His valet looked offended. “I iron only your neck cloths, Your Grace. I cannot trust anyone else with those. A laundry maid irons your intimates, of course.”
“We have a maid just for ironing?”
“Several,” his valet said, kneeling to help him slip on his boots. “Her Grace, naturally, has some three personal maids, as well as a laundry maid who works only with her garments.”
“Half of London,” Elijah marveled, “toiling away simply to keep two people adequately dressed.”
Vickery was holding his wig. Elijah looked at it with distaste. “The Duke of Villiers never wears a wig,” he pointed out.
“Never. His Grace sets his own fashion.” Vickery’s voice was reverent.
Elijah sighed. He wore his hair extremely short to accommodate a wig, and he had to admit that after so many years, he hardly noticed it anymore. He popped it on his head and accepted a walking stick.
“We have no time to break your fast,” Villiers told him, when Elijah joined him downstairs.
“Just where are we going?” Elijah asked, taking his hat from Fowle.
But Villiers waited until they were in the carriage. “I’ve made an appointment with the best man for hearts,” he said, rapping on the door to signal his coachman to take off.
For a moment Elijah thought confusedly about breakfast meats, then the penny dropped. “My heart?”
“You’re obviously not bothering to deal with these unpleasantries yourself,” Villiers remarked. “I find myself constrained to play the role of nursemaid. And it doesn’t suit my personality.”
“Presumptuous of you,” Elijah observed, keeping his temper.
“A truly presumptuous friend would tell your wife,” Villiers said. His voice was so oiled and cold that he could have been speaking to his worst enemy.
“She knows.”
“Ah. That explains a great deal about the last few days.”
“Your interference is quite unnecessary,” Elijah said.
“You shouldn’t have saved my life, as my valet believes you to have done. Then we’d both be rid of each other.”
“You are charming in the morning.”
“This is not morning,” Villiers retorted. “This is the tail end of the night.”
“You haven’t been to bed?” Elijah peered at him. Villiers appeared immaculately groomed. His hair was tied back in its usual velvet ribbon, and there wasn’t a crease on his neck cloth.
A small smile played around Villiers’s mouth. “I was entertaining a lady.”
“Not the marquise?”
“Louise was in no state to be entertained by anyone.”
“Louise?” Elijah repeated, at a loss for a moment.
“The Marquise de Perthuis,” Villiers said, sighing.
“I don’t need to see a doctor, for hearts or otherwise,” Elijah said flatly.
“Did you faint yesterday?”
“Not for three days,” Elijah replied. “Perhaps it will all go away.”
“And pigs will fly, etcetera,” Villiers said with a wave of his hand. “People have accused you of many things, but never of cowardice.”
Elijah digested that. “There’s no point.”
“It may well be that he’ll tell you that you have a rare fainting illness, and cure it on the spot.”
Elijah snorted. “My father died of a defective heart, and mine is going the same direction.”
Villiers’s face grew so forbidding that Elijah didn’t continue. “In that case,” he said coolly, “you will do your wife the favor of tidying up your affairs. Perhaps we could have your coffin measured this afternoon, since you are so determined to die in the near future.”
“My affairs are in order,” Elijah said icily.
“Have you updated your will?” Villiers paused, then added deliberately, “In the event that you have no heir, of course.”
Elijah felt his heart, stupid defective instrument that it was, give a great thump.
Villiers continued, ruthless to the end. “Who is to put your affairs in order if you die intestate? Not I.”
Elijah’s only reply was unprintable but heartfelt.
“The same to you,” Villiers said serenely, and then they kept silence until they reached the doctor’s offices.
Dr. Chalus was large-headed and bald. His wig sat on top of a stack of books; more books cluttered the floor and all the chairs. His offices were hung with blood-purple curtains, as if he didn’t see enough of the color during the day, and they smelled distinctly of cabbage.
Villiers strolled in and after one pained glance focused on the doctor’s shiny pate.
“Do sit down,” the doctor said, not bothering to look up. His servant paled, moved closer and repeated shrilly: