When the Duke Returns(55)

“Honeydew,” Simeon said apologetically, “we need that pit cleaned out, no matter how much it disturbs the household.”

“They’re used to going into a house where a man has been dead for a month or two,” Merkin continued, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and rocking back and forth a bit. “They take whatever money’s on the corpse, and see it as their due. Same for a floater. If they pick up a knickknack or two in a house of that type, who’s to bother? There’s no relatives, see? Otherwise they would have found the poor dead soul before he moldered away.”

“Absolutely,” Simeon assured him.

“I’ll move everything to the barn,” Honeydew said. “And guard it.”

“That’ll do it,” Merkin said. “They’re not really robbers.”

“Just thieves,” Honeydew put in.

“They might pick up a thing here or there, something left before their eye, but as I say, Yer Grace, they’re doing a job as no one else will do.” He turned. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve got to make arrangements. Mr. Honeydew here showed me where the pipes come out on the hillside. We’ll be pulling them from that direction, at least till they break in our hands, while the Dead Watch is doing their job.” And with that, he left.

“I’ll stay in the house, Honeydew. You can put the silver in my study. I’m just turning the tide with my father’s papers.”

“There’s a nice desk in the Dower House,” Honeydew said soothingly. “I’ll have all your papers transferred there immediately. If Your Grace would excuse me, I have a number of arrangements to make. I don’t trust those miscreants anywhere near the silver. It must be removed from the house. That and everything that could be fenced.”

Simeon walked back into his study and sat down. He had left a complicated letter from Mr. Kinnaird open on his desk. He tried to return to its detailed description of the state of the townhouse on St. James Square. Water had broken through the roof and seeped into the attics; rats had made nests in the kitchen…

The smell of the sewer seemed to cling to his skin. He sniffed his sleeve, but it was his imagination. Or—

He stood up. He had had a bath two hours ago, but it was time for another.





Chapter Twenty-one




Revels House

March 2, 1784

Isidore entered the house in the late afternoon to find servants scurrying this way and that, their arms full of ornaments and small statuary. Finally she discovered Honeydew, directing traffic. “What is happening?”

“The sewer will be cleaned,” Honeydew said. “By people from London who have requested that we vacate the house. The dowager duchess refuses to leave.”

“Ah,” Isidore said.

“Master Godfrey has been dispatched to spend a night or two with the vicar. The vicar is a Latin scholar, and Master Godfrey needs to refresh his skill since he will be going to school.”

“Should I speak to the duchess?” Isidore asked, only belatedly thinking that it was an odd thing to ask a butler. But Honeydew was something more than a butler.

“I believe that would be inadvisable,” he said without blinking. “If Her Grace has decided not to leave her rooms, she will not leave her rooms. If you will forgive the presumption.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Isidore said. “Where might I find my husband, Honeydew? I want to speak to him about my trip to the village yesterday.” She loved using that word, husband. It made her whole tenuous situation seem less so, though how the use of one word could do that, she didn’t know.

“In his chambers, Your Grace.”

“Oh.” She paused.

“He’s merely checking on some papers,” Honeydew said. “You may enter at will, Your Grace, and you won’t disturb him. Now if you’ll excuse me.” A footman struggled by with a tub filled with silver candlesticks. “We’re removing everything for safekeeping. I must supervise—” And with a hurried bow, he left.

Isidore walked up the stairs, came to the door of the master bedchamber, and pushed open the door. Simeon wasn’t working on papers.

He had his back to her. It was naked.

It was a beautiful back: strong and muscled, and that same golden toast color as his face. Isidore froze in the doorway. As she watched, he reached out for a ball of soap perched on a small table to his left. Water slid over his skin, chasing the hollows of muscles as he flexed, running his right hand up his left arm. Individual bubbles slid over his skin like small kisses.

The air smelled spicy and sweet. She’d never smelled perfume on his skin, not that she’d really had the opportunity to smell—