Every man in the room let out an oath at once. Ash put his face in his hands. Richard gestured for silence. “I am quite sure he will not take that post—”
“For God’s sake.” Francis stood, his lanky frame stiff with anger. “I am aware we have all depended on you these many years; I am aware we are all to blame for our willingness to leave our safety in your hands. But this is a catastrophe.”
“It is a potential catastrophe,” Dominic said. “Which is not the same thing. Let us not panic.”
Francis scowled. “You may enjoy the prospect of being abused in the pillory. I do not.”
Dominic shoved himself upright, face darkening. Richard interposed himself. “Enough. Stop it. We need not quarrel amongst ourselves, and any quarrel should be with me. This is my responsibility.” He was not enjoying this experience, seeing the friends who relied on him irritated, frustrated, and afraid, and knowing it was his fault.
“As Francis observes, if we had not left it as your responsibility, we should not be in this fix,” Peter pointed out.
“It is not fair to blame Richard,” Harry said. “Julius trusts Cyprian, and so does Silas, and that’s good enough for me.”
It was not good enough for several of the others. A lengthy and futile argument ensued, leaving them all out of charity with one another, Ash in particular looking utterly miserable, and Richard as ill-tempered as he had ever felt.
It did not help that, on the way home, he found himself looking forward to talking over the problem with Cyprian.
Richard refused to regret the trust he had placed in his valet, no matter what the others said. They did not know. They did not understand. They thought of Cyprian as a servant when he had been so much more.
He retreated to the book room when he got in, because he was unreasonably irritated by the thought of going upstairs to find Tallant in his bedroom. Or, worse, not there, because he was well aware he could not expect another valet to anticipate his wishes in the way Cyprian had.
Single-minded devotion, Dominic had called it. You should have looked for a way to proceed that would not be a gross abuse.
What the devil did Dominic know? He was not of the nobility. He did not have Richard’s position. He accepted the mockery and contempt of his equals as the price of pursuing an affaire that none of them cared to understand or acknowledge because…
Because when Dominic had found the right answer in the wrong man, he had chosen to take the consequences. Just as Mason had, the insolent radical, enduring his unwanted employment in Richard’s household with gritted teeth.
Just as Cyprian would have, if Richard had let him.
It would not have been fair, Richard told himself. The thought rang more hollow every time. It would have been an abuse. It would have been wrong.
Whereas as it is, matters have gone quite tremendously for us both, he added mentally, and reached for the decanter.
He woke up the next morning to an alien presence in his bedroom, a cup of tea that was made exactly to his specifications yet tasted flat and unsatisfactory. Tallant moved in an unfamiliar way, looking for things, making noise; he did not know how Richard preferred to dress; he was not Cyprian. Richard thanked him for his efforts in a difficult situation, did not throw the cup at the wall, and spent the day at Jackson’s Saloon hitting things.
On the third morning, Richard refused both tea and breakfast and strode off to Mount Street as soon as he had dressed.
It was still early on Saturday morning, the spring sunshine making Berkeley Square beautiful, songbirds audible in the trees. Richard did not care. He could understand the impulse that had led his father to sequester himself at Tarlton March for so many years. He was tired of London, of people, of everything.
He ran up the steps to Dominic’s rooms and knocked. Then knocked again, because there seemed to be nobody in, which was to be expected since every damned thing was set against him. A third time, and Dominic opened the door.
He was clutching a dressing gown around himself, black hair tousled, and there were red marks around his wrists that Richard did not choose to examine.
“I suppose Mason’s here,” he said, stalking in.
“You may suppose anything you wish. I do as I choose in my rooms.” Dominic ushered him into the study. “You look in a damned bad mood.”
“I am. What did you mean about saying something more sensible?”
“Are you going to?”
Richard took a chair. “Perhaps. How the devil do I find Cyprian, what do I say when I find him, and how can I persuade him to come back?”
“As what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, well, you should probably think about that first.” Dominic pulled over a chair of his own. “And having thought, you should probably ask what he thinks.”