Page 63 of Let Me Be Your Hero
“Well, sir, so far as I can tell. She had a number of callers this morning who stayed through luncheon—her mother and sister, Lady Lucy, as well as Lady Diana Latimer and Lady Griselda Saxe-Mecklenburg.”
That was good. Archibald was glad she hadn’t been alone all day. “And, uh… where is she now?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Last I saw, she was visiting Mr. Nettlethorpe.”
Archibald looked up sharply, dread pooling in his stomach. “With Grandfather?”
As usual, Giddings’ expression was completely neutral. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Archibald muttered, already turning toward the stairs.
He took them two at a time. Now, he had two things to worry about. What would Izzie think about his low-born grandfather? Even worse, what might his grandfather be telling Izzie abouthimat this very moment? His grandfather was one of the few people who actually understood the engineering projects about which Izzie seemed strangely curious. Not that John Nettlethorpe was the loquacious sort, but if Izzie peppered him with questions, who knew what he might reveal?
What does my grandson do in his workshop all day? Oh, yes—he makes screws. ’Tis his proudest achievement and life purpose—making screws.
He hurried into his bedroom. “Jack!” he boomed. “Where are you?”
His valet strolled leisurely out of Archibald’s dressing room, shoe-brush in one hand and a tin of boot blacking in the other. “Well, would you look who’s chosen to grace us with his presence?”
Glad to see the tub was full and waiting, Archibald all but tore off his jacket and shirt. “I need a clean change of clothes.”
“You certainly do.” Jack wrinkled his nose as he retreated into the dressing room.
Archibald spent the next ten minutes washing with all possible haste, ignoring Jack’s mutterings about how he’d been unable to perform his job for the past three days on account of being locked out of the room. “Although I suppose there wasn’t much to do,” Jack added waspishly. “Doesn’t seem you were wearing much in the way of clothes.”
Finally, he was clean. He had managed to dodge disaster today, but he must remember to get cleaned up at Nettlethorpe Iron from now on.
Having made it out of the frying pan, it was time to leap into the fire. He hurried down one floor to his grandfather’s tower room to try to avert the next crisis. He knocked softly at the door before pushing it open.
The first thing he noticed was that his grandfather was asleep. The next thing was Izzie, seated at a small writingdesk someone had moved into the room. She perked up as he entered and began gathering the papers she’d been working on in silence.
Archibald rubbed the back of his head as they slipped into the hallway. “How was your day?” he asked, because that seemed like a more normal greeting than, “Just how much did he tell you about the screws?”
She smiled up at him. “It was nice. Lucy and Diana came over this morning, along with my mother and Lady Griselda, and they all stayed through luncheon. After they left, I decided to look in on your grandfather, and he was awake!”
Cold sweat broke out on the back of Archibald’s neck. “And how did that go?”
He had tried to make his voice nonchalant, but some strain must have showed on his face, because Izzie laughed. “We got along swimmingly. We chatted for a few minutes, and he mentioned that the worst part about dying was that it was so dull. I offered to read him my book, and he accepted.”
Archibald was struggling to wrap his head around the image of his plainspoken grandfather listening to a story about a duke living at the bottom of a well, pretending to be a ghost, while naked pirates fenced in the background. “How did he like it?”
“Fairly well, I think. He was chuckling.”
That was high praise, indeed. His grandfather wasn’t much of a chuckler. Archibald tugged at his neckcloth, trying to sound casual. “And did you discuss anything else?”
“No. He told me to stop after an hour as he was starting to nod off. I asked him whether he minded if I wrote in his room while he slept, as it was hard to find a quiet spot around the house. He replied, ‘Lord, is that the truth,’ and told me to go ahead.”
Archibald couldn’t hold in a smile. He knew his grandfather was referring to his parents, who could talk the ear off a brassmonkey. John Nettlethorpe had never understood his own son and was equally baffled by Archibald’s mother.
“It’s true that I need a quiet place to write,” Izzie continued. “And I figured that if I use his room, I’ll be on hand when he awakens to keep him company.”
“I appreciate that,” Archibald said, meaning it. To be honest, his grandfather’s remark that dying was dull stung. He felt bad about leaving his grandfather alone for such long stretches, but when he had offered to spend more time at home, his grandfather had replied that it would be a greater comfort if Archibald made sure the business he’d worked all his life to build didn’t founder.
John Nettlethorpe did not find the company of his son or daughter-in-law soothing, and when Archibald had tried to hire a nurse to sit with him, he’d complained that he didn’t want people fussing over him. He was perfectly capable of ringing for a footman if he needed something. But, in spite of his bluster, Archibald wasn’t surprised his grandfather was bored and lonely.
He seemed to like Izzie, though—goodness only knew that John Nettlethorpe would have banished her from his room had he found her annoying—and even if this development was unexpected, Archibald was grateful for it.
“Well, I’m glad you found a good place to write.” He offered her his arm. “Dinner will start in about an hour. Why don’t we—”
