Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

West grinned at that. “He can be. But the moments when he’s charming and putting people at ease are when he’s most dangerous. Never trust him when he’s nice.”

Her eyes rounded with surprise. “I thought he was your friend.”

“Oh, he is. But have no illusions about Winterborne. He’s not like any man you’ve ever known, nor is he someone your parents would have allowed you to meet in society.”

“My parents,” Helen said, “had no intention of allowing me to meet anyone in society.”

Staring at her keenly, West asked, “Why is that, I wonder?”

She was silent, regretting her comment.

“I’ve always thought it odd,” West remarked, “that you’ve been obliged to live like a nun in a cloister. Why didn’t your brother take you to London for the season when he was courting Kathleen?”

She met his gaze directly. “Town held no interest for me; I was happier staying here.”

West’s hand slid over hers and squeezed briefly. “Little friend… let me give you some advice that may prove helpful in the future, when you’re in society. When you lie, don’t fidget with your hands. Keep them still and relaxed in your lap.”

“I wasn’t —” Helen broke off abruptly. After a slow breath, she spoke calmly. “I wanted to go, but Theo didn’t think I was ready.”

“Better.” He grinned at her. “Still a lie… but better.”

Helen was spared the necessity of replying as Devon came to the doorway. Smiling, he spoke to the room in general. “According to Dr. Janzer, Winterborne’s eyes have healed well, and his vision is exceptional.” He paused as glad exclamations rippled through the group. “Winterborne is tired after the examination. Later we can visit him at intervals, rather than go all at once and gape as if he were a gibbon at the Bristol Zoo.”

Chapter 23

With his vision restored, and the fever gone, Rhys felt almost like his usual self. A surge of impatient energy coursed through him as his mind was overrun with thoughts of his store. He needed to communicate with his managers, his press officer, his private secretary, his suppliers and manufacturers. Although he trusted his staff to carry on competently for the short term, their work would soon become slipshod if he was not there to supervise. The store had just opened a book department – how had the first two weeks of sales gone? An expanded and remodeled refreshment room would be unveiled in a month – had the carpenters and technicians kept to their schedule?

Stroking his jaw, he discovered that he was as bristly as a hedgehog. Disgruntled, he rang the bell at his bedside. After a half hour had passed and no one had arrived, Rhys was about to reach for the bell again, when a white-haired, elderly man arrived. He was a short, burly fellow, dressed in a simple black swallowtail coat and dark gray trousers. His plain, unremarkable face had the appearance of an unevenly risen bread loaf, the nose somewhat bulbous… but the dark currant eyes set beneath the snowy frills of his brows were wise and kindly. Introducing himself as Quincy, the valet asked how he might be of service.

“I need a wash and shave,” Rhys said. In a rare self-deprecating moment, he added, “Obviously you have your work cut out for you.”

The valet didn’t crack a smile, only replied pleasantly, “Not at all, sir.”

Quincy left to make preparations, and soon returned with a tray of shaving supplies, scissors and shining steel implements, and glass bottles filled with various liquids. At the valet’s direction, a footman brought in a tall stack of toweling, two large cans of hot water, and a washtub.

Clearly the valet intended to groom him beyond a simple wash and shave. Rhys glanced at the accumulation of supplies with a touch of suspicion. He had no personal valet, something he had always considered as an upper-class affectation, not to mention an invasion of his privacy. Usually he shaved his own face, cut his own fingernails, washed with plain soap, kept his teeth clean, and twice a month went to a Mayfair barber for a hair trimming. That was the limit of his primping.

The valet set to work on his hair first, draping toweling around his neck and shoulders, and dampening the unruly locks. “Do you have preferences as to length and style, sir?”

“Do what you think best,” Rhys said.

After donning a pair of spectacles, Quincy began to cut Rhys’s hair, scissoring through the heavy layers with calm confidence. Answering questions readily, he revealed that he had served as valet to the late Earl of Trenear, and the earl before him, having worked for the Ravenel family for a total of thirty-five years. Now that the current earl had brought his own valet with him, Quincy had been relegated to providing assistance to visiting guests, and otherwise assisted the underbutler with tasks such as polishing the silver and helping the housekeeper with the mending.

“You know how to sew?” Rhys asked.

“Of course, sir. It’s a valet’s responsibility to keep his master’s clothing in perfect repair, with no frayed seams or missing buttons. If alterations are needed, a valet should be able to perform them on the spot.”

Over the next two hours, the elderly man washed Rhys’s hair and smoothed it with a touch of pomade, steamed his face with hot towels, shaved him, and tended his hands and feet with a variety of implements. Finally Quincy held up a looking glass, and Rhys viewed his reflection with a touch of surprise. His hair was shorter and well shaped, his jaw shaved as smooth as an eggshell. His hands had never looked so clean, the surfaces of his fingernails buffed to a quiet gleam.

“Is it satisfactory, sir?” Quincy asked.

“It is.”

The valet proceeded to put away the supplies, while Rhys watched him with a contemplative frown. It seemed that he had been wrong about valets. No wonder Devon Ravenel and his like always appeared so impeccable and smart.

The valet proceeded to help him don a fresh nightshirt, borrowed from West, and a dressing robe made of diamond quilted black velvet, with a silk shawl collar and sash and silk cord trim. Both were finer than any garments that Rhys had ever owned.

“Do you think a commoner should dare to dress like a blue blood?” Rhys asked as Quincy pulled the hem of the robe over his legs.

“I believe every man ought to dress as well as he is able.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s right for people to judge a man for what he wears?”