Chapter 18
Har-ding did not return to the London townhouse for several days, by which time Christopher was considering taking his fastest city horse and bringing the man home himself. Luckily, there was no need, as his wayward valet reappeared just as Christopher was finishing his breakfast. All those days and nights on the road to Scotland and back had done him no favors; Har-ding’s normally faultless bearing was wilted by exhaustion. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and dust along his cuffs. Despite this, he was the loveliest, most welcome sight Christopher could conceive.
Christopher leapt from the breakfast table, still chewing his toast. “Good lord, man, please sit! You look as if you’re about to keel over at any moment. What did you do, travel all night?”
“I did, my lord,” Har-ding murmured, and it was proof of his poor state that he allowed Christopher to bully him into Christopher’s own chair at the head of the table. “Mr. Chesterfield and his new bride send their regards. They plan to stay in Scotland for a fortnight or so before braving the return trip by coach.”
“By then, no one will give two figs about a duke’s daughter eloping with a poet.” Christopher pushed a plate of bacon -toward Har-ding. “The story of the day is nothing but how I was nearly shot on the road like a dog.”
“Shot?” Har-ding’s drooping eyes widened. He stared up at Christopher, ignoring the bacon completely. “Who was trying to shoot you, my lord?”
Christopher nudged the toast rack so that it, too, would be within easy reach for Har-ding. “The duke, as it happened.”
“The—-? He what ? ” Har-ding was exhibiting more emotion in these few minutes than Christopher had seen in all their time together combined. His face went quite pale and his jaw tight. It would be rather gratifying if Christopher weren’t so concerned that his valet was about to topple over at the merest brush of a feather.
“It all worked out in the end. Not a single hole was punched through me, I assure you.” He refilled his own teacup for Har-ding, since there wasn’t a fresh one handy. “Do you take milk? I can’t recall.”
“A little,” Har-ding said faintly, and soon received his slightly milky brew as if in a daze. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Don’t thank me! You’re the one who drove that blasted cart all through En-gland and back.” He took a seat on Har-ding’s right. “Eat, please.”
Har-ding worked his way slowly through his breakfast, chewing and swallowing before saying, “I must thank you, though, sir. Because of your generosity, I was able to bear witness to Lady Belinda’s wedding. I hadn’t ever dared dream I might be able to attend my dear friend’s nuptials.”
Christopher smiled softly. “Did they look happy when you left them?”
“Riotously, my lord,” Har-ding said. Despite his tiredness, a glimmer of a smile flirted at the corner of his mouth. Christopher longed to capture it in amber.
He looked away instead and stared at the wall. “Good. That’s . . . very good.” God, he hated the wallpaper in the morning room. Tiny roses strung on blue ribbons, ugh. “I’ll have one of the chambermaids ready a bath for you. Take the day off—-in fact, take several days! I daresay you need time to recuperate.”
Har-ding’s frustrated snort—-devilishly close to impertinent—-drew Christopher’s attention back to his handsome face just in time to watch him gulp down the remains of his tea. He set the cup back in its saucer with a smart click. “I fear there is no time for rest, my lord. There is still the pressing matter of finding you a wife, now that Lady Belinda is no longer available.”
“You won’t find a wife for me in this state,” Christopher pointed out. “I insist you rest before bending your mind to matchmaking.”
Har-ding opened his mouth, no doubt to argue like the recalcitrant work--addicted valet he was, but a footman—-frowning at the sight of master and valet seated together at the breakfast table—-appeared with the day’s letters on a silver tray, an interruption that Christopher used to his advantage.
“Pardon me, dear fellow, I must sort through these.” He rifled through the pile. “Ah, still quite a few letters inquiring after my health following ‘the ordeal.’ Gossipmongers, the whole lot. Anything from the solicitors? I do hope they find someone to buy this house soon. Oh!” He picked up the last piece of mail. “Something from Eden.”
It had been weeks since the last letter from old Plinkton, informing Christopher that all was well at the Abbey and sternly reminding him to eat. He recounted it to Har-ding with a laugh as he slit open the current missive with the provided gold opener. Then his eyes fell to the words contained therein, and his face fell with them.
Har-ding, noticing the shift in Christopher’s mood, placed his knife and fork on his plate. “Is something wrong, my lord?”
“It’s Plinkton,” Christopher managed to choke out. “Or rather, a doctor. Writing at Cook’s behest. He says Plinkton’s taken ill. It’s unclear what the matter is. He—-” He stood up from the table abruptly, nearly toppling his chair. Har-ding rose with a swiftness and caught it before it fell.
“Would you like me to ready the carriage, sir?” he asked.
The question did not penetrate Christopher’s mind in any way that mattered. He could not tear his eyes away from the letter. He read it again and again, looking for some hope and each time finding none. His world shrank and sank into a deep well. He could only hear his own blood rushing in his ears, a torrent fit for drowning.
“My lord?” A stalwart hand fit itself to Christopher’s shoulder.
He looked at him wildly, his breath coming in erratic waves. “What’s that, Har-ding?”
“Do you wish to return to the Abbey?” His voice was so soft, it was barely a whisper.
“Yes. Yes, I—-” Christopher tried to think. He knew he needed to go home, yet there was so much to do, arrangements to be made with the temporary staff. Would his horses even be fit for the long journey back to Eden? The whirl of responsibility left him frozen.
Har-ding gently took the letter from his hand. “I will see to it, my lord. I will see to everything. We will leave as soon as possible.”
“You haven’t slept,” Christopher said. It seemed a silly thing to point out at this juncture, yet he could not help it.
“I can sleep on the way.”
“You must. Please. I couldn’t bear it if you also—-” Christopher swallowed. An image of old Plinkton in bed with his terrible fever swam before his mind’s eye. “You must look after your health, dear fellow.”
Har-ding did not seem to know what to say to that. He gave a little sigh through his nose, then nudged Christopher -toward the stairs. “I shall. Now please let me handle what needs handling.”
“Thank you,” Christopher said, and though he later had no memory of doing so, went up the staircase and into his dressing room to change into traveling clothes.