"Travers?" Jarrod mentioned the name of the Duke of Sussex's secretary.
"No." Henderson shook his head. "I'd never seen the fellow before. He told me that King Arthur commanded that he bring his offerings to Merlin. He handed me the pouch and a round of cheese and returned to his coach."
"The duke's coach?"
"No, sir, an unmarked one."
Jarrod frowned. "The dispatches were sealed. They showed no signs of tampering and the information they contained appears to be genuine."
"The messenger repeated the correct phrase: 'What is bread without cheese? Or cheese without French wine?" And delivered a round of French cheese," Henderson added.
The Free Fellow entrusted with the dispatches usually delivered them to Jarrod or to Henderson, but there were times when that wasn't possible; so the Free Fellows had devised a code for each mission whereby anyone sent in their stead was required to relay a specific message and deliver a specific item. The messages and the items were decided upon at the planning of each mission and given to Henderson, who accepted pouches in Jarrod's absence.
The butler looked stricken. "Perhaps I was mistaken in the message and the cheese, sir."
Jarrod shook his head. "There's no need to blame yourself, Henderson. You were not mistaken in the message or the cheese. That was the message we settled upon before the mission and His Grace chose a round of cheese as the item. Avon and Barclay both saw him at his mother's party last night. But he didn't appear at White's this morning."
"His Grace would never miss a meeting unless something was wrong."
"I agree," Jarrod answered as Henderson confirmed his worst fears. "And we're all concerned." He glanced back over his shoulder at his butler. "Where's Fenton?"
"He's out, sir," Henderson replied. "It's Thursday. Fenton's half day. He has the afternoon and evening off."
"Then come with me." Jarrod took the stairs two at a time, shrugging out of his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went. "I'll require your assistance because the sooner I conclude breakfast with Lady Dunbridge, the sooner I can concentrate on finding Sussex."
Henderson hurried to keep up with him, accepting the clothing Jarrod was discarding as he climbed the stairs.
"If you don't mind my inquiring, sir, what happened to your garments? Was there an accident?"
"No accident," he said. "It was deliberate."
"Deliberate?"
Jarrod nodded. "I took the liberty of pointing out Lord Dunbridge's deplorable taste in waistcoats after we concluded our business at the Cocoa Tree Coffeehouse." He managed a slight smile at the memory. "And he took the liberty of dousing me with his beverage." He wrinkled his nose. "A rather strong brew, liberally laced with cognac."
Henderson gasp
ed. "Will we be demanding satisfaction, sir?"
Jarrod shook his head. "I insulted him first. And the ruination of a set of clothing is not reason enough for me to call a man out. No matter how much I despise him."
"But, sir, Lord Dunbridge is only a viscount. You're a marquess and he assaulted your person."
Jarrod recognized the disapproval in Henderson's tone of voice. While hierarchy was important to members of the peerage, it was doubly so for the men and women who worked belowstairs.
"That's true," Jarrod agreed. "But assaulting my person with a cup of coffee is hardly a gibbeting offense. And it wouldn't be at all sporting or gentlemanly of me to call Lord Dunbridge out when I deliberately provoked him." He finished untying his neckcloth and pulled it from around his neck. "There was no real harm done. My honor is intact. And my reputation is not so fragile that it can't sustain an angry man's insult. Frankly, I would have been more surprised if he hadn't retaliated. He may have been ordained into the clergy, but I knew better than to expect him to turn the other cheek." He reached the landing and headed down the passageway toward his bedchamber. "Unfortunately, I didn't anticipate the manner in which he would retaliate or the time it would take me to return home and exchange my stained garments for clean ones."
Jarrod entered his bedchamber and went directly to his wardrobe. He opened the doors and removed another jacket, waistcoat, and pair of breeches, then crossed to his dressing room in search of a clean, starched shirt and neckcloth. He located his tissue-wrapped shirts and carried them back to his bedchamber and placed them on his bed.
Henderson applied himself to the job at hand, lending assistance where he could, unwrapping the tissue from the starched shirt and unrolling a clean neckcloth as Jarrod stripped off his soiled shirt and pulled the clean one over his head.
Jarrod settled the shirt into place, then sat down on a wing chair and tugged off his boots. He peeled off his tight coffee-splattered breeches, then stepped into a fresh pair, skimming them over his legs and hips before buttoning them at the waist. He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel and urged his butler on as Henderson turned up the ends of his collar and draped a new cravat around Jarrod's neck. "Hurry, Henderson."
"I am attempting to, sir."
"Then add some speed, man," Jarrod ordered.
"That will only be possible if you stop fidgeting, sir." Henderson had originally trained as a gentleman's gentleman, but it had been fifteen years since he'd served as a valet and fashioning flawless four-in-hands was damnably exacting and frustrating work.