Page 12 of Libby's London Merchant
Luster nodded, stood as tall as he could, and delivered the final blow of the afternoon. “Your grace, you will face this crisis alone. The cook, housekeeper, your valet, and I have tendered our resignations. You will find them on the desk in your study.”
Benedict Nesbitt stared at his old retainer. “Luster, you have been in the family since before I can remember.”
Luster took a deep breath. “For the most part, your grace, I have enjoyed our association. Now we part company.”
At this intelligence, the duke sank to the chair again and scratched his chest. “I could offer you more money,” he ventured.
“You could, my lord. I would not take it.”
“I could promise the cook one of those newfangled cooking ranges.”
“You could, your grace. The outcome will not satisfy you, however.”
The silence that followed stretched into minutes, until the duke sighed. “I know that look on your face, Luster.” He spread his hands out on his knees. “What must I do to retain you and my entire household staff?” he asked at last “What extortion must I surrender to?”
Luster looked down at his own hands, which shook only slightly. “You must go on that errand you promised to do this morning. If you are truly not here, we can probably rub through this knothole. Lady Wogan will storm and rail, and your mother will require an entire carafe of smelling salts, but we can pull it off. If you are not here,” he added, underscoring each word with a wave of a finger.
The duke was silent for a moment, engaged in the almost visible effort of thinking. “I ... I did promise Eustace something, didn’t I?” he asked. “It was something about a young woman, wasn’t it?” He paused and frowned at his butler. “But what is this? You just said that you were quitting my service, and now you want to save my bacon. I don’t precisely understand.”
A slight smile flitted across the butler’s impassive features.
“It is this way, your grace. Your father exacted a promise from me that I would look after you.” He noted the duke’s startled expression. “It surprised me too, your grace, but there it is.”
“I wish I had been here when he died, Luster,” murmured the duke. “God, how it chafed me to receive the news in Belgium, and then I could not leave.” He sighed.
Luster rose in almost grand majesty. “I will keep that promise to your father, your grace, but only if you are away from here within the quarter-hour.”
He delivered the last sentence in a loud voice that made Nez wince and clutch at his temples. “Very well, Luster, I will do it.” He managed a sickly smile. “Even though I have vowed not to exert myself ever again.”
Luster took the duke by the arm. He pulled him gently to his feet. “I have managed to arrange for the loan of a gig.” When the only response was an upraised eyebrow, the butler smiled beatifically. “A gig, your grace, yes indeed.”
“I could never,” declared the duke.
“You have promised your friend,” the butler reminded him. “And if you do not, we will quit your service. If you manage to rusticate a month or so in Kent—and don’t roll your eyes at Kent, your grace—it might be sufficient to calm Lady Augusta. Your mother will have other thoughts to occupy her by then. Come, sir, and do your duty.”
Luster helped Nez toward the door. “Do you know, your grace, Cheedleep found several suits of clothing that might possibly be something a London merchant would wear.”
“Not in my closet he never did,” declared the duke.
“Ah, but he did,” insisted the butler. “In your very own closet. Come, your grace. I have already taken the liberty of packing a bag for you and have authorized a sufficient sum on your bank. It remains for you to pick up your business cards in Fleet Street.”
“Luster, this is out of the question,” snapped the duke, digging in his heels.
Luster did not blink in the face of obstinacy. “Then you, sir, must face the dowager and your sister alone.” He lowered his eyes and his voice was soft, almost reverent. “We will pray for you, your grace, from the safety of the park across the street.”
The duke spent a long moment in contemplation of his butler. Dash it all, he thought, Luster is too old to be flinging around his resignation. And who’s fault is that? came the other voice from somewhere inside his skull.
“Who’s fault, indeed?’’ he said out loud.
“Your grace?”
“Nothing, Luster.” He spent another moment in thought. “I suppose you are adamant, Luster,” he ventured finally.
“I am, your grace.”
And so, as the clock struck four, Benedict Nesbitt, Seventh Duke of Knaresborough, found himself steering a gig through London traffic. He hunched himself low in the modest vehicle, acutely aware that he was shabby beyond his wildest imaginings. He cast his bloodshot eyes over the equally modest bag that rested near his feet, an artifact of Luster himself and further proof that the butler had no intention of bolting from the family home while his master was flinging himself about Kent.
Kent! Was there a place more unfashionable? For all he knew of Kent, people there still painted themselves blue and bayed at the moon. He knew that grandmothers and maiden aunts were wont to pop ’round to Royal Tunbridge Wells, that genteel watering hole for the elegantly senile. Beyond that, Kent was a crater on the moon.
