The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 2

Christopher took himself through to the study, one of the few rooms that saw any use. It contained his desk, where he was supposed to work, and his favorite armchair, where he read books when he was meant to be at work at the desk. The room had been his father’s study before it was his, and the dark satin wallpaper and military oil paintings that made up the decor still reflected the last Lord Eden’s tastes. Christopher didn’t have the heart to change anything. He pushed open the French doors that led to the rose garden. The scent of blooms filled the air; birds chirped; damselflies buzzed. Far ahead in the distance, he could just make out the white lumps of sheep grazing on the hillside. He stood there for a long moment, surveying the rolling hills of his property with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Eden Abbey was supposed to have been a Roman outpost, as evidenced by some ancient barracks that had been dug up twenty years prior when a farmer had tilled a mite too deep in a cabbage field. The manor house was a mile and a bit from the town of Market Eden, a small but beautiful collection of cottages and shops nestled in the green hills, and an hour’s ride to the south, one would find the place where En-gland meets the sea. On clear days, Christopher imagined he could smell salt on the air—-a contributing factor, no doubt, to the derelict state of Eden Abbey. It had already begun tumbling when Christopher was born, and he had never known it to be fully upright. The turret in the western wing was nothing more than rubble, and the same fate was sure to meet the northern spire any day now.

Despite the decay, Eden Abbey still boasted a handful of delights within its sprawling grounds. The gardens that lined the rear of the Abbey were slightly overgrown, to be sure, but beautiful nonetheless. Though a man came by once every month to whack away at the worst of the primroses, it would take an army of gardeners to whip it back into shape—-but the wild collection of walking paths still had its charms in Christopher’s opinion. The wooded glens surrounding the grand lawn approached a fairytale in their perfection, all mossy hollows and charming brooks and a healthy population of deer—-booming, now that no hunts were being held per Christopher’s preference.

Three hundred and fifty--four years: that was how long his family had lived at the optimistically named Eden Abbey. Privately, he wondered if, in less than four months, he would no longer be permitted to stand at this door and gaze upon this grand view.

No, he reminded himself. He had a plan. It was a good plan, a secret plan, and all he had to do was follow it to the letter to ensure his inheritance.

First, there was the matter of some little property to be handled, which was, as far as Cook and Plinkton were aware, the entire point of his journey to London. He was to sell the townhouse that he kept in the city center, along with most of its furnishings. In generations past, the Winterthrope family had been fashionable enough to necessitate owning such a house, but now there seemed little need for such extravagance. Christopher planned to use the proceeds to keep the Abbey from collapsing for a few more years. All this, he had already carefully outlined to Cook and Plinkton.

What Cook and Plinkton did not know, however, was the second, real reason urging Christopher to London.

His hand drifted to his coat pocket, where the solicitors’ letter sat. Several lines haunted Christopher in particular.

We regret to inform His Lordship that we can find no legal loophole in the last will and testament of the previous Lord Eden. Your father (and his father, and his father’s father, etc.) was unshakable in his belief that his heir should benefit from a solid helpmate as he himself did, and his will reflects this. It is uncompromising in its assertion that Your Lordship is required to marry before your twenty--fifth birthday in order to retain your inheritance, including the estate and the title of earl. As that date approaches this very September, we urge you to act with all due haste. Otherwise—-as it is unlikely a distant relation will be discovered, given that we have already expended every effort—-the Crown will assume ownership of the estate and the title will be dissolved.

That settled it. This trip to London would serve a dual purpose: Christopher would sell a house he did not need and procure a wife he did not want.

He ruminated on this as he made his way to the stables, where he met a gleaming black stallion with a white blaze stamping in his stall. He led the beast out and set himself to readying the necessary tack.

“How is Orion this morning?” came Plinkton’s voice after a few minutes of quiet saddle polishing. The old butler shuffled in and took up his usual position at Christopher’s side, ready to hand him any brushes or rags he might need. It was a tradition of theirs, these mornings in the stable. Though Plinkton was not himself a horseman, he insisted on being present to assist the young master, as Eden lacked a stable boy. Not that he did much to assist; his contribution was mainly conversation, but Christopher didn’t mind. Plinkton seemed to understand that Christopher had taken to riding to clear his head, and it was terribly sweet of the old man to ensure he stuck to it.

“In a fine temper,” Christopher answered as the horse attempted to nip Plinkton’s backside.

Plinkton stumbled out of reach just in time. “He’s improving, then,” he said, dry as sand.

Christopher patted the horse’s strong neck, letting him huff and sniff at his waist. There was no reason for him to be concerned about his own well--being, as the beast no longer bit Christopher. They had an understanding; Christopher loved him more than anything. “Looking for apples in my pockets? For shame, Orion. You cannot be given treats after menacing poor Plinkton here.”

Plinkton, it seemed, was not content to speak only of horses. His eyes, not as sharp these days but plenty skillful, pierced Christopher with a look. “My lord, when this new man arrives today . . .”

Christopher slipped the bit neatly into Orion’s mouth, feigning a need to concentrate on that and not Plinkton’s words. “Hand me that polishing cloth, would you? There’s a smudge on his browband.”

Plinkton passed him the cloth but was not deterred from his little speech. “If you find him unsatisfactory, I can always come to London with you instead.”

“We’ve discussed this, dear fellow. Your presence is sorely needed here at home while the young master is away.” It was a lie and Plinkton knew it, but it didn’t stop Christopher from repeating it. The truth, that Plinkton was much too frail for such a journey, would break the poor man’s heart. And that, Christopher could not abide. Plinkton had been at his side when he’d come into his title; he’d seen Christopher successfully through university; he’d indulged in all his quirks and strange habits. He deserved all the consideration he had shown Christopher in his years of service, and so much more besides.

“Still, keep the option in mind, my lord.” Plinkton braved Orion’s reach to step closer and place a supportive hand on Christopher’s arm. “I know this is quite the change for you, bringing a new man in.”

Christopher dredged up a smile from somewhere in his depths. “I’m sure I’ll survive, Plinkton. But thank you, as always, for being such a stalwart.”

He made quick work of ensuring that the tack had been properly fastened before swinging himself into the saddle. “If the new man arrives while I’m out, see to him for me, will you?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Farewell, then!” he called as he rode out of the stable, allowing Orion to move at a brisk trot -toward the riding path that led through the pastures and along the country lane.

Christopher inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of grass and horseflesh. The weather was fair and not too chill, but even if it had been miserable and pouring buckets, Christopher would not have missed his daily ride.

“What do you think, old boy?” he asked Orion, patting the side of his neck. “Fancy a gallop?”

Orion whinnied at the suggestion. It was likely that he’d learned the word “gallop” along with his own name. The horse was made for running full tilt, and Christopher indulged him at every opportunity.

“Come on, then.” Christopher had only to touch his heels to Orion’s flanks before the beast was off like a shot, eating up ground and streaking across the fields that surrounded Eden Abbey.

Christopher closed his eyes and felt the wind on his face. Beneath him, Orion was perfection, the powerful muscles and heaving sides a sensation unlike any other. This was bliss; whatever else he had to do, whatever discomforts he must endure in London, there would always be this to come home to. He wondered if perhaps it would be possible to find a wife who shared his love of riding. It would make the horrid chore of marriage a bit easier, he thought, if he could enjoy his morning rides with someone.

He opened his eyes in time to catch a strange sight. Normally, he would ride for hours in the morning without meeting a single soul; the people from the village had their work to see to, so there wasn’t much chance of running into someone. Yet as Orion raced -toward the spot where the riding path met the main road, Christopher spied the shape of a man dressed in black.

From a distance, he could have been some shade from a ghastly story, a funeral’s lost mourner. He was standing there with a valise in hand and a sharp look in his eye, watching horse and rider with a thoughtful expression that spoke of more than a passing interest.

Christopher gave the reins a tug and slowed Orion to a walk as they approached the stranger. He could only be the new valet Christopher had been waiting for.

“You there!” he called, even though it seemed he already had the man’s undivided attention. Then he got close enough to see the man’s face clearly, and all rational thought left Christopher’s head.

His new valet was quite handsome.

To an incredibly annoying degree.

The interloper wore an impeccable raven--black cutaway coat, tailored to his form with the aim, it seemed, of making him appear even more trim than he already was. The rest of his clothing followed suit, consisting of dark, somber colors and highly polished boots—-an aesthetic befitting his station, Christopher supposed, but the palette also served to compliment his features. He possessed an ordinary hat, which he had removed in greeting, revealing sleek ebony hair worn in an unassuming close crop, not curled so much as slightly windblown. There was an unfairly attractive glint of intelligence to his eyes, which Christopher noticed were a deep, dark brown. He was not overly tall, but given Christopher’s own diminutive stature, the man would tower over him by a few inches on even footing. He was possessed of a sizable nose, perhaps just a little crooked, that offset his otherwise delicate cheekbones (high) and mouth (small). There was a reserved air about him as he allowed Christopher’s curious gaze, as if there were an invisible pane of glass between them that he did not wish to smudge.

He radiated the respectability and standoffishness that was so sought--after in the serving classes, and he seemed to effortlessly embody the kind of genteel masculinity that Christopher fought so desperately to achieve.

In short, the very sight of the new man was enough to put Christopher in a foul mood. What right did a valet have to look so handsome? For whom was this sharp jawline and lush, dark hair? Some people were too perfectly formed to be alive, and this man was one of them. Christopher could spit, he was so incensed, but he soldiered on. Even burning with envy, he had to be polite.

“Were you sent from London?” he asked from atop his high horse. Ordinarily he would dismount to continue a conversation, but in this case, he thought it best to stay above the man, if only in the equine sense.

“Yes. James Harding,” said the man. He gave a polite bow right there at the side of the road. “At your service, my lord.” His voice was surprisingly soft given his imposing figure. Christopher had half imagined he might open his mouth and let out a crow’s screech instead of a melodious human voice. He tipped his head back to better see Christopher, and a lock of his hair fell over his brow.

Christopher thought this was all a bit much.

“So,” Christopher said. “You’re my new valet?” He nudged the horse closer so that Orion was no longer blocking the road.

“I am, my lord,” Harding said. He was even more handsome up close, the bastard. There was a little beauty mark near the corner of his right eye just above the crest of one perfect cheekbone.

The absolute gall.

“Ah,” Christopher offered. Not his most intelligent gambit, but the beauty mark was very distracting. Actually, the fellow was, in his entirety, maddeningly distracting.

Christopher was aware that valets these days tended to be good--looking; it was fashionable, he knew, to collect manservants who were as pleasing to the eye as they were efficient in their duties. Just last month he’d read an account of a pair of identical twin footmen with green eyes who were being paid an obscene amount of money to flank a baroness’s carriage door. It was the same as any object in a household, went the theory. If you were going to have a man standing in the background of your life, he might as well be nice to look at.

Christopher, however, did not see the appeal.

He did not understand in the least how keeping a veritable Adonis around the house was supposed to please him. He already spent more time than he should comparing himself to the illustrated models in his men’s fashion periodicals. He had once thrown an entire issue of Tailor’s Quarterly into a roaring fireplace due to the unending pages of perfectly sculpted men displayed therein. Christopher was well aware, of course, that a flesh--and--blood man should no more compare himself to a fan tastical drawing than he should to a myth, but it still rankled. Those men in the fashion illustrations all seemed to have exquisitely turned calves, jaws as strong as iron, tiny nipped waists, and damnably broad shoulders. He had spent many hours telling himself that such men did not exist in reality, and yet here was James Harding, wax wings strapped to his no--doubt exceptional back, flying very close to the ideal.

Or perhaps this James Harding was a very ordinary--looking man and Christopher was so shut away from the world at large that he was seeing extreme beauty where there was -really nothing special. The thought buoyed him considerably.

Orion snuffed at the man’s dark coat, no doubt searching for carrots. James Harding held out his empty hand, palm flat and facing skyward, and allowed the horse to huff and lip at his skin.

“Careful,” Christopher said. “He does bite at times.” Though he hated the man for his enviable looks, he did not necessarily want to begin their acquaintance with an injury. Valets needed all ten fingers, probably.

Harding gave him a flicker of a glance in reply but did not flinch away. And Orion, miraculously, allowed the stranger to scratch at the spot between his ears where he so loved being scratched. Christopher watched in wide--eyed wonderment as the horse dipped his massive head to better receive the attention. It was unprecedented for the temperamental animal to act in such a docile way with anyone, let alone a stranger.

“A beautiful mount,” Harding commented. “He must be a pleasure to ride, if I may say so, my lord.”

Orion, who knew a compliment when he heard one, preened at the praise, strutting in place and puffing out his chest. Clearly, the beast had turned traitor.

Christopher adjusted his seat in the saddle. “He is, but only because he and I have an agreement: he does not try to kill me on a daily basis—-at least, not anymore—-and I spoil him rotten. He’s thrown every other rider who’s tried to bring him to heel, so I’d advise you not to get too cozy. He’s a dangerous villain.”

In an attempt to completely undermine his master at every turn, Orion nuzzled at the top of Harding’s head. The man bore this with as much dignity as he could, allowing the horse his affectionate gesture before smoothing down his hair and replacing his hat.

“Indeed,” he said, suffusing the word with more dryness than an utterance of agreement warranted.

Christopher hated being mocked, and this Harding fellow was just the type to make one continually feel the butt of some joke. He gave Orion’s reins a little twitch meant to convey his displeasure at the horse’s betrayal. Orion, of course, did not give a single damn and bent to nibble on some clover.

“Don’t be fooled,” Christopher said. “One wrong move around Orion and you may end up with a broken leg. Although I suppose you would have no way of knowing that, if you are not accustomed to horses.” He paused, sensing in the subtle shift at the corner of Harding’s lips that he was once again being silently laughed at. “ Are you accustomed to horses?” he demanded.

Harding’s answer was entirely proper. “Somewhat, my lord. In my youth, I was well acquainted with them.”

“Oh?” Christopher could not hide his surprise. Owning a horse of one’s own was not common among the serving class, nor was leisurely riding, as far as he was aware. Plinkton, even in his more sprightly days, couldn’t stay in a saddle if you offered him a farthing. “And how did that come to be the case?”

Harding inclined his head. “As a lad, I worked as a stable boy and would often be tasked with taking the horses out for their daily exercises. It’s been some years since I’ve ridden with any regularity, but I still possess some little skill in that arena, I should think.”

Brilliant. Not only was he the finest specimen of manhood within fifty miles, he was practically a born horseman.

Christopher sniffed. “Well, that would not be among your tasks here at Eden Abbey. I am responsible for all of Orion’s exercise.” He ignored Orion’s annoyed huff.

Harding stared up at him, squinting a little in the brightening morning sun. It glinted off the lock of hair on his brow, making it shine like black silk. “I would never expect to be allowed free rein of your horses, my lord,” he said with more gravity than the comment merited.

“Oh, I like that!” Christopher grinned. “Free rein.” He laughed, and at Harding’s blank look, held the slack leather tack aloft in his fist. “Reins. As in—-? Did you not make the joke on purpose?”

“I do not joke, my lord,” Harding intoned.

Christopher let his hand drop. “Yes. I can see that.”

Pretty though the man might be, this Harding was the dullest creature Christopher had ever had the displeasure of speaking to. He was cold and stiff and altogether stuffy. Christopher had heard valets tended to be a serious breed, but this was worse than he’d imagined.

Ah, well. The man was only here to fulfill a very specific role, and indulging in a sensible chuckle once a fortnight was not a prerequisite. As long as he was willing to make an appearance as Christopher’s valet, his personality (or distinct lack thereof) did not matter.

Harding shifted on his feet, a strange flicker playing in his eyes, though the rest of him was solidly serious in every way. “Perhaps we should discuss the tasks I would be overseeing, my lord. The solicitors did caution me that the position was contingent on your approval.” His mouth did that thing again that made Christopher feel very foolish. “Unless you have already decided to hire me without checking my references?”

Christopher’s hands tightened on his reins. Beneath him, Orion shuffled on his feet with impatience and not a little secondhand (secondhoof?) embarrassment. Christopher had completely forgotten the terms surrounding his new valet: he had, indeed, told the solicitors the man would only be taken on if his references were in order and Christopher felt he was a proper fit, and only then on a short--term basis.

He glossed over all this with a smile. “Of course. Shall we discuss this further in my study like civilized people?”

“If His Lordship wishes it.”

What a lobcock.

Christopher turned Orion back -toward the stables with a roll of his eyes. Harding fell into step on the roadside. Christopher chanced a glance down at Harding and his heavy--looking valise. If it were any other person in the world, he would offer to share the saddle on the ride back, but he was not inclined to make such a suggestion to a man as dour and friendless as this greyhound in human shape.

Harding must have sensed the glance and thought it belied some sort of impatience, for he said, “You can ride ahead if you prefer, my lord, and I can meet you.”

“Nonsense.” Christopher was very good at pretending, and so he pretended to not be as flustered as he felt. “You don’t know the way. We shall go together.”

They walked on for several yards while Christopher considered the man. From his seat on Orion’s back, he had an excellent view of James Harding’s face, including the slope of his distinctive nose. Christopher’s gaze drifted down to his lips for only a moment before he faced forward and admonished himself silently. It was impolite to stare. So what if this Har-ding was a well--formed man? Christopher was acquainted with several handsome men. He had gone to Cambridge with plenty of them.

The silence between them began to weigh on Christopher. It seemed so awkward to him to cover the short distance without exchanging anything further.

He tried the first conversational gambit that came to mind. “You aren’t overly chatty, are you, Harding?”

“Would you like to chat, my lord?” he asked in the same bloodless tones that a doctor might use to pronounce your loved one deceased.

“God, no,” Christopher said as they neared the stables. “It’s only—-I so rarely entertain guests here at Eden Abbey that I suppose I’ve no idea how to conduct a normal conversation. If you do remain here in my employ, you’ll need to get used to these silences.”

“I am not a guest, my lord,” Harding pointed out. “You needn’t worry about keeping me entertained. I do not mind silence.”

Well! A fine snub that was. Christopher steeled his jaw. If his possible valet never indulged in something as frivolous as light conversation, it was good to establish that now.

Christopher guided Orion through the stable doors and dismounted. The horse, seemingly confused about his morning exercise being cut short, lodged his complaint with a loud whinny, as there was no Plinkton around to bite. Christopher shushed him as he began removing his tack.

“I know, I know. Don’t pout. Tomorrow we can go all the way down to the seaside, if you like.”

One of Orion’s huge black eyes fixed on something over Christopher’s shoulder, and he turned to find Harding standing under the arch of the stable doors, staring at the scene as if it was a personal affront.

“My lord,” he said, setting down his valise on the straw--strewn ground with a thunk, “allow me to do that for you.” He strode forward and reached for Orion’s bridle, but this familiarity was too much for the horse. He tossed his great head, shying away from the touch.

“Ah! Please don’t,” Christopher cried. He laid a soothing palm on the side of Orion’s neck. “I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

Harding looked around wildly. “But where is your stable hand? Should he not be the one to do this?”

“There is no stable hand.” Christopher frowned and turned back to the work of releasing the tack. “A boy from the village comes every few days for a bit of cleaning, but for the most part, it’s just myself and Plinkton in the mornings.”

Harding stood by with his long arms dangling at his sides, watching the scene unfold with a slight furrow on his brow. “Your Lordship should not be expected to do such menial tasks. I can go fetch this Plinkton if you point me in the right direction.”

Christopher shot him a look over Orion’s back. “You would honestly pull that sweet old man away from his second cup of tea? Cook would skin you.”

This made Harding even more confused, if his helpless blinking was any indication. “I was not aware flaying was one of the hazards of this post, my lord.”

Christopher closed his eyes. He imagined a world in which he would not need to explain very basic things to a strange new valet, and he lived in that excellent world for the span of one breath. Then he opened his eyes and said, quite calmly, “Look. This position will likely be very different from the positions you’ve held in the past. I am not the sort of master who requires every little need to be managed by a servant. I am my own man. And Orion—-” He patted the horse’s bellowing sides. “He is my own horse. I do not mind brushing him down myself. There may even be an occasion where I am required to muck out the stalls.” (Harding gave a choked--off gasp, which Christopher blithely ignored.) “If it offends you to see an earl doing menial tasks—-though I would argue this task especially requires great skill—-then perhaps you are not destined to serve at Eden Abbey.”

Harding stood there, his mouth a thin, sour line, looking like the very picture of self--control. Clearly he had something to say, but his sense of propriety was not allowing him to contradict one of his betters.

Christopher sighed and reached for a currycomb. “All right, Harding, out with it. Speak your mind. Better we be completely honest with each other now before you throw in your lot withme.”

Or as honest as possible, Christopher thought. He was still unsure whether he could trust a valet with choosing his cravat, let alone any of his secrets.

Harding seemed to pick his words carefully before laying them out before Christopher. “I take great pride in my work, my lord.”

“Of course.” Christopher stepped onto his handy mounting block and began brushing Orion down, thinking of how obvious it was that this cheerless creature cared only for his job. He’d only known Harding for a few minutes and that, at least, was perfectly clear.

Harding continued: “In my view, that work requires me to make my employer as comfortable as possible. While I respect your outlook on these matters, I—-” He stopped and thought before speaking again. “There is an order to things, my lord.”

“I see.” Christopher sighed, patting Orion’s great neck. “Perhaps this is a discussion better suited to sitting. Allow me to finish with Orion here,” he nodded at the horseflesh beneath him, “and we can convene in the study.”

“That is acceptable, my lord.” Then, tipping his head -toward the bucket, which held all of Orion’s grooming implements, he said, “Though I have the utmost faith in your ability to handle this by yourself, may I attempt to help? Many hands make lighter work.”

“Orion does not like anyone else touching him,” Christo pher warned. “Poor Plinkton gets nipped daily just for coming too close.”

“I am sure I can manage.” Harding bent to retrieve a brush and joined Christopher in tending to the beast. Orion, for his part, startled only a little, and when he turned his head to find Harding at his flank, gave him a gentle butt to his shoulder. Harding accepted this with a smug little look at Christopher.

“Well, he -really is much improved, I suppose,” Christopher rushed to say, filling in the silence again like a fool. His hands worked the comb in fast, jerky motions. “When he first came to me, Orion was not fit for any company. Now he’s practically a gentleman.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in that way that made Christopher’s skin prickle. “Your influence, no doubt, my lord.”

He sniffed, trying to concentrate on his work. “Harding, I have the distinct impression that somewhere deep inside that stony exterior, you are laughing at my expense.”

“My lord, I would never.”

Christopher doubted his sincerity, but for the sake of their fragile truce, he let it lie.

They continued brushing down Orion, and with the two of them it took no time at all. Soon the horse was groomed and sparkling and safely locked in his stall. Christopher gave him a scratch between his eyes as thanks for his relative calm. He hadn’t bitten Harding once—-quite a vote of confidence for Harding’s character. Christopher wondered if perhaps Orion’s instincts could be trusted.

He turned to the man with a rigid smile. “Shall we?”

Christopher led the way through the gardens and into the manor. They entered the study, where Christopher took his seat behind the massive oak desk. He still sometimes felt like a child playing pretend when he sat there, in the place where his father had sat. Then Christopher noticed that Harding was still standing in the center of the floor, valise in hand, like a soldier ready for orders.

“Won’t you sit?” He gestured to the chair opposite.

There was a brief silence during which he was convinced Harding would decline, but he eventually bent. “If you’d prefer, my lord,” he said, taking the chair and placing the valise on the floor by his feet.

They sat there for a long moment, watching each other across the expanse of the desk. Christopher had assumed that Harding would get the discussion started, as he undoubtedly knew a valet’s business better than Christopher did.

Yet Harding only sat, and waited, and stared, though all of it was done very politely.

“Well,” Christopher said, covering some of his nerves by fiddling with his desk set. Each item—-penknife, inkwell, blotting papers—-needed a slight tweak, in his opinion. “Erm, how shall we proceed?”

“Would you like to look over my references, my lord?” Har-ding suggested.

“Yes!” The enthusiasm and relief could not be wholly excised from his voice. “Yes, that would be an excellent place to start. Let’s see them.”

Harding bent and opened his valise to retrieve a sheaf of papers from its black maw. He placed the neat bundle, tied with string, on the edge of the massive desk. “Each of my previous employers has been gracious enough to furnish me with these letters, save for my most recent one, who unfortunately passed away due to old age. In his stead, his son kindly wrote this recommendation.” Harding unknotted the string and placed the topmost letter, a crisply folded thing of gorgeous cream stock, on Christopher’s blotter.

Christopher reluctantly plucked it from the desk as if it were a nasty creature that might snap at his fingers.

The missive indeed contained a glowing recommendation from a Mr. L. M. Pentagraff II, because of course it did. It wasn’t as if Harding would be daft enough to bring references with him that stated, Eh, maybe don’t hire this one. He sneaks the port and oversleeps on Sundays.

The entire exercise felt rather pointless. Christopher leafed through the rest of the stack, trying to project a confidence he did not feel. “You’ve certainly held quite a few positions,” he said just for something to say. There were at least five letters from former employers, along with an envelope stamped with a wax seal from Cloy that you required a valet for an imminent trip to London; that the position might extend beyond that should I prove myself useful but there was no guarantee; that you are young with no wife or children; and—-” Here Har-ding hesitated for the first time, though his hesitation seemed to have less to do with nerves and more to do with the careful consideration of his next words. “That you had somewhat eccentric habits. My lord.”

Even after all these years of living with a well--kept secret, Christopher still felt his heart stop at the phrase. “For example?” he asked, his voice strangled.

“Misters Cloy and Bellow suggested to me that you may, for example, be accustomed to dressing yourself,” Harding said. The sour look on his face deepened, his lip curling faintly.

Christopher bit down on the curse that lay on his tongue. “Ah. That.” He supposed they knew, having looked over his financial records in the course of their work, that Christopher had not kept a valet all these years. His solicitors were privy to a good deal of his personal business, of course, but he could only hope Cloy and Bellow weren’t spreading word of his habits around London.

And he prayed they did not guess the reason behind it.

Harding crossed his legs. As long as they were, it took some time. “I was certain I had misunderstood them, sir.” It was a leading sort of statement. It made Christopher smile again.

“No, no misunderstanding, Harding. It’s true; I am accustomed to dressing myself and I would continue to do so should I take you on as a valet.”

The frown on the man’s face was barely perceptible and only there for a flash of a moment, but Christopher saw it all the same.

“May I ask why, my lord?” Harding intoned.

Christopher spread his hands. “I will do you the courtesy of being frank. I do not require a valet, and yet I find myself in need of one, if only for appearances’ sake.”

“Your visit to London,” Harding said, proving that the intelligent gleam in his eye was not just for show. “You don’t wish to appear in society without the requisite trimmings, is that it?”

“Exactly.” Christopher neglected to mention that he would also be in the market for a wife, and potential wives would expect an earl to travel with his valet. That particular piece was Christopher’s to puzzle out, and he did not wish to delve into the details of the thing. “If I’m not tossing around pots of money as I should, people might not take me seriously. Isn’t that a funny conundrum? You would just be for show, Har-ding.”

Those expressive eyebrows rose again. Christopher was beginning to wonder if Harding communicated exclusively through his brows, and how long it might take to learn that language. “For show, my lord?”

From his tone, it was clear he wanted to tack on something to the effect of Like a commemorative plaque?

Christopher waved away his indignant protest. “There might be small tasks here and there that you might be able to handle for me, but as far as my wardrobe is concerned, I do not need any assistance.”

Harding frowned. “You’re paying me a wage anyway; I may as well dress you while I’m here, my lord.”

Christopher leveled a wry look at him over the polished wood of the desk. “Your work ethic is to be admired, of course, but one might consider not looking at a gift horse so closely.” He shuffled the references back into a neat stack. “Is the arrangement acceptable to you or not?”

Harding seemed to take an age to answer. When he did, his soft voice formed his words so delicately and so prettily that Christopher had to wonder what sort of etiquette training they were putting valets through these days.

“The relationship between a man and his valet should be based on trust and mutual understanding. However, I do not expect such sacred things to spring up overnight. If you prefer to dress yourself, my lord, as your valet, I can only strive to be of service to you in other ways and hope, in time, that we reach a point where you trust me to do it for you. I am very good at what I do, Lord Eden. Could you possibly imagine yourself allowing me those duties in the future once I have proved myself to you?”

“Possibly, Harding, possibly,” Christopher prevaricated.

It wasn’t wholly a lie; anything was possible. Christopher could imagine. His imagination was excellent, and if pressed, it would produce a picture of Christopher being dressed like a doll by Harding in some frightfully boring costume of black on black with perhaps a smidge of grey for color. Of course, in this imagining, Christopher was not constrained by his singular secret and there was no need to be anxious about allowing another man to dress him.

He moved his inkwell an inch to the left in what he thought was a rather self--possessed gesture. “If that’s settled, then I do not foresee any problems with your employment here at Eden Abbey.” He settled back in his chair, relieved to have finished the interview. “Shall we, erm, begin now? Is that acceptable?”

“Certainly, my lord.” Harding sounded almost amused at the question. Christopher was going to have to get used to being silently laughed at by this bastard. At least Cook and Plinkton had given him plenty of practice already. Speaking of which—-

“Ah, one more thing: the butler, Plinkton, is getting on in years, as I’ve said. He’s been here since before my father was born, and I wager he’ll still be here when I’m long gone. There may be times when you may need to pitch in while we’re at Eden Abbey. Lighten his load. Is that all right?”

Harding’s face, which normally seemed cut from living rock, softened into something almost human. “You worry for the butler’s good health, my lord?”

“Of course I do. The man practically raised me,” Christopher said. “And he’s older than Moses. So would you be able to lend him a hand once in a while?”

“Sir, you needn’t ask. Under your employ, I will follow all orders to the letter.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat and reached for his penknife, nudging it another scant inch to align with the edge of his blotting papers. “So, erm, what now?”

“Shall I acquaint myself with the household, my lord?” Harding said. “Perhaps settle in?”

“Yes! An excellent notion,” Christopher enthused. “Why don’t I show you—-” He rose from his chair, ready to play guide to the new addition.

“No need, my lord. I can find my way, I’m sure.” Harding stood, valise in hand, and gave a grave sort of bow. He went into the hall and turned -toward the door that led to the back stairs. His footsteps barely made a sound on the old floorboards. For a moment, Christopher wondered how he knew his way around the Abbey without so much as a cursory tour of the place, but he reasoned that most old estates were likely built along the same lines, and Harding could probably make an educated guess as to the direction of the kitchens.

Must be nice, he thought, knowing your business as well as that.

Christopher listened to his assured, quiet footsteps receding, then gave a sigh. He flopped bonelessly back into his chair, shaking his head at himself. He was probably the only gentleman in all the land who had sought out a lazy valet on purpose. Just his luck that he’d managed to hire one who was competent, tireless, and, damn it all, far too handsome.

Christopher groaned and put a hand over his tired eyes, rubbing at them distractedly. Why hadn’t he instructed Cloy & Bellow to send him a valet with grey hair and wrinkles and a face that looked like a hatchet?

Oh, yes. Because Christopher has specifically told them not to. Like a fool.

As always, he had only himself to blame.