Page 103 of The Captive Duke
“I am on the mend largely thanks to the countess.” Who was still abed in the ducal chamber, because Christian hadn’t had the heart to return her to her own rooms in the cold, gray predawn light. “When I was in such bad shape, her approach was to insist on a normal routine. She made me sleep at night and face the days, made me deal with my daughter, made me eat what I could. She brought me back to life.”
“You brought yourself back to life,” St. Just said, tucking into his eggs. “These are good. You don’t spare the cream.”
“Cook personally prepares anything coming to the table now. Not only are we safer, we eat like royalty. You’ll want butter on that toast.” Christian slid the butter dish over to his guest, because whatever St. Just did not put on his toast, Christian would put on his.
The prospect of dealing with Girard hummed through Christian with a violent joy, sharpened his every sense, and gave the day an edge of anticipation. And yet, a part of him also fretted over Gilly and wished he’d been free to tarry with her above stairs.
“Have you made any progress determining who the countess’s malefactor could be?”
“In my nightmares, I imagine the French are behind this danger to Gilly. Girard could describe the land around here as if he’d walked it himself.” Though preying upon a noncombatant departed from the curious code of honor Girard had held himself to throughout Christian’s captivity.
St. Just used exactly half the butter on his toast then nudged the remainder closer to Christian’s elbow. “Would Girard have failed on three consecutive attempts?”
The question inspired a pause. Christian’s knife, holding a fat dollop of butter, poised over his toast.
“He would not, though Anduvoir might. Do we know where Anduvoir is?”
“I can find out.” St. Just’s tone suggested Anduvoir had best be halfway to Russia.
“The theory that Girard is harassing me through Gilly has another problem,” Christian said, resenting the demands of logic when the pleasure of violence called loudly.
St. Just made a circle with his fork while he chewed a mouthful of ham.
“Girard was canny. One wants to attribute to the enemy every fault ever exhibited by humankind—stupidity, vulgarity, mendacity—and yet, he was none of those things. We are at long last at peace, and Girard would have no motive for antagonizing me now, particularly if, as you say, he’s turned up with an English barony around his neck.”
St. Just poured himself more tea and topped offChristian’s cup, as if they’d been in the officers’ mess sharing their daily ration of beef, potatoes, and gossip.
“Given how many English peers Girard has mistreated, that barony will likely have the same result as a target on his back,” St. Just observed. “Girard might live longer if he found his way to Cathay, but not by much.”
Abruptly, Christian’s hearty, satisfying English breakfast lost its appeal. St. Just implied somebody would call Girard out before Christian had the chance. He pushed a forkful of eggs around on his plate, eggs that would have made him weep had he been served them in France.
“I have reason enough to wish Girard biding in hell, but with respect to Gilly’s troubles, the kitchen maid we suspect of poisoning the tea hailed from over near Greendale and had worked at the local posting inn there. Gilly has suggested the woman was one of Greendale’s castoffs. He was not at all faithful to his vows, and he let Gilly know it.”
St. Just took a tactful sip of his tea. “So you’re off to pay your condolences to Greendale’s heir?”
“My heir too,” Christian said. “At least for a time. Easterbrook has his hands full, what with the condition Greendale was left in.”
“The manse is falling down about his ears?”
“The house itself is in fine shape, but every outbuilding and tenant farm is in precarious condition. Gilly was willing to stay with Lucy and me initially because the Greendale dower house is in such poor repair.”
“Will Easterbr—Greendale set it to rights?”
“I doubt it, not for some time. And I’ll lock the woman in a tower before I let her leave my protection.”
“Make a captive of her, will you?” St. Just reached for his tea as Christian’s balled-up serviette flew across the table at him.
“Not subtle, St. Just.”
“Subtlety has never been my strong suit. Too many years soldiering. Too many younger siblings. Too many imbroglios with dear Papa, His Grace, the Duke of Stubbornness, and his bride, the Duchess of Now See Here, Young Man. How do you get the butter so light?”
“It’s a mystery. Cook is fifteen stone if she’s an ounce, but she has the best hand with the cream. Then too, she knows we’ve your company again. She’s likely smitten with you or your appetites.”
“Get you to your horse, Mercia, before I’m forced to improve your manners with a round of fisticuffs.”
“You aren’t riding out with him?” Gilly stood in the doorway, looking freshly scrubbed and braided, also tired. She’d had a restless night, seeming to need Christian’s arms around her to sleep at all.
“Good morning, Countess.” St. Just was on his feet before she’d taken a step.
