“If you don’t get out in the next five seconds, Dobbs, you’ll be seeking alternative employment,” Silas mumbled without raising his head.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” his valet said calmly.
“Five, four, three—”
“Your sister is downstairs and requests your presence.”
That was surprising enough for Silas to roll over and stare blearily through the gloom at the cadaverous-looking fellow holding a candle. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Dobbs’s expression didn’t change. It never did. “Not quite, sir. Close on six o’clock.”
“What the devil is my sister doing here?” He felt thickheaded. It wasn’t altogether lack of sleep. Last night when the prospect of Caro tumbling into West’s arms had become unendurable, he’d sought refuge in the brandy bottle. The pincers behind his eyes reminded him why he so rarely indulged.
“Lady Crewe is dressed for riding.”
Which saved him having to ask which sister. He had three, although Helena was his favorite. Or she had been before she started barging in on a chap when any sensible person would still be in bed.
Dobbs placed the candle on a chest of drawers and crossed to open the curtains. The pale morning light made Silas wince.
“Shall I help you dress before you go downstairs, my lord?” Dobbs lifted Silas’s velvet dressing gown from the chair where he’d flung it last night.
Silas forced himself to sit up. Each movement felt like pushing a boulder up a steep hill. “No, the dressing gown will suffice. There might be an emergency.”
“Lady Crewe didn’t appear agitated.”
That didn’t mean much. Helena could keep her head up through a hurricane. God knew, she’d needed all her pride and courage when she’d lived with Crewe.
Silas grunted acknowledgment as he let Dobbs slide the heavy crimson robe over his bare shoulders. “I’m awake now, Dobbs. You can go back to bed.”
“Thank you, sir, but in case Lady Crewe’s tidings require further action, I might wait. In the meantime, I’ll make some coffee.”
“Bless you.” Silas strode toward the door. “I mightn’t sack you today after all.”
Dobbs didn’t smile. “Most appreciated, sir.”
Silas rushed downstairs and slammed into the drawing room. The family had an extravagant townhouse in Berkeley Square, but he preferred to rent rooms here in Albemarle Street where he could preserve a little privacy. Although if his sisters planned to stage more midnight invasions, privacy might be a thing of the past.
“Helena, what the hell are you doing here?”
“And good morning to you, too, brother.” She stood near the unlit hearth, tall, striking, stylish in her close-fitting black habit. Apart from the commanding Nash nose they shared, nobody would ever pick them for brother and sister.
Silas dredged up a smile and sauntered across to kiss her on the cheek. “Is there some emergency?”
She sank gracefully onto the sofa beside the mantel. “You might think there is.”
He frowned. His mother and sisters occasionally involved him in small dramas, but he couldn’t recall anything worthy of a predawn visit. “Is all well with Mamma?”
“As far as I know.” Helena set her riding crop on her lap and stared hard at him. “I’ve come to invite you to ride in Hyde Park.”
“What drivel is this?”
Grim humor twisted his sister’s lips. “Perhaps it is drivel, but I’m joining Caro in an hour.”
“I don’t—” he began, increasingly irritated, but Helena interrupted him.
“With Lord West.”
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered, hands fisting at his sides as he prepared to thump his absent rival. When he raised his eyes, he read knowledge in Helena’s expression. “You know.”