Page 79 of Libby's London Merchant
“Thank you, Luster,” Nez replied, taking a glance at the stack of letters that had accumulated on the table. “You look pretty well yourself.”
“Now, sir, may I get you a drink? Sherry perhaps, or something with a little more hair on it?”
Nez ruffled through the pile of outdated invitations. “There is so much here I am glad I missed. Tea will be sufficient, Luster.”
The butler stared, forgetful of thirty years’ training. “Tea?”
“You know, Luster, grows in China, comes in a pot?”
“Yes, your grace—certainly, your grace.”
The duke looked up from a collection of frenzied dispatches from Gussie. “Luster, one thing else. In the morning, will you see that my wine cellar is cleaned out and the contents sent to the Earl of Devere?”
Luster blinked and swallowed.
“It is a wedding present to my friend. He will be needing it more than I will in the coming years. That will do now, Luster,” the duke added kindly when the butler appeared unable to move.
The duke drank tea, laughed over Gussie’s messages that grew more incoherent, the more recent the date, and then sat in thoughtful silence as the fire on the hearth turned into glowing coals. He rang the bell to summon Luster one more time.
“Tell me, Luster, earlier this summer, did you receive a visit from a one-legged man by the name of Amos Yore?”
“Sir, we did not,” Luster replied.
“Then let me speak for my curricle after breakfast.”
“Certainly, your grace.” Luster stood there another moment and cleared his throat. “Sir, your sister has been, shall we say, interested in your whereabouts. Might you wish to drop her a message?”
The duke shook his head. “Not until tomorrow afternoon, when I am safely out of here again.”
Luster nodded and a well-mannered smile played about his lips.
“If there is nothing more, your grace—”
The duke stopped him. “There is actually, Luster, and it is of a personal nature.”
“Sir?”
“Luster, how important is it to oblige one’s relatives?”
The butler clasped his hands behind his back and gazed upward. “Sir, I suspect that in consequence it falls somewhere between the burning of Moscow and the Congress of Vienna. More or less,” he added.
“I was afraid of that. Good night, Luster.”
And pleasant dreams, he thought. From now until the end of my life, I can only wish that I would waken to the sight of Libby Ames coming into my room with a pot of tea and two companionable cups. I can dream about the pleasure of watching her at the window in deep appreciation of another summer morning in Kent, the breeze tickling her hair. When I am old and still dreaming, she will yet be young, sitting beside the bed and asking how I find myself.
I am love’s fool, he thought.
On the morrow, he found Private Yore at the same corner on Fleet Street. Nez noticed how the man whisked the begging cup out of sight when he stepped down from his curricle. The man would not meet his eyes.
“Private Yore,” he barked, “since when did it become a habit of yours to disregard orders?”
“Sir?” asked the private, sitting up straighter, brushing at a stain on his army-issue cloak.
Nez squatted on the pavement by his former private and looked him in the eye. “When I give you a piece of paper to take around to my residence, I expect it done, Private.”
The flush rose in Yore’s face, leaving darker patches of color in his hollow cheeks. “I thought I did not need your help, sir,” he said, his head high.
“I think you do, Private, and you know how I am when I am crossed,” Nez said, his voice low. “I am worse than the Iron Duke himself.”
