Page 53 of A Marquess' Season of Secrets
Such is my current lot in life.
Chapter 11
Having breakfast in his study was not a practice Nash indulged in regularly as his sister preferred their meals to be eaten together, but her absence had given him the perfect excuse to forego the dining room and spend the morning in one of his favourite rooms in the house. Ellie was currently attending to a heartbroken friend whose name Nash didn’t bother recalling.
His sister seemed to surround herself with women who became distraught at the silliest of situations, such as a rival wearing the same colour hat or not having enough pin money to purchase an extravagant gift.
Admittedly, a broken heart was an unfortunate matter, but Nash was almost certain the friend had created a scenario of requited love in her mind, only to find the man was not as interested as she was.
Straightening out his morning paper, Nash took a sip of his coffee, pausing briefly to inhale the aromatic beverage.
The blend of beans was specific to a coffee house he frequented in London and had been challenging to come by. Mr Whitcomb, the coffee house owner, had refused to supply Nash at first for fear that men would get wind that he was giving his coffee secrets away and cease to visit his establishment.
Johnson, ever the negotiator, had managed to secure a steady supply of the beans after a written agreement that no one would know Nash had his own secret hoard from Mr Whitcomb.
“It seems Lady Smethwick’s jewellery was found,” he mumbled aloud, putting his cup down.
The story had been published on page two of the newspaper, with the constable’s name who helped find them. No information was given on what became of the maid and footman who stole the jewellery, surprising Nash.
That didn’t seem like something Lord Smethwick would want left out of the details given, but perhaps there had been a good reason for it. The baron tended to bestow unwanted attention on his female employees, and maybe the maid had chosen to steal and run away for her own protection and financial security.
The footman could have been in love with the maid and pledged to protect her no matter the circumstance.
There was likely another explanation for the lack of information, and it was best he didn’t create scenarios in his head. Ignoring the other scandals and news about the area, Nash set his paper aside and slathered fig preserve on his toast.
Cook kept an ample supply for him as it was his favourite, but he could be prevailed upon to eat gooseberry, apricot, or blackberry preserve. Cook had once won a competition for the sweet condiments and took great pride in providing her employer with only the best in the county.
While she refused to sell any to outsiders due to her loyalty to him, she usually set some aside for Nash to give as gifts to various family and friends. He certainly couldn’t enter Aunt Roslyn’s home without a bottle or two of the sweet treats!
Soft knocking drew his attention to the door, mildly surprising him. Johnson had left earlier to purchase some personal merchandise for him and would only return just before noon. The other servants would, or should, know well enough to await his summons before bothering him during his morning meal.
Nash considered ignoring the servant and letting them read the situation for themselves, but something about the nature of the knock made him discard that idea.
“Come in,” he called out, putting down his toast and wiping his fingers on a cloth.
There was some hesitation before the door opened, and Isabella appeared.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she greeted, curtsying. “Forgive me for interrupting your meal. I did not know you were taking your breakfast in here. I shall return later.”
That was odd given that the servants communicated with each other about his movements in the house. They could have possibly withheld the information from her, or perhaps Isabella had wished to see him. The latter reason was, of course, ridiculous, and while it appealed to Nash, it also unsettled him.
“Wait,” he said, forcing her to turn back.
Nash wasn’t sure why he called her back when he should have let her go, but he hadn’t spoken to her beyond giving an order or a brief greeting since coming to her rescue several days ago.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Did no one tell you that I was in here?” he asked.
“Perhaps someone did, and I have simply been a tad absent-minded, Your Grace. It shall not happen again.”
“Do not concern yourself about it, Isabella,” he insisted. “You may take away the dishes— I am quite finished.”
He wasn’t, but Nash felt he needed to give Isabella something to do so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed about disturbing him.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said, looking relieved as she approached his desk. She frowned at his barely-touched toast and half-drunk coffee and looked up at him in question. “You do not seem to have eaten much, Your Grace. Do you not feel well?”
“I feel just fine,” Nash assured her. “Have you had any fainting spells lately?”
