Rescued By A Viscount(12)

Was she sick? Was Claire Belmont so sick that she had to sneak out of her house alone to get whatever it was she needed? Diseases like consumption, the slow wasting of the body that made it grow weak and fatigued, filtered through his head. She didn’t look sick; in fact, she’d looked as beautiful to his eyes as she always did. The only other option was that she had arranged to meet someone in that lane, but whom? Last night as he’d lain staring into the darkness, he had wondered if she was being blackmailed, yet he could not imagine what information anyone would have on her, as her reputation was pristine. Why couldn’t he just leave it alone, let her have her secrets and walk away?

Pulling a weed with more force than required, Simon knew the answer to that question. The thought of her ill or in distress had settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach and it would not be dislodged until he had answers. He hated to admit it even to a bed of violets, but he cared about Claire Belmont’s welfare far more than he should.

Rising, he wandered into his glasshouse to check on his seedlings and then made his way back inside. He would visit with Daniel and Eva–and his favorite small person, of course—this morning. Perhaps he could make a few subtle enquiries of Eva; she may know why Claire had been in that lane. He didn’t want to alert Eva to his concerns, but maybe she would let something slip if he brought up Claire’s name.

His bath was ready when he returned to his room, and, sinking into it, he watched his valet tsk at the dirt on the hem of his dressing gown and then tsk even louder at the dirty feet Simon draped over the edge of the tub.

“Slippers, my lord. Easy to put on and would save scrubbing several layers off your skin whenever you return from your gardens.”

Simon had inherited Sullivan on a hunting trip to Ireland five years ago. He was flamboyant and opinionated and felt Simon would look like a chimney sweep in days if he was not with him at all times.

“I like the dirt under my toes,” Simon said, knowing how much this annoyed Sullivan, as they had had this conversation more times than he cared to count.

His valet snapped his mouth together and said nothing further, just scurried around the room selecting items of clothing for him to wear.

“For pity’s sake, Sully, I am visiting friends. There is little need of such an extravagant waistcoat, surely?” Simon raised an eyebrow at the emerald and blue satin garment the man held reverently.

“You are to visit with the Duke and Duchess of Stratton, my lord. Such company deserves the very best attire.”

“Bilby told me you threatened to tie Merlin down and scrub his neck and neckcloth if he did not wash both.”

“Your butler is a man of impeccable cleanliness. However your head coachman is not, my lord.”

Simon tried to remember the state of his head coachman’s neck but couldn’t.

“One of the parlor maids told me she was quite taken with Merlin, my lord, yet could not countenance his grubbiness.”

“Therefore you have taken it upon yourself to help the budding romance along by suggesting he smells no better than a rodent?” Simon rose and dried himself.

“One tries, my lord,” his valet said, handing Simon his breeches. “I have also generously offered to assist him so he dresses in a manner that would ensure the maids did not run in the other direction, holding their noses. However as yet, he has not taken me up on this offer.”

“I must tell him to run for the hills and not look back, then,” Simon muttered. Rather than be insulted, Sullivan merely held out Simon’s dark green jacket for him to slip into. He then took a small brush and began to apply it vigorously, which, of course, was not necessary, as the jacket had already been brushed repeatedly.

“Have mercy, Sully, I yield,” Simon said tersely minutes later when he had been brushed until he gleamed.

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Stop the wounded look. It doesn’t wear with me, and for pity’s sake, ensure my evening clothes are ready. Last night there was a crease in my waistcoat,” Simon lied as he sailed from the room, smiling. Sullivan would now spend the next hour examining said waistcoat.

“Coffee this morning please, Bilby.” Settling in his chair, he picked up the paper his butler had laid out for him and opened the first page. He had managed to read most of it before Bilby returned with his drink.

“If I may discuss a matter with you, my lord.”

Lowering the paper, he then looked at his butler. “And the matter is?” Simon said politely. After all, his household was run by this man and it was run extremely well, to Simon’s mind. If his butler had a problem, then it needed to be addressed at once.