Page 52 of One Day for a Valet

“So, you break things.”

“I break things.”

“That’s—” Sofia began.

“Remarkably sweet,” Oliver finished. “Utterly insane, but in a thoughtful way.”

Sofia wasn’t sure which of the two men appeared more embarrassed. Oliver, for admitting to the duke’s kindness, or Gabriel, for receiving the unorthodox compliment.

“Yes, well, hopefully Violet will discover the damage before Bennett notices and has the horologist out to repair it. At times, he is inconveniently aware of everything that goes on here. Speaking of Violet, I haven’t seen her since tea time.”

They followed Gabriel out the study door and down the stairs.

“She was with the children and I this afternoon, then left to visit Hamish,” Sofia offered. “Oliver found her making friends with an army of caterpillars and escorted her home."

Gabriel nodded, pausing on the bottom step to catch Oliver’s eye. “Thank you, Mr Lioni.”

Nineteen

“As long as the aristocracy continues to preserve their power on the backs of labourers, remaining utterly indifferent to the welfare of the nation so long as their jewels remain sparkling and their carriages gilded, I will uphold my opinion that the entire concept of hereditary peerage is poison.” Oliver punctuated his tirade by chomping into a hefty mouthful of roast beef.

At least he seemed to have his appetite back. Sofia had no recollection of how they’d ended up here, but she was desperately seeking an exit to the conversation. She glanced at the duke, who had remained silent some minutes now, but he only nodded in agreement. Doubtless as stunned as she at Northam’s unexpected support, Oliver looked as if he had taken a bite of Cornish hen only to discover fruit pie in his mouth.

Violet, busy stacking her roasted potatoes into a tower, glanced up, then back to her culinary engineering. “Oh, I hope Gabriel hasn’t ruined your fun. He does that. Takes the wind right out of your sails just when you think you might have goaded him into a proper argument. Horrible trait.” She sent the duke a soft smile across the table. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled upon one of the few British peers who won’t acquire more Hoby boots than a centipede could wear while his tenant farmers toil in the fields garbed in shoes worn through the soles. He owns more shoes than my sheep could wear”—she shrugged—“but I only have two sheep. Furthermore, his footwear is purchased from the proceeds of ethically sound investments. The tenants’ rent and harvest money is funnelled back into their land and pockets. And into roads, schools, and other improvements and equipment that translate into shorter workdays and a better quality of life. I can personally attest to his unerring sense of fairness, as I was a tenant farmer on his land and never once wore shoes with less than acceptable tread.”

Sofia cast her gaze helplessly to Christopher, but he only grinned in response. Clearly, she was the only one at this table with an ounce of sense. Nothing good could come from this.

Oliver had apparently reclaimed his equilibrium and was preparing to sink his claws in with a second swipe. “But still you remain content at the top of the food chain, surrounded by other predators who won’t notice that they’ve gobbled every animal beneath them until their stomachs are empty.”

Gabriel appeared unperturbed, considering Oliver’s question as he took a swallow of water.

“Do you play chess, Mr Lioni?”

“Badly,” Sofia responded for her brother.

Gabriel smiled at that. “The House of Lords is very like a chess game. Make brash, obvious moves, and you grant your opponent the opportunity to counter your strategy. Winning requires a longer, sometimes frustrating strategy as you await your moment. It is painful to watch your pawns captured without taking immediate recourse, but that is how you win the game. With clear-headed calculation. Or to put it in terms of cricket, if that’s more your game, swing at every ball and you’ll be finished before you ever make contact.”

Oliver’s face twisted in a scowl. “So you stand there, rooted in apathy, with a perfectly good bat in your hand. Yet you watch the slightly imperfect balls sail by.”

“Yes. And sometimes I wonder, as it whizzes past my head, if I should have swung. If that might have been the opportunity I’d been waiting for to bring some of my players to safety. But we need solid contact, Mr Lioni. Free education, factory legislation, slum clearances, women’s property rights … I want it all, and I’m not prepared to throw my weight at a crooked ball that offers relief for one group while further stamping out another.” Gabriel sighed and nudged his fork against a pile of turnips on his plate, looking like a man who saw all that needed to be done, catalogued all the impossible challenges, and felt they were all his responsibility alone.

Sofia was certain Oliver would take notice of Gabriel’s resigned expression and capitalise on the duke’s frustration as another vulnerability to attack, but he remained silent, watching his brother. Gabriel’s gaze rose almost reluctantly, as if he too were awaiting the next blow. Identical brown eyes clashed across the expanse of the wide oak table. She would have given almost anything to know what Oliver was thinking in that moment.

The duke rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I can never truly understand what life is like for them, Mr Lioni. But don’t mistake a lack of practical experience with a shortage of empathy.”

Nora rescued the conversation from its death rattles. “Will you be taking part in our game of calcio storico, Mr Lioni? We’re having a picnic and a game on Sunday.”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up, and he lowered his fork. “Calcio storico is not a game for aristocratic children, Lady Nora.” Rather than looking at Nora, his eyes bore down on Gabriel as if chastising the duke for his permissive parenting.

“Afraid I’m too wily and fast for you?” Nora asked with impish delight.

“Afraid I might discover exactly how many pieces one petite ragazza can splinter into. Difficult to say, as I’ve never been that clever at fractions, but worrisome.” Still, his eyes did not flicker from Gabriel’s face. Knowing the familial connection as she did, Sofia warmed at her brother’s concern. She was reluctant to step in and put his mind at ease.

Violet, who appeared ready to fall asleep at the table using her untouched roast beef as a feather pillow, blinked a few times, then took up defending her husband. “We’re playing a gentler version of the game, Mr Lioni, wherein a tap on the shoulder will signal an end to control over the ball.”

Gabriel’s gaze caught and held on his wife, concern surfacing in his expression as he stood and crossed to her. “It’s been a long day, and it’s getting late.”

It wasn’t. It was scarcely eight o’clock, but the duke had not missed the exhaustion on his normally energetic wife’s face. “I hope you won’t think me rude, Mr Lioni, if I beg off dessert and after-dinner entertainment. You will join us for the picnic?” Even as Gabriel spoke to Oliver, his attention remained on his wife, whose shoulders were drooping beneath the gentle stroke of his fingers across her collarbone.