Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
At some ungodly hour of the morning, I am awoken by the sun barreling directly into my face. I groan and roll over in the large bed. I try to pull the blankets up over my head, but they are stubbornly resisting.
“My lord,” an unfamiliar voice says. I jump and sit up with a start, looking around the room with wide eyes. A young footman stands beside the bed, holding my quilt hostage in his gloved hands. The room smells of tea and toast—and, blessedly, bacon.
“Your breakfast is here,” he says, motioning towards the center of the room, where the wooden tub was when I fell asleep.
Now a small, round coffee table and two wingback chairs sit in front of the fireplace, where a fire crackles invitingly.
How have I slept through an entire redecoration of this room?
It feels like I lay down only moments ago—and nightmares plagued my dreams so thoroughly, I am sure I did not sleep a wink.
“Ah.” I’m not used to servants waiting on me like this. At home they serve my father, and I occasionally reap the benefits. Never before have I been served breakfast in my own bedroom. “Thank you.”
I smooth back my hair and realize that at some point in the night I lost the ribbon holding it back. A cursory search yields nothing, so I leave it be and slide out of the bed in my nightshirt, pushing it down to cover my bits and thighs.
Then the footman raises the silk dressing gown, and I hesitate.
I’ve never seen a footman dress someone—that’s usually left to the valet.
But I suppose the disgraced son of a viscount wouldn’t be assigned his own valet for his house arrest. I realize the only way forward that doesn’t involve humiliating myself is to pretend I am accustomed to being waited on thus.
Once the dressing gown is tied about my waist, I step away from the bed and lift the silver cover from the tray on the little table.
Salmon, bacon, an egg cup, and toast sit neatly arranged on the plate, along with a generous helping of butter and honey.
I sit and pour myself a cup of tea, adding more sugar than necessary, then lift the cup to my lips and sip it gingerly.
Despite the appeal of the smell of bacon, I once again find myself unable to eat.
As I stare into my tea and relive my last few moments on the Deliverance, the footman makes quick work of tidying my bed and selecting clothes for me to wear.
I glance up in time to see him making the grievous error of choosing a matching rather than a coordinating waistcoat.
I finish my tea and move to stand. “The red one,” I say, pointing.
This I can focus on. I need a distraction, or I will break down in tears in front of this poor servant and humiliate us both.
He jumps, clearly startled that I am addressing him as he works. He turns to me, holding a gold waistcoat in his hands. “Pardon, my lord?”
“I cannot abide monotone ensembles,” I explain, taking the waistcoat from him. “If I am to wear a gold jacket and breeches, I would prefer a red or blue waistcoat. Red is absolutely delicious with gold.”
He stares at me, and I frown back at him. “Singular colors are sad and boring,” I say by way of elucidation.
Bless this young man—he blinks at me, and I see the moment he loses control, his mouth twitching before he smiles. He’s holding in a laugh, but that’s fine. He can laugh all he likes; it doesn’t make what I’ve said any less true.
“Of course,” he says, allowing a chuckle to escape as he takes back the gold waistcoat and returns it to the armoire. “Red it is.”
He pulls out a red waistcoat with gold trimmings. The gold is a darker shade than the silk of the jacket and breeches, and I smile widely to show that I’m pleased with the choice. “Perfect.”
“Shall I help you dress?”
“Yes,” I say, untying the robe as I approach the bed, where he has laid out the rest of my clothes for the day. “Will my father be in to see me soon?”
He hesitates, then steps up beside me to delicately lay the waistcoat out on the bed, before reaching for the white shirt he has selected for me to wear. “I… believe so, my lord.”
What is with everyone giving me these halting half answers when it comes to my father? I turn to face the footman just as he is about to help me into my breeches. He freezes before we become a little too familiar with each other, then stands back upright to study me.
“Is something going on?” I ask. “No one will give me a straight answer about my father. Why am I locked in the prince’s old apartments?”
“I’m just a footman, sir,” he says, sounding almost pitiful enough to placate me.
“You know something.”
He sighs. “I know that your father will be in shortly to speak with you,” he says. “Which is why I would like to get you into a pair of breeches, so you aren’t forced to have an audience with him bare-assed.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, both of us realizing in the same instant that he has grossly overstepped. My mouth twitches, and I almost smile despite myself.
“Fine, very well,” I say. “You make a compelling argument.”
I allow him to dress me and powder my throat and underarms with something that smells of orange and roses.
He is meticulous as he does up each button and lace, and though his fingers move with the swift skill of long practice, he still checks his work.
Finally, he takes a beautiful bit of Bordeaux silk and wraps it three times around my throat before tying it into a perfect looped knot.
I rather like this footman. Something about him reminds me of the family I lost at sea.
The thought makes the breath in my lungs catch, and for a moment I feel as if I might suffocate.
I dare not lose my senses in front of him—I couldn’t bear the humiliation on top of my grief.
I force myself to exhale and tilt my head back, blinking the sting from my eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Thomas, sir.”
“Thomas,” I repeat with a nod. “Thank you, Thomas. Excellent work. You should be a valet.”
“I hope to be very soon, sir,” he says.
“Is that so?” I ask. “Have you an employer in mind?”
“His Majesty may see fit to place me within his household,” he says.
“Pity,” I say. “You’re utterly wasted on Henry. He’s dull as dishwater when he dresses.”
His eyes widen, and I can see that he wants to laugh, but also that he doesn’t dare laugh at the king, even in just my presence. I pat him on the shoulder. “I hope I’ll see you again.”
“I believe you will, my lord,” Thomas says with a smile that’s just a little too polite. He bows and turns to take my tray from the table, before leaving me alone with my grief and the lingering scent of bacon.
Two hours later I am tired and thoroughly annoyed from sitting up straight to keep my clothes from becoming creased.
If I’m going to be dressed down by my father, I want at least to look my best—which is difficult, as I am certain my eyes are rimmed with red from my failed attempts at keeping the tears at bay.
I must find out what’s happened to the crew of the Deliverance, or I’ll continue to have nightmares about Captain Sharpe’s feet dangling over the execution dock.
When the door to the drawing room finally opens, I jump up, fully prepared to take up all the space in the room and demand answers before he has a chance to start in on my inevitable tongue-lashing.
But it isn’t my father who walks into the room. Instead Henry himself darkens the doorway, wearing his father’s crown and followed by a small entourage of servants.
He is breathless and a little wild eyed, which alarms me. I collect myself and bow at the waist immediately. “Your Majesty,” I say in greeting, glancing up at him through my lashes for a cue.
He waves a hand to the men behind him. “Leave us; I would speak to him alone,” he says. And then he stops one man to add: “Bring some wine.”
I offer a nervous laugh as I slowly straighten my body. “Wine? It’s barely half past ten, Your—”
“You’re going to want it,” he says to me, and I shut up, because who am I to disagree with the king? Though the pit of my belly turns to ice as the servant returns with a decanter, I take the glass and stare into the red liquid as he pours it, sinking into the settee across from the king.
He wears no wig today, his dark, wavy hair combed back as if he’s run his fingers through it one too many times over the course of the morning.
He has new creases in his face, around his eyes and mouth.
It started to snow not twenty minutes before Henry’s arrival, and I am grateful for a reason to stare out the window instead of at him.
“It’s beautiful,” he says.
I jump and slide my gaze his way. “Yes,” I agree. “I’ve always been fond of the snow.”
He smiles as he sips his wine. “I remember watching you play in the gardens here at Kensington when you were just a lad,” he says, that strange fondness in his voice, just like the last time I spoke to him.
There was frost on the leaves then as well. At least now we are warm. “I built a snowman by the queen’s roses,” I reply.
For a moment I think we are imagining the same afternoon. I wonder what it looks like from his point of view. I vividly remember admiring him as he taught me how to roll the snow to create the body.
“Forgive me…,” I finally say. “I have so many questions. What happened to the crew of the Deliverance? Where is the man who turned me in? And when is my father going to be here?”
“Are you that eager to see him?” Henry asks, ignoring my first two questions as he offers me a knowing smile over his wineglass.
“Well, no,” I say frankly, because what would be the point of lying now? “But I’d rather like to get it over with.”
“What do you think is going to happen, Christopher-Henry?”
I frown and set my glass down. No one has called me that since the night I ran away from home. I’ve almost forgotten it was my name. “I’m not sure what you mean.”