squint to see those arms of yours, and he’ll think he’s having a nightmare.”
With a groan, Finchley went off to do the necessary.
“I’m ready,” he said grimly, some time later. Mrs. Ferrers wrapped a length of cloth around him. “There’s not a shawl large enough, Mr. Finchley; this is the Easter cloth from the small dining room, and I think it looks quite pretty.”
Finchley didn’t look in the glass, just turned to go.
“Walk lightly now,” Mrs. Ferrers reminded him. “You don’t want to stamp in there and have His Grace open his eyes from surprise. You’ll need to talk soft and high.”
Finchley paused in the doorway of the bedchamber and said in his normal voice, “Your Grace, may I present the Duchess of Beaumont, who has come to play a chess move in her game with you?”
“Good!” the duke said, sitting up and tumbling off his nightcap. “Dammit, it’s as dark as a wolf ’s mouth in here. How are we to play in the dark, Finchley? Bring us a lamp.”
Finchley tucked himself down by the bed and cooed in a high voice, “But Your Grace, I can see perfectly well. Surely we can simply continue?”
Villiers blinked at Finchley, who pulled back nervously. But Villiers was apparently fooled, because he said: “You look like a white ghost, Jemma. All wrapped in white like that. It’s not a look that will set London on fire, in my opinion.”
Finchley took the chess board handed to him by the footman. “Now I shall move my pawn so , Your Grace,” he chirped. “Do you make your move, and I’ll leave you to take a good night’s rest.”
The duke seemed to be having trouble staying awake so Finchley nudged the chessboard a little closer to him. Villiers opened his eyes and stared at the pieces. “Jemma,” he said finally, “does the rook ever stand up on his hind legs and buck when you look at him?”
“Never,” Finchley squeaked. He exchanged looks with the footman.
Villiers reached out a hand and then paused. His hand froze in the air above the pieces.
“Your Grace?” Finchley quavered.
Slowly, slowly Villiers turned his head. His eyes narrowed, and he looked from the very tip of Finchley’s wig, over his cleanly shaven chin, paused for a moment on the reddened skin that showed above his bodice.
“Finchley,” he said, sounding clear-headed and utterly sane, “I think I may be losing my mind. Would you be contributing to that situation for some reason?”
“I’m not Finchley,” Finchley said.
“No? Then the Duchess of Beaumont has truly changed her spots. I can only assume that some distress has led to this change in your apparel.”
Finchley swallowed. “Your Grace has been quite worried that you would miss your move with the duchess,” he ventured.
“I am disagreeably sweaty,” the duke said. “I should like a bath immediately. I certainly couldn’t entertain a duchess in this condition.”
“So I thought.” He had to ask. “Your Grace, why?”
“Why did I regain my wits? The Duchess of Beaumont opened this game with a pawn to Queen’s Four, Finchley. The idea that she would then take a knight to King’s Rook Three was enough to shock me out of a fever dream. She would never move a knight to the edge of the board in the opening moves. I gather that I have not been in my proper head.”
“No, Your Grace.”
He peered around the room. “What day is it?”
“Saturday,” Finchley said, and then added, reluctantly: “You’ve been ill for well nigh ten days, Your Grace.”
The duke’s eyelids closed. “What do they say?”
“Who say?”
“The doctors, fool.”
“You could be ill for quite some time,” Finchley said. “Banderspit has seen cases linger for months with this sort of fever.”
“Linger? Linger and then—”
“Recover!” Finchley said, cursing his choice of words.
“Write a note to the duchess and call off our match for the time being,” Villiers said, ignoring him. “And you’d better call my solicitor here as well.
With a groan, Finchley went off to do the necessary.
“I’m ready,” he said grimly, some time later. Mrs. Ferrers wrapped a length of cloth around him. “There’s not a shawl large enough, Mr. Finchley; this is the Easter cloth from the small dining room, and I think it looks quite pretty.”
Finchley didn’t look in the glass, just turned to go.
“Walk lightly now,” Mrs. Ferrers reminded him. “You don’t want to stamp in there and have His Grace open his eyes from surprise. You’ll need to talk soft and high.”
Finchley paused in the doorway of the bedchamber and said in his normal voice, “Your Grace, may I present the Duchess of Beaumont, who has come to play a chess move in her game with you?”
“Good!” the duke said, sitting up and tumbling off his nightcap. “Dammit, it’s as dark as a wolf ’s mouth in here. How are we to play in the dark, Finchley? Bring us a lamp.”
Finchley tucked himself down by the bed and cooed in a high voice, “But Your Grace, I can see perfectly well. Surely we can simply continue?”
Villiers blinked at Finchley, who pulled back nervously. But Villiers was apparently fooled, because he said: “You look like a white ghost, Jemma. All wrapped in white like that. It’s not a look that will set London on fire, in my opinion.”
Finchley took the chess board handed to him by the footman. “Now I shall move my pawn so , Your Grace,” he chirped. “Do you make your move, and I’ll leave you to take a good night’s rest.”
The duke seemed to be having trouble staying awake so Finchley nudged the chessboard a little closer to him. Villiers opened his eyes and stared at the pieces. “Jemma,” he said finally, “does the rook ever stand up on his hind legs and buck when you look at him?”
“Never,” Finchley squeaked. He exchanged looks with the footman.
Villiers reached out a hand and then paused. His hand froze in the air above the pieces.
“Your Grace?” Finchley quavered.
Slowly, slowly Villiers turned his head. His eyes narrowed, and he looked from the very tip of Finchley’s wig, over his cleanly shaven chin, paused for a moment on the reddened skin that showed above his bodice.
“Finchley,” he said, sounding clear-headed and utterly sane, “I think I may be losing my mind. Would you be contributing to that situation for some reason?”
“I’m not Finchley,” Finchley said.
“No? Then the Duchess of Beaumont has truly changed her spots. I can only assume that some distress has led to this change in your apparel.”
Finchley swallowed. “Your Grace has been quite worried that you would miss your move with the duchess,” he ventured.
“I am disagreeably sweaty,” the duke said. “I should like a bath immediately. I certainly couldn’t entertain a duchess in this condition.”
“So I thought.” He had to ask. “Your Grace, why?”
“Why did I regain my wits? The Duchess of Beaumont opened this game with a pawn to Queen’s Four, Finchley. The idea that she would then take a knight to King’s Rook Three was enough to shock me out of a fever dream. She would never move a knight to the edge of the board in the opening moves. I gather that I have not been in my proper head.”
“No, Your Grace.”
He peered around the room. “What day is it?”
“Saturday,” Finchley said, and then added, reluctantly: “You’ve been ill for well nigh ten days, Your Grace.”
The duke’s eyelids closed. “What do they say?”
“Who say?”
“The doctors, fool.”
“You could be ill for quite some time,” Finchley said. “Banderspit has seen cases linger for months with this sort of fever.”
“Linger? Linger and then—”
“Recover!” Finchley said, cursing his choice of words.
“Write a note to the duchess and call off our match for the time being,” Villiers said, ignoring him. “And you’d better call my solicitor here as well.
Similar Books
