Page 31 of One Day for a Valet

In a way, Oliver was right. She had chosen Christopher and the Ansons, and rightfully so. When the lines of this duplicitous battle were drawn, theirs was the side of her conscience. She had allowed Oliver to wither away into this shell of a man because the alternative was to betray herself.

Sofia did not know how she would make it through tonight. She shut her eyes, sinking further into the water, and there was Christopher’s steady gaze behind her closed lids. Her muscles tightened at the memory of him reaching to comfort her. The lure of safety he offered when everything felt so out of control had been almost too much to bear.

Twelve

“Mary, Mother of God, that hurts!” Oliver shrieked, nearly leaping off the table as Dr Higgins poured a liberal amount of antiseptic on his abdominal wound. “That felt like straight whisky.”

“That’s because it was. My shipment of supplies was late,” the doctor said, his voice without inflection.

“Better in your wound than down your gullet,” Christopher muttered.

“Keene.” Gabriel’s warning was accompanied by a sharp glare from Oliver, his lip curling.

Christopher crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, let’s do be courteous to the man who allowed your governess to become so emaciated she fainted upon arrival,” he hissed. “The man likely to drink away every coin of her earnings. Who has ushered whatever trouble he doubtless instigated directly onto your doorstep.” Christopher paced to the corner, thrust his hands into the basin of water, and began scrubbing. “Any other employer would cast his bloody carcass back into the front garden and send Miss Lioni right along with him for the trouble she invited simply by having a complete and utter wastrel for a brother. Mr Lioni had no way of knowing that you are the most fair-minded man in the universe or that your wife is more likely to coddle him like a three-legged pet rabbit than to turn the pair of them out in the dead of night.” Hurling the towel onto the table, he stalked back to Gabriel. “And he’s bled all over my favourite yellow waistcoat!”

Gabriel filled the silence that followed with a lift of his brows, awaiting the next round of Christopher’s frustrated tirade. When nothing more was forthcoming, he nodded. “Feeling better?”

Christopher shrugged. “Yes actually, I am.”

“Good.” Gabriel laid a hand on Christopher’s arm and squeezed. The pair of them had supported one another through challenges, large and small, over the course of three decades. There wasn’t a person in this world whose counsel he valued more … nor anyone he could depend on more readily to offer it than Gabriel.

“Mr Lioni.” Gabriel turned his inscrutable gaze on Oliver, who made no secret of his distaste for both men, his expression pinched and surly. “I’m certain a guest room is already being prepared. I’ll see about some clean clothes. Do you have belongings nearby I can send for?”

“No.”

The lack of honorific hung notably in the air.

“I will, of course, give Miss Lioni the remainder of the week off so she can stay with you until you are through the worst of it. If she wishes to do so, that is.” Oliver winced as the doctor tied off the last in a tidy row of sutures and began rolling a bandage around his torso.

Gabriel watched the doctor work in silence for another minute, then gave a brisk nod. “Thank you for your prompt arrival, Dr Higgins. You may send your bill to me. Mr Lioni, we can talk more tomorrow.” Christopher almost smiled at Gabriel’s subtle intimidation. “I’m sure you two have things to discuss”—he looked meaningfully at Christopher—“and I need to see to the comfort of my duchess and Miss Lioni. I will bid you goodnight. Keene, you will see that our guest receives whatever assistance he requires to his bedchambers?”

Christopher nodded, then watched as Gabriel swept from the room with all the poise and grace of an aristocrat exiting the opera rather than a blood-spattered kitchen. The doctor checked Oliver’s bandage one last time before packing away the rest of his supplies.

“I will stop by again tomorrow if there is time. Have a good evening, Mr Keene.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

With the soft click of the door, Dr Higgins was gone, and the two men were left alone, the tantalising aroma of biscotti an oddly cheerful contrast to the uncomfortable awareness between them.

Christopher crossed to the long-abandoned biscuits, avoiding the few that had slightly charred around the edges, and retrieved one. Placing it on a plate none too gently, he stomped across the room and held it out to Oliver, who eyed it—and Christopher—with a wary expression.

Christopher sighed. “I am angry. But I recognise that I may not have offered a fair opportunity for you to explain yourself or your reasons for leaving Sofia in such a state. She did not appear altogether surprised to see you, only surprised to see you bleeding in the kitchen.” Not that there was an explanation Christopher would find acceptable for abandoning one’s sister to homelessness and starvation. His body took that opportunity to remember the feel of her fragile form in his arms, and he grew livid all over again. Oliver took the biscotti, gobbling up the crisp dessert in two large bites.

“Sofia is it?” Oliver asked, emphasising the casual use of her Christian name.

“It is.” Christopher ground his teeth against any further explanation. Her brother didn’t deserve it. Hell, the bastard didn’t deserve the hospitality he’d already received, let alone an explanation of Keene’s affection. He’d forfeited his right to that measure of respect long ago, further damning himself the prior night when he’d sent Sofia out into the torrential rain with a bruise the approximate size of a grown man’s hand on her wrist. Christopher had no doubt now where she’d been the night before.

Christ, it would be satisfying to kick this brute in the bollocks and shove him out the kitchen door.

Christopher reached for a loaf of bread, cutting two thick slices and slathering them both in butter. He knew well enough that thick padding over bones wasn’t always a good indication of a well-fed man … especially in a man who clearly prioritised drink over sustenance. Oliver sported the blotchy, red cheeks of a person more familiar with the bottom of a bottle than the world outside of it. Like the biscotti before it, the bread promptly disappeared.

“I won’t ask you who gave you that thrashing, but I do wish to know if the perpetrator is likely to follow you here.”

Oliver shook his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, I love my sister.”

Christopher swallowed back his retort and worked to control the riot of anger burning its way through his insides. “You’re already eighty percent black and blue. It would be unsporting of me to colour the remaining twenty percent. For now, let’s leave your brotherly affection out of this conversation.”

Oliver shrugged, then grimaced. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ll be healed up and gone before it matters.”