Citit - Never Lie to a Lady by Liz Carlyle

Author:Liz Carlyle [Carlyle, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2007-05-04T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

A Cup of Coffee in Park Lane

A cross Westminster, the day dawned fair, the morning sun quickly burning off the last of the evening’s fog and bathing the verdant slopes of Hyde Park in shafts of light which shifted gently as the clouds drifted overhead. Today, Lord Nash was up at dawn, much to his staff’s surprise, for he had a few errands to run. By the late afternoon, however, he had returned to Park Lane to dress for the evening and await his fate.

A fine, strong breeze periodically ballooned the draperies about his shoulders, bathing him in cool air as he braced his palms on the window frame. The shafts of late sunlight across the park reminded him, he decided, of a scene from a Constable exhibit which he’d admired at the Royal Academy. Fleetingly, he was struck with the strangest impulse to take Miss Neville to see it.

Good Lord. What a notion!

“There,” said Gibbons, giving one last tug upon the back of Nash’s collar. “It looks splendid, sir, if I do say so myself. Now, are you quite sure you can extract yourself from this finery without my help?”

“I shall manage.” Nash turned to give himself one last going-over in the pier glass, then picked up his cup of coffee. It was his third; he kept pouring them, then forgetting to drink them.

Gibbons was looking at him slyly. “It will be no trouble at all, my lord, for me to return in time to help you undress.”

Nash glowered at him over the cold coffee. “I said you were to have the evening off,” he replied. “Let me rephrase that. Go away—and do not come back until noon tomorrow.”

Gibbons trembled with feigned indignation. “Well!” answered the valet. “Such ingratitude!”

Nash handed him the coffee. “But whilst you’re still here, be so good as to pour this out,” he said. “It’s gone cold.”

With a tight smile, Gibbons went to the window and summarily dumped it.

Below, someone shrieked.

Nash glowered at the valet. “Bloody hell!” he said, hastening toward the window. “Sorry! Very sorry!” he called out.

“Yes, gardy-loo!” shouted Gibbons, with a waggle of his fingers. “Have a lovely day!”

Nash withdrew from the window. “You needn’t take your snit out on innocent passersby,” he said. “If you must ruin someone’s wardrobe, let it be the usual one—mine.”

Gibbons threw his arms over his chest. “Oh, this is all about your scorched cravat, isn’t it?” he said. “Well, you can thank Mr. Vernon for that one! It was he who overheated the irons, then set them on the worktable, innocent as a little lamb!”

“Vernon has the evening off, too,” Nash reminded him. “And he’s damned grateful for it.” He had returned to the pier glass to stare at the lapels of his frock coat. “What do you think? Ought I have chosen the bottle green?”

“It depends,” said Gibbons, “on whether or not she’ll be sober enough to notice what color you are wearing.”

Nash drew away from the mirror, and this time his glower made Gibbons blanch.

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