the kitchens. Cook was at the counter, kneading dough. She looked up at his wild entrance.

“Has Har-ding come through here?” Christopher demanded.

“Aye,” Cook said. “Haven’t you heard? The way he was talking, I assumed you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That he was going today.” Cook nodded to a neatly folded piece of paper on the far end of the counter, out of reach of her dustings of flour. “He left that, said you’d be wanting it.”

Christopher snatched up the letter and read it with haste. In Har-ding’s painfully elegant hand, it said:

Lord Eden—-

As you have so generously suggested on previous occasions, I am taking several days away from my post. All necessary arrangements have been seen to. If you determine my services are no longer required, please leave word at the village post office and I will collect my remaining effects and final pay packet.

Your humble servant,

J.H.

Christopher fought the urge to crumple the letter in his fist. Humble indeed! The man had practically skewered him with a rapier before sailing off into the ether. He hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. It was becoming increasingly clear to Christopher how Har-ding had managed to leave his entire family behind. The man was as adept at running as he was at tying cravats.

His stormy countenance must have been a sight, because Cook said, “Everything all right, m’lord? Would you like a sweet roll?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t something that a sweet roll can fix,” Christopher said. He reread the short missive again, looking for some hint of softness. Har-ding had lain beside him all last night—-they had held each other, for pity’s sake! Where was even an ounce of that former feeling?

Had it even been real at all?