The young man blinked in the face of Ross’s full, intimidating, attention, but stood his ground. Brave man, Meg thought. ‘If your lordship has a valet at present, may I make so bold as to observe that he is not doing his job.’
‘And you can do better?’
‘Most certainly, my lord.’
‘Your name?’
‘Perrott, my lord.’
‘Perrott was with the late Mr Worthington,’ Empson hurried to intervene. ‘A local gentleman of the dandy persuasion, if I might be so bold. A follower of Mr Brummell in his own way.’
‘And you think you can make a dandy of me, do you, Perrott?’ Not a line of Ross’s face indicated the slightest amusement at the prospect.
‘I would venture, my lord, that you would suit the severity of style advocated by Mr Brummell. That or uniform.’
‘I’ll take them both.’ Ross might have been referring to two new pairs of gloves. ‘They can come with me now to the Red Lion Hotel. We will travel to the Court this afternoon. Good day to you, Empson.’
Meg stared at the young valet, who looked back with a decided twinkle in his eye. What on earth was Ross about? He knew she needed employment: proper, paid employment. He might indeed require a valet, but his home, the name of which she had only half-heard, must be fully staffed already, surely? She was not going to take his charity.
And Lord Brandon? Why had he not told her that?
‘After you, Mrs Halgate,’ the valet said. ‘We must not keep his lordship waiting.’
Lord Brandon—would she ever get used to it?—was indeed waiting for them, radiating the impatience he seemed able to convey despite his outward calm. He clicked his fingers at her porter and set off with his small entourage straggling behind him.
And he was walking far too fast, his limp getting worse as he ignored the need for caution, or, presumably, the pain.
‘My lord!’
He stopped, turned. ‘Yes, Mrs Halgate?’
‘Would you be so kind as to proceed more slowly, my lord? I have wrenched my ankle on these cobbles.’ Meg managed a pained smile.
Ross narrowed his eyes at her, then turned and walked on at a more moderate pace.
‘He’s going to be a challenge to dress,’ Perrott observed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I don’t suppose I can persuade him to stay with the uniform. He’ll be selling out, I have no doubt.’ He walked on, studying Ross with frank professional interest. ‘At least I won’t have to pad anything.’
No, Ross certainly did not suffer from spindly calves, narrow shoulders or a pigeon chest. ‘You’ll need to talk him into a lot of shopping,’ Meg murmured back. ‘He hasn’t a decent shirt to his name.’
It did not take the expression on the young valet’s face to make her realise her error. ‘You know him already?’
‘I came over on the same ship from Bordeaux,’ Meg confessed. ‘I have nursing experience and I dressed his leg when he first boarded—that is a nasty bullet wound.’
‘I see,’ was all Perrott said. Meg hoped profoundly that he did not, and that he would keep his mouth shut about whatever speculations he had formed.
‘I had no idea he had a title,’ she added, hoping that made the acquaintance seem even more remote.
‘His father was the third Baron Brandon,’ Perrott told her as they picked their way around a spilled basket of herring. ‘A big man with a nasty temper, very hot.’
‘Well, his son is very cold,’ Meg said. ‘From what I have seen,’ she added cautiously. ‘There was an incident on board and he dealt with it ruthlessly and with all the heat of an ice house.’
Perrott gave a snort of amusement, then sobered. ‘He doesn’t seem too worried about the existing staff. His old lordship must have had a valet and there’s definitely a housekeeper in residence. What is he going to do with them?’
‘Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.’ Drat him—now she felt guilty as well as confused. Ross was proving nothing if not autocratic; he did not appear to have given the question of the existing servants any thought at all. Surely he would not just arrive and turn them out?
He came to a halt in front of a long, low white-washed building with a statue of a red lion projecting out over the street. ‘Where are your possessions, Perrott?’
‘At my lodgings, my lord, not ten minutes away.’