The Birth of Blue Satan by Patricia Wynn Page B

up to tend me.”
    A meaningful glance exchanged by the two sent him a new surprise. It hinted at a complicity entirely at odds with their former animosity.
    “My lord—” Tom, as the servant of his childhood, was the first to have the courage to speak— “those men downstairs, Sir Joshua’s men—they mean your lordship harm.”
    “Nonsense. What men? And why should they wish me harm? They have come to give their report, and I wish to hear it. If neither of you will help me, I shall have to find new servants. Which I would be sorry to do since you have served me so well.”
    “ Monsieur — ” Philippe began in an anguished voice.
    With a look of resignation and an unsettling emotion—almost akin to guilt—Tom put an end to the Frenchman’s protest. “Better do as the master says. Likely, he knows what is best.”
    Gideon was thrown by this sudden docility from a man who had never scrupled to scold or instruct him. On reflection, he could ascribe it to only one of two possible things. Either Tom had the intention of according him more respect, now that he had succeeded to his father’s honours, or else, he refused to let his lord’s valet see how disrespectful he could be.
    Whatever the cause, in spite of his still-considerable weakness, Gideon soon found himself fed with a restorative broth, washed and coifed, and wrapped in a striped silk banyan to receive the officers. He would have argued with Philippe about the choice of garment, but he hadn’t the strength to overcome his wishes. And he would need all his strength to question the men.
    Sitting up in bed, he ordered Tom and Philippe to take themselves off, to find a meal and get some rest. They went reluctantly.
    Unexpectedly, Sir Joshua himself appeared in his door. He must have received Gideon’s message and come immediately, though his eagerness had not led him to put on a welcoming face. With his short, square wig covering a large head and a frown on his fleshy features, he entered first, followed by a man Gideon did not know. This second fellow, a burly man with coarse, dark curls tied back in a queue, seemed afraid to trespass in an earl’s bedchamber. Gideon made an inviting gesture to put him at ease.
    “I am sorry I have been indisposed. You have come to tell me about my father’s murder. Have you found the killer?”
    “As to that, my lord, there are questions to be answered before any charges can be laid.”
    His unwontedly hostile tone raised Gideon’s hackles. What could he mean by being so damned offensive? An uneasy memory, something that had been said the night of the ball, gave Gideon pause, but he answered tightly, “Surely, sir, the servants who attended my father at Rotherham Abbey could give you a better idea of what occurred than I can. Though painful to me, their account is something I fear I must hear.”
    Sir Joshua replied, “They say you quarreled.”
    Startled—and surprised—Gideon frowned. “What passed between my father and me is no one’s affair.”
    “But you admitted as much at Lord Eppington’s ball.”
    Startled again, Gideon took a moment to assess this news. He tried to remember what had happened after he had learned of his father’s death, but that evening was a blur. He wondered why the justice of the peace had come to confront him rather than to inform him of what he wanted to know.
    Alarm, from some danger he could sense but not see, threatened to weaken him, when outrage should have been his response. His father would never have allowed Tate to speak to him in this insolent manner, but Gideon was not strong enough at the moment to throw the Roundhead out of his house.
    “I was not myself that night. The injury that has kept me abed had started to fester.”
    “So your servants have said, my lord. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me how you came about that wound.”
    Gideon related the attack as best as he could recall.
    “You could not identify the man you say attacked you?”
    “No, he