Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 48

Unlike most valets, Grimsby was of an exceedingly strong constitution. (Not that one would know this to look at him; he was quite slender, with pale skin that always worried the housekeeper, who kept trying to get him to eat more beef.)
When Thomas returned from a hell-for-leather gallop in the rain, his clothes soaked and muddied, Grimsby merely inquired after the horse.
When Thomas spent a day in the field, doing manual labor alongside his tenants, returning with any number of layers of grime on his skin, in his hair, and under his nails, Grimsby asked him if he preferred his bathwater warm, hot, or steaming.
But when Thomas staggered into his bedchamber, presumably still reeking of alcohol (he’d long since stopped noticing the odor), his cravat completely missing, and his eye a most remarkable shade of purple, Grimsby dropped his shoe brush.
It was possibly the only outward show of alarm he had ever displayed.
“Your eye,” Grimsby said.
Oh, right. He hadn’t seen Grimsby since his tussle with his lovely new cousin. Thomas gave him a flip sort of smile. “Perhaps we can choose a waistcoat to match.”
“I don’t believe we have one, your grace.”
“Is that so?” Thomas crossed to the basin. As usual, Grimsby had made sure it was filled with water. Luke-warm by this point, but he was in no position to complain. He splashed a bit on his face, rubbed himself with a hand towel, then repeated the entire process after a quick glance in the mirror revealed that he’d barely scratched the surface of his disrepair.
“We shall have to remedy that, Grimsby,” Thomas said, giving his forehead a good scrub. He looked back at his valet with a sarcastic grin. “Do you think you can memorize the hue for the next time we are in London?”
“Might I suggest, your grace, that you consider not subjecting your face to such abuse again?” Grimsby handed him another towel, even though Thomas had not requested one. “This would eliminate our need to consider the color when choosing your wardrobe for the upcoming year.” He held out a bar of soap. “You could still purchase a new waistcoat of the color, if you
wish. I imagine the shade would be most handsome when displayed upon fabric, as opposed to one’s skin.”
“Elegantly said,” Thomas murmured. “It almost didn’t sound like a scolding.”
Grimsby smiled modestly. “I do try, your grace.” He held forth another towel. Good gad, Thomas thought, he must be more of a mess than he’d thought.
“Shall I ring for a bath, your grace?”
The question was purely rhetorical, as Grimsby had already done so before the your in your grace. Thomas stripped off his clothing, which Grimsby then picked up with tongs, and donned his dressing robe. He flopped onto his bed, and was seriously considering postponing the bath in favor of a good nap when a knock sounded at the door.
“That was quick,” Grimsby commented, crossing the room.
“His grace has a visitor,” came the unexpected voice of Penrith, Belgrave’s longtime butler.
Thomas did not bother to open his eyes. There could be no one worth rising for at this moment.
“The duke is not receiving at this time,” Grimsby said. Thomas resolved to raise his wages with all possible haste.
“It is his fiancée,” the butler said.
Thomas sat up like a shot. What the devil? Amelia was supposed to be here for Grace. It had all been planned. The two women would chitter chatter for an hour, and then he would make his usual appearance, and no one would suspect that Amelia had actually been at Belgrave all morning.
What could possibly have gone awry?
“Your grace,” Grimsby said when Thomas swung his legs over the side of the bed to get down, “you cannot possibly think of receiving Lady Amelia in such a state.”
“I do plan to dress, Grimsby,” Thomas said rather dryly.
“Yes, of course, but . . . ”
Grimsby appeared unable to complete his sentence aloud, but his nose flared a bit, then wrinkled, which Thomas took to mean— Sir, you stink.
Nothing to be done about it, though. He couldn’t leave Amelia on her own if all had not gone according to plan. And indeed, Grimsby was able to work a small miracle in the space of ten minutes. By the time Thomas left his room, he looked wholly like himself again. (Himself in need of a shave, but this could not be helped.) But his hair was no longer sticking up like an exotic bird, and even though his eye still looked like death underneath, he no longer appeared quite so bloodshot and exhausted.
A bit of tooth powder and he was ready to go.
Grimsby, on the other hand, gave every indication that he needed a good lie-down.
Thomas made his way downstairs, intending to head straight to the drawing room, but as he entered the hall, he saw Grace, standing about six feet from its entrance, gesticulating madly and holding one finger to her lips.
“Grace,” he said as he approached, “what is the meaning of this? Penrith told me that Amelia was here to see me?”
He did not pause, assuming that she would fall in step beside him. But just as he passed, she grabbed his arm and yanked him to a stop. “Thomas, wait!”
He turned, lifting one of his brows in question.
“It’s Mr. Audley,” she said, pulling him back even farther from the door. “He is in the drawing room.”
Thomas glanced toward the drawing room and then back at Grace, wondering why he’d been told that Amelia was there.
“With Amelia,” Grace practically hissed.
He cursed, unable to stop himself, despite the presence of a lady. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said, her voice quite snap-pish. “He was in there when I arrived. Amelia said she saw him walking by the doorway and thought he was you.”