A well-uniformed footman entered, his livery pale blue and smoke grey, the brass buttons on his coat a-shine in stiff competition with the gleam of his polished black boots. He strode to the shopkeeper who had busied himself wrapping Livie’s purchase, and enquired after a special order, the ladies observing all the while. Livie’s right brow climbed higher with each passing word of the exchange, though she couldn’t hear what the conversation detailed.
Mr Horne pushed Livie’s shoebox aside and retrieved two similar-sized packages from below the counter, a broad grin offered to the servant in waiting. These boxes were joined by several others until no less than eight comparable parcels littered the countertop.
‘Who do you suppose he represents?’ Livie questioned in a not-so-soft voice over her right shoulder where her friend stood with rapt attention. ‘I’ve never seen the colours before.’
‘Nor have I.’ Esme slanted a glance at the footman in assessment of his uniform. ‘Perhaps a princess has come to town, one who adores fine slippers.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Livie blinked rapidly and cleared her focus. ‘Well, I hope this doesn’t take much longer. I need to return home and Mr Horne has abandoned my package in deference to this interruption.’ Her whisper evolved into a low-voiced complaint. ‘I despair leaving my purchase behind. The slippers are an ideal match for my aubergine redingote, but I cannot wait much longer.’
‘Mr Horne would be every kind of fool to lose your loyal business when your purchases pay his rent.’ Esme added an emphatic nod.
‘Now is not the time for teasing, Esme.’ The gentle chastisement exposed a fair degree of concern.
Perhaps their conversation carried, for Mr Horne concluded the exchange with the footman, piling several boxes in the servant’s arms before returning his attention to where the ladies waited. He may have noted Livie’s expression of desperate impatience as he quickly nabbed the closest box from the counter and presented it with a broad grin. ‘Miss Montgomery, I will put these on account, of course. I apologise for the unexpected interruption.’
‘I do understand.’ The compliant reply contained a smidgen of dishonesty.
Dinah stepped forward to accept the package, her short, cropped curls bouncing with the effort, and the ladies left the shop swiftly, a question of eager curiosity lingering in their wake.
Randolph James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, stroked the single-edged razor across his right cheek, removing the night’s growth of whiskers with one fluid pass. His valet, Strickler, a kind, intelligent man and excellent manservant, would have preferred to perform the duty, but Penwick, having come to the title unexpectedly a scant eighteen months prior, chose to keep some deeds as close to his former life as possible. Much had changed in a short span of time and comfort was found in the mundane routines of his past.
Wiping his face clean of shaving soap, he applied cologne, a fragrance of spicy bergamot and cashmere, and turned his attention to the toothbrush and mint powder lying in wait on the towel-draped washstand. Fastidious with personal hygiene, he allowed his valet to assist with wardrobe only, otherwise not enjoying the fussy ministrations other titled gentlemen considered their privilege. Again, past practice dictated his comfort. He had no need for Makassar oil or pomatum, and combed his short-clipped wavy hair away from his face before he stepped from the mirror. Noting the time, he turned as Strickler entered his bedchambers.
‘I’ve seen to the fire and your daily schedule, milord. Your body-linen is arranged on the clothing horse in your dressing room, pressed and brushed. I will strop your razor with your permission and replace the hot water for your attendance after your wardrobe is complete.’
‘Very good.’ Penwick nodded his approval. ‘Inform me of my appointments while I prepare for the day.’ Strickler had attended his position for over a year now, yet the formal distinction between servant and employer was drawn with a broad stroke. Penwick didn’t know whether he’d rather it any different, again out of depth with the fresh title. A few of his comrades established a casual ease as they instructed staff or managed their valet, yet he remained conflicted. In truth, he had no need of a personal valet and considered the upper-class affectation perpetuated to invigorate one’s self-importance, a trait Penwick didn’t possess and would not acquire. With frank honesty, what he needed was a sincere friend.
‘Yes, milord.’ Strickler scurried to open the door to the inner chamber where a pristine wardrobe was organised and displayed within the shelves and closets. Waistcoats, overcoats and linen shirts hung from hangers, as neatly ordered as soldiers in formation. Trousers and breeches flanked the far wall. In the centre of the room stood a large mahogany top chest where several drawers patiently held smalls, stockings and cravats. Footwear of every necessity, Hessians, Wellingtons, Jack boots and court shoes, lined the lower shelf of the room’s perimeter. Strickler immediately arranged the wardrobe, aware but never questioning the one drawer of the bureau which remained locked at all times. Penwick kept the only key.
‘This will do.’ Penwick shed the towel around his waist and donned smalls before accepting the fresh linen shirt offered, the fasteners at the cuff time-consuming, the silence awkward. High-waisted breeches followed, the fall buttoned to the band, before he donned a waistcoat embellished with elegant sage-green embroidery. Atop this came his tailcoat with pale grey facings and then a stock, followed by a cravat that Strickler worked with swift efficiency to tie into a stylish knot. Penwick held no favour for bows or ruffles, the trappings of required clothing already an unfavourable portion of his morning. Layer after layer was added, disguising the man he once was, and embellishing the earl he’d now become.
‘Will you wear tall boots, milord, or do you prefer the white-topped Hessians?’ Strickler had already made the fashionable choice and carried the Hessians as he returned to the chair without confirmation. Perhaps his valet anticipated he’d capitulate to the fashion recommendation without complaint. The realisation didn’t sit right, but with little concern for which boots to select, Penwick took the chair and accepted the footwear. He’d done everything as he should and followed politesse to the letter, sparing no expense. As a result, he felt as trussed as a dinner goose at St Michaelmas.
‘My schedule?’
‘Yes, milord. You have appointments through late afternoon. Following breakfast, Lord Chelsney is expected at the stables. After which you’ve allotted time for fencing practice, a bath and change of clothes. Lunch with the Lending Library Foundation at two, your weekly dance lesson at four and then off to the jeweller’s where you are to choose your betrothed’s wedding ring.’ Strickler paused, an encouraging smile slanting his slim lips upward before he reclaimed a noncommittal, austere demeanor.
An unwelcome ill-ease ran through Penwick at the latter statement. How ridiculous. He’d chosen his bride particularly, selected her with the utmost care from his list of suitable marriage candidates, observed her in society, conversed with her on numerous occasions and, at last, convinced himself she would suit. With the wedding in less than a fortnight, he’d need to overcome this odd reaction to thoughts of marriage. Claire deserved better.
It wasn’t as if he’d never considered the institution. True, he’d foreseen his future with a different outcome, but his plans had fallen apart unexpectedly; a story as common as a lost letter in the post or a broken heart. His eyes slid to the brass lock on the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, all at once anxious to be left in private.
‘That will be all, Strickler.’ Penwick accepted the pocket watch and guard chain the manservant held in his gloved palm, the wait for his valet to leave a moment too long. Then he turned the key in the lock and slid the drawer open to reveal a tightly bound packet of letters, the papers well creased and wrinkled from countless handlings, the pages a potent addiction.
Guilt was quick to put a dampener his actions. He should be rid of the letters. Cast them into the fire or drown them in the Thames. Cleanse all memory of the words and promises