His Valet by S.M. LaViolette

Author:S.M. LaViolette
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Sixpence Press

“Need any information you’ve gathered IMMEDIATELY. Fanshawe needs by morning. Send all. Clerk will await at St. Vincent Place. Smith.”

Stephen glared at the paper. All of it? Smith wanted all the information he’d gathered? Was the man bloody mad? It would take at least an hour to send and would cost a bloody fortune. Stephen was just about to reach for his watch when a familiar voice stopped him.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I’ve received a rather pressing message.”

He looked up to find Leather hovering beside the table and held up a staying hand before turning back to MacDonald, who looked positively thunderous.

“I’m sorry, Mr. MacDonald but this message is from my partners.” And they have a deal that might make you irrelevant, kind sir. “I’m afraid I need to dash.” He gestured toward their waiter who hurried back to their table. “Please see that Mr. MacDonald gets anything he wants and don’t let him pay for anything.” Ha! Fat chance of that—the man was notoriously clutch-fisted.

MacDonald looked slightly appeased by the generous offer. He should do, after all, he was the one trying to sell the bloody broken-down hulks; he should by buying Stephen expensive scotches and cigars.

“I understand,” he said to Stephen, magnanimous as his eyes spotted the desert cart the waiter had rushed off to fetch. “I suppose I’ll see you next Monday, after I get back from the country.”

Stephen stood. “Yes, that will suit admirably. Thank you for your time, sir. Have a pleasant holiday with your family.”

He motioned to Leather, who’d gone to stand behind a nearby potted palm. “Come along,” he said, striding toward the hotel lobby. “I’ve got a real task now—not an imaginary one. I’m going to want you to—”

“Mr. Leather?”

Stephen and his valet stopped at the sound of the tentative voice and turned.

“It is you.” A mousy looking woman was staring at Leather as if she’d seen a ghost.

For his part, Leather was looking rather ghostlike. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“It’s me, Miss Bindon—Her Grace’s cousin,” her stunned expression shot through with a certain amount of stiff reproof. She frowned. “It is Mr. Joseph—not Mr. Benjamin Leather?”

Leather bowed. “Er, Miss Bindon. What a surprise.”

Miss Bindon—whom Stephen now recalled he’d seen trailing after the Duchess of Tarland the day of the rainstorm—was frowning at Leather.

What was this? One of Leather’s former loves? And one he’d treated cruelly by the look of it. Whoever she was, Stephen didn’t have time for this right now. He gave the woman a curt nod and said, “I do hope you’ll excuse me, ma’am, but I’m afraid we’re rather in a hurry.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, no longer judgmental but flustered as she looked up at Stephen, quailing under his severe stare.

“Good evening, ma’am.” Stephen turned to his silent valet. “We must go.”

Leather had recovered from any surprise and nodded coolly at the woman. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Bindon.”

They bowed and made their way toward the stairs.

Stephen put the woman out of his mind.

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