Page 21 of Touched By a Traitor
“They serve well enough for manual labor. I’m usually in my shirt after a few minutes anyway.”
David’s hand flew to his mouth in horror. “In your—!” He cut himself off with a martyred sigh.
Andrew clapped his shoulder consolingly. “Take heart. Next month, you shall have free rein to dress me for a soiree as you see fit.”
David’s eyes lit up like a child at Christmas. “A soiree, my lord? And I need not seek approval?”
Andrew eyed him warily. “You’re frightening me, David. Yes, a gathering for the benchers and Temple members.”
Leaning on his crutch, David circled his master, mind already spinning with possibilities. “I envision it perfectly—a mustard-yellow floral waistcoat, a royal-blue tailcoat. You’ll command every eye in the room.”
Andrew blanched. “Floral? I’m hardly suited to dandyism. I’ll look ridiculous.”
“Your masculine frame suits anything, my lord. You’ll look magnificent. It will certainly brighten your complexion.”
“I wasn’t aware my complexion needed brightening.”
“Well,” David mused solemnly, “it’s only as dull as your mind permits.”
“Dull? Splendid,” Andrew drawled.
“Perhaps a large sapphire pin and gold pocket watch to complete the ensemble,” David continued, enthusiasm mounting.
“Excellent.”
“Pumps with a white cravat in the ball-room style!” David’s eyes sparkled with possibility.
“I can hardly contain my enthusiasm,” Andrew said with a wince. But for now, he craved the distraction of physical labor, hoping sweat and strain might quiet his restless thoughts.
The parade of potential brides had intensified since his elevation to earldom. Yet each introduction only reminded him of what he’d lost in Charlotte—her fierce intellect, her unwavering principles, her refusal to accept the world as it was.
The hypocrisy cut deep, and he knew it. He admired her for the very qualities he’d failed to defend publicly.
*
“Good day, mylord!” Felix’s greeting carried across the dock. The man had worked Andrew’s docks since the early days, one of the few who remembered when Andrew himself had hauled cargo for daily wages.
“Felix! I’ll be joining you this morning,” Andrew called back cheerfully.
The men rose, doffing caps until Andrew waved away the formality.
Felix’s face darkened. “We’re short-handed, my lord. Several down with dysentery after taking food from doxies. They were famished after twenty hours without proper meals.”
“Why weren’t they fed?”
“The old bread seller’s taken ill herself.”
Andrew surveyed the exhausted faces. “Any man who needs it, get your meal at the bakery today. Use my name. I’ll arrange terms for future provisions.”
With gestures and murmurs of gratitude from his workers, Andrew threw himself into unloading lumber, his secretary Cooper scurrying alongside with paperwork, looking like a fastidious sparrow among hawks as he clutched his ledgers and dodged flying wood chips with practiced efficiency.
As sunset painted the docks golden, Andrew straightened, muscles protesting the day’s labor. The ship stood nearly empty, lumber awaiting stacking, his men wearing the satisfied exhaustion of honest work.
Wiping sweat from his brow, his gaze drifted to the gathering women lining the dock’s edge. A figure stood out among them, incongruous in her bearing, and Andrew’s breath caught.
Charlotte.
She moved among the women with purpose, speaking earnestly with several. Her threadbare cloak and worn boots spoke of her financial struggles, yet she carried herself with the same dignity he remembered.
