Chapter Ten
Roger stretched as he finished his sentence with a flourish.
Another perfect line if he didn’t say so himself.
Done with a pounding head too—no more gin for him for a while.
Regardless, correspondence was an art form.
While personal conversation required skill, memorializing one’s words into writing, where the consequences of offense increased trifold, entailed the sharpest of minds.
Fortunately, he’d been trained by the best and never permitted anything to leave his desk that couldn’t be waved in the king’s face and receive a smile.
How anyone believed that another Ellenberg or Strauss or Friedland—or others of their ilk—could replace him…
He tutted. People had no sense. Or had become too comfortable, too complacent, too enamored with their current benefits to remember what had been, and had to be done, to ensure that all would not be taken away.
This was who he was, damn it, and unlike Miss Adler, he had not limited himself but instead expanded the possibilities for them.
Really a pity about the woman. How someone who was so intellectually gifted could fail to see that—crash. Rising to his feet, Roger marched out into the seemingly empty hall. Strolling to his bedchamber, he opened the door to find… nothing. Or at least nothing amiss.
He opened the parlor door, uncovering the same. Shaking his head, he returned to the hall. Had he just imagined the noise? It had seemed quite real, but he hadn’t been sleeping well, so perhaps—thump.
No, that was most certainly real. And coming from his late wife’s bedroom. He raced down the hall, swinging that door open to reveal the greatest mess he’d ever seen.
Mercy.
The bed was rumpled, the pots on the vanity were toppled, and the curtains hung askew, with every door, lid, and drawer agape.
Not to mention the fact that every inch of the finely stained floorboards and soft rugs was covered with silks, wools, ribbons, powders, and an unfortunately large array of feathers.
If she were present, his late wife would’ve swooned. Before sacking half the household.
A tempting thought, as his daughter was currently sitting in the middle of the disarray, instead of in the nursery, attending to her studies. And the fact that she was not where she was supposed to be was a clear failure on the part of several persons to whom he was paying quite a sum.
Backing away slowly, Roger returned to the hall, shutting the door, the soft, metallic click of the bolt pinging through the silence as a frustrated rage bubbled in his gut.
Détruirai, détruiras, détruira, détruirons, détruierez, détruiront.
“Lopez,” he called, his balled fingers digging into his own flesh as he struggled to keep his emotions in proper check.
The servant stepped out from around the bend and gave him a small bow.
“You summon, sir?” he asked.
Roger ground his jaw. “Do you know what is behind that door?” He gestured as he continued to fight his frustration.
“No,” Lopez responded, dragging the word out a touch.
Roger raised a brow, and with a sigh, the older man stepped toward the door, opened it, and popped his head in followed by a series of maneuvers rather similar to the ones in which Roger was just engaged.
“Ah,” Lopez said, and Roger could not help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction at the older man’s horrified expression. Though, like him, Lopez was well trained to rise above such things, and the emotion quickly disappeared, replaced by the professionalism to which Roger had become accustomed.
“I shall have that taken care of at once,” the man assured him.
“At a minimum,” Roger paused, working to think and assess, instead of merely reacting.
“I suppose you’re going to advise against sacking the governess and the maids who were assigned to the maintenance of this floor?
Argue that given our present circumstances, replacing the same would not be easy or quick, even with salary increases?
” The logical though frustrating facts and arguments threaded through his mind.
“Not to mention that, considering we have a guest, are not in a position to be half-staffed?”
A disaster.
Both as it would certainly be contrary to his obligations as a host and because Miss Adler would take the same as evidence of her lowest opinion of him.
Not that her opinion mattered, as, besides being incorrect, she was unimportant. However, he did not need more aggravation.
“Why should I, as you made the argument so eloquently, sir?” Lopez asked, his tone serious. He paused for a long beat. “Though I imagine you might be forgetting something.”
Roger frowned. What was the man speaking—oh.
“Miss Teres,” he said quickly. “Yes, I imagine she’d prefer not to be tasked with hiring an entirely new staff upon the moment she takes up residence here.”
“No, I’d imagine not,” Lopez responded after a long pause.
But Roger was too irritated to contemplate whatever other sin the man believed he committed as the image of the mess rose in his head once more.
Not to mention the litany of incompetencies and failures that marred his once sturdy, well-run home.
“I daresay there has to be some sort of tipping point,” he murmured. “Some place in time where an incompetent staff becomes more of a hindrance than a complete lack of one.”
Lopez narrowed his eyes at Roger.
“Staff member,” he conceded with a huff. “Or, in this case, several.” He wagged a finger at the other man. “But you know what they say about ‘bad apples.’ ”
A ghost of a sardonic smile graced Lopez’s lips. “I’ll endeavor not to be infected, sir,” he said. “And I’ll see to it that the matter is dealt with.” The servant gave another bow.
“That would be preferable,” Roger responded. “Thank you, Lopez,” he called as the man exited, leaving Roger to return to his office to work.
Peacefully and without interruption.
However, the universe was not on his side that day, as only an hour later, a voice interrupted his solitude, causing Roger to nearly jump out of his skin.
“How goes matters with Miss Adler?”
Roger glanced up to find Sol, top hat in hand, dressed in a dark green plaid coat and matching trousers, a cheerful yellow cravat tied around his neck, leaning against the doorframe, a sly sort of smile on his face.
“I thought you were supposed to announce guests,” Roger called to Lopez, who, apparently having returned from hopefully persuading the rest of his staff to do their actual jobs, was hovering just behind the other man’s shoulder.
“If you’d like me to be in more than one place at once, you’d better learn magic,” the man answered. “Or perhaps hire me an underling of my very own.”
Roger rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to place that request as a priority item on the new Mrs. Berab’s list.”
“You’ve committed her duties to paper?” Lopez inquired as Roger glanced up to find the valet holding out a stack of papers. More work, likely regarding the household. Just what he wanted.
Taking them, Roger scanned the first page. Household invoices and correspondence, just as he suspected. He set them down on the credenza behind him for later.
“It’s a turn of phrase,” he murmured.
“Good,” Lopez said. “I can’t imagine your potential new bride’s father would be pleased if you presented her with a physical rendering of chores.”
No, such a thing was only his own reality.
“I’m not a”—what was the word he was looking for? Villian, tyrant, ogre?—“beast,” he finally settled upon.
Lopez’s lip twitched. “No, but it might behoove you to shore up your castle before you meet, lest it frighten her off. Sir.” With a hint of a smile, he gave a bow, exiting.
“If you are a beast, you’re a rather dashing one,” Sol said, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Though graying around the temples.” He touched his own still dark brown hair as if to demonstrate.
“To your earlier point, I’m not a guest, I’m practically family.
” As if to prove the same, his friend traipsed into the room and flopped onto one of the two chairs beside his desk, slouching so much, it was a wonder his kippah didn’t slip off his closely cropped hair.
“How may I help you, Sol?” Roger asked.
“Well, first you can tell me about this ‘potential new bride,’ Lopez mentioned. Is a ‘mazel tov’ in order?” Sol waggled both of his considerable brows.
Part of Roger sought to deny it until the betrothal contract was inked, thwarting any attempt by the evil eye to undue his good fortune. Except he didn’t believe in such nonsense. Besides, it would be nice if someone would be properly enthusiastic for him.
“It isn’t official,” Roger said, lowering his voice, “So what I’m telling you is in the strictest of confidences.”
His friend raised a single palm. “You have my word.”
Roger glanced around once more, just in case either of his children lurked nearby, so as not to feed them false hope of a new mother. “Teres approached me.”
Sol knit his brow. “Teres?”
“About his daughter,” Roger whispered. “Lenore?” That was the correct name, right?
The other man frowned. “Leone?”
Fuck. He was skilled with names. Mostly.
Roger nodded in the affirmative. “Yes. Leone Teres. That’s who I’m marrying.” Hopefully.
“Isn’t she Tamar’s age?” Sol asked.
Roger winced. Not the reaction he’d hoped for. Besides, that couldn’t be correct, could it? Sol’s sister-in-law was one and twenty, and thus, if his niece Sofia was two and twenty, and Leone was a year younger or so—blast.
“Whether or not that’s true, it’s immaterial,” he declared. “Leone’s father has assured me she’s mature beyond her years.” More or less. He grimaced, recalling David’s comment. “Besides, she’s quite well-suited for this household and the position.”
Now it was Sol’s turn to blink. “You’re serious.”
“Very,” Roger said. “She’s perfect. The alliance between our family will thwart any threat to my standing, as well as secure the position of the next generation. Better, she’s exactly the sort of person a Berab should marry.”