Chapter Nine
Neville hired a Runner to investigate Mrs. Cartwright’s letter, and then, on a tip from Asquith’s valet, he found Asquith at Asquith House’s stables.
Both these things he managed in under two hours.
From there, Neville intended to escort Asquith to Harbury’s, but Asquith had taken one look at Neville’s rag-and-bone shop clothes and insisted Neville go home and change.
You are about to ask Millie for her hand. Do you really want to do so looking not-quite-yourself and wearing pea green?
Neville could see Asquith’s point, and so, against his better judgment, he’d complied. However, as Gerard, Neville’s valet, swiped a sharpened razor across his cheek, sitting still proved more challenging than Neville had expected.
The soap’s pungent scent stung his nose, and the blade crackled across his skin. As his stubble was sliced away, he thought of Millie’s earlier proximity to another blade, one wielded with ill intent. He suppressed a shudder.
How had Millie not only gotten away from Willard, but managed to steal his knife, too?
“If you’ll pardon, my lord,” Gerard intoned dryly, “your huffing will not make things go any faster. What must be done, must be done.”
“Ah, but must I be shaved, as well as tidied and changed? That is the question.”
Gerard let out a world-weary exhale. “Asquith was quite right to send you to me. You looked a fright. No lady in her right mind would have accepted an offer of marriage from you.”
Ah, but would Millie accept him at all, clean-shaven or not? “Under the circumstance—”
“Under the circumstance,”—Gerard abruptly lifted his hands and glared down, razor poised—“you must take extra care.”
Neville supposed that argument could be made.
“I have never known you to exaggerate, my lord. And if your description of the evening was accurate, the lady will be exhausted when you make your case. Possibly even overwrought.”
Neville kept himself from reacting. But Millie? Overwrought? Doubtful.
“In other words,” Gerard continued, “she will be in no condition to receive, let alone accept your proposal. If you wish to overcome those impediments, you must appear to your potential bride as the tidy center of gentlemanly calm.”
Gentlemanly calm.
No two words could be further from his present state.
Then again, who was he to argue?
Gerard was an excellent valet, a trusted retainer. He’d never steered Neville wrong before. Then again, Neville had never asked another lady for her hand.
Asquith had been even more blunt, telling Neville in no uncertain terms his garments were appalling, his gloves a disgrace, and he stank so badly of sweat and fear, Asquith’s newly acquired horse had taken an instant dislike to him.
The horse, in fact, was the reason Asquith had given for his mysterious absence throughout the day.
Apparently, Asquith had wanted to buy the handsome stallion for some time.
Early in the afternoon, he’d received word of a private auction.
He’d set off immediately, which was why Eliza and Adrian had not been able to locate him regarding Willard’s request to escort Millie.
A request which, of course, Asquith would have denied.
After Neville had related the evening’s events, Asquith set off to see Millicent as soon as possible. While he had promised Neville he would do what he could to put Millie in an accepting frame of mind, he had also made clear would not force his ward to make an immediate choice about her future.
For that, Neville must rely on his own powers of persuasion.
“Now,” Gerard continued, “just a little bit longer on the throat, and then you can finish telling me about your visit with the Bow Street Runner.”
What was there to say? He’d wanted to resolve John’s problem discreetly and on his own, but Mrs. Cartwright’s revelations and Willard’s aggressive attack on Millie made the Runner a necessary evil.
Neville’s concern for Millie’s reputation was the only reason he was not personally on his way to the address of a remote hunting lodge that had been in Mrs. Cartwright’s note.
Gerard turned Neville’s face this way and that. “You say this Runner of yours has already left for the country?”
“Yes. He is on his way to the lodge’s vicinity, but not yet the lodge itself. He urged caution and emphasized the need to collect evidence before acting.”
Gerard placed a warm towel over Neville’s face briefly interrupting his answer, and then he wiped all the dampness away.
Then, Neville continued, “He said he knows the county where the lodge is located. He intends to find out what he can from toll takers, postillions, and coachmen from the area that have been helpful to him in the past.”
Gerard nodded thoughtfully. “People who are not beholden to a single, aristocratic employer.”
Neville considered. Yes, he supposed that analysis was right. Anyone employed directly by Eltenham or Willard would have good reason to lie.
Neville studied Gerard as his valet laid out his clothes. “If I were doing something nefarious, would you keep my secret?”
“As if I would ever work for a gentleman who would act in a nefarious manner.” Gerard sniffed. “Now, as you will be moving through the night, we will keep things simple. A black coat, waistcoat and trousers. Light colors are more easily seen in the darkness.”
“Excellent choice.” Sneaking into his own cousin’s house seemed the height of absurdity, but if all had gone according to plan, Harbury’s knocker would already be removed by the time Neville arrived—a way to show to everyone who passed that the duke was not at home to callers.
Neville closed his eyes and shook his head, imagining people passing by Harbury’s house and shaking their heads. He was certain feigned illness and forced seclusion went far beyond the help Harbury had offered earlier in the day.
Gerard whipped out a voluminous, lawn shirt. Neville inhaled the scent of starch as he slid his neck through the collar and stuffed his arms into the sleeves. The shirt fit nicely over his shoulders.
His distinctive shoulders.
With a slight shake of his head, he braced himself on Gerard’s shoulder and stepped into his trousers, then presented himself to be tucked, brushed, and scented to Gerard’s satisfaction.
“There now,” Gerard pronounced, moving his gaze over the physique he was forever bemoaning and checking for seams out-of-line. “I have done my part to my best.”
Neville sighed at his reflection. “Indeed, you have, for what you have to work with.”
Gerard smirked. “In my humble opinion, the lady is very lucky, indeed. Not everything comes down to fashion. Most things, yes. But not all.”
“Thank you,” Neville inclined his head. That was as close as Gerard had ever come to praising him.
Perhaps Gerard and Asquith had been right to send him home. The brief respite had, in fact, done wonders for Neville’s mood. He was still anxious, uncertain, and determined to make Willard pay, but at least he no longer felt as if he might drop dead on his feet.
And his fresh, clean garments gave a boost to his confidence.
A much-needed boost.
He’d few logical arguments to give Millie on why she should choose him, specifically. But an attraction did exist between them, and he’d be a fool not to use that to his advantage.
He bid Gerard not to wait up for him, and then he headed back down the stairs.
But the hall, which should have been dark, was not.
Light spilled out of the front parlor, casting the shadow of a footman at the feet of a lady across the marble floor. Wonderful. Just what he needed. An unanticipated confrontation with his estranged mother.
He hadn’t seen her for months. Not since she’d traveled to London to beg him for information on John’s whereabouts, to which he’d given a lie. The confrontation had ended with her giving him a blistering set down and, again, muttering about his likeness to his father.
Warily, he approached the parlor. “Mother?”
“Ambrose,” she greeted. “You do not appear happy to see me.”
“I am only surprised,” he said, coming toward her. He leaned down to kiss her as she liked, one peck on each smooth, pale cheek. The scent he’d only recently remembered left him dizzy and disoriented. “I thought you wished to remain in Brighton this Season.”
“Yes, well. Interesting that. Staying was out of the question.” She glanced significantly at the footman. “I had a sudden desire to visit my brother-in-law, your Uncle Farnsworth, in Plymouth.”
The devil. “But—”
“Not another word, son.” She waved her hand. “Isn’t it natural that I would want to congratulate him on his new position?” She turned toward the footman. “Bless you…Mark, was it? Well, Bless you, Mark—”
Neville winced. He wouldn’t have remembered the new footman’s name if he had been asked.
“—yes, yes. Take the pattens away. Dreadful things. I shouldn’t have worn them at all, but for the necessity of traveling by stage.”
“The stage?!” Neville exclaimed.
“The stage. Or perhaps I traveled by the mail. I can’t be bothered to remember which.
” She shrugged as if details were problems for other people.
“Anyway, I wished to come to London, and Farnsworth’s carriage was unusable.
A matter of a broken wheel, you see.” She paused.
“One never notices just how essential a thing is in one’s life until it breaks. ”
Briefly, she met his gaze with a look that would have puzzled him in the past. He’d since learned the meaning; Millie gave him the same look whenever she made a point she thought should have been obvious. But what was his mother trying to tell him?
What was the essential thing that had broken?
John?
“A ribbon is just a ribbon,” she went on lightly, “until the one on one’s hat frays, and then off the hat blows, exposing one’s hair.
” She patted her curls as if expecting to find them in disarray.
“A window is just a window, until so caked with filth one cannot see the approach of an unexpected visitor.”
“I suppose…” Thoroughly flummoxed, Neville let his voice trail.