Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(74)

“You know how to sew?” Rhys asked.

“Of course, sir. It’s a valet’s responsibility to keep his master’s clothing in perfect repair, with no frayed seams or missing buttons. If alterations are needed, a valet should be able to perform them on the spot.”

Over the next two hours, the elderly man washed Rhys’s hair and smoothed it with a touch of pomade, steamed his face with hot towels, shaved him, and tended his hands and feet with a variety of implements. Finally Quincy held up a looking glass, and Rhys viewed his reflection with a touch of surprise. His hair was shorter and well shaped, his jaw shaved as smooth as an eggshell. His hands had never looked so clean, the surfaces of his fingernails buffed to a quiet gleam.

“Is it satisfactory, sir?” Quincy asked.

“It is.”

The valet proceeded to put away the supplies, while Rhys watched him with a contemplative frown. It seemed that he had been wrong about valets. No wonder Devon Ravenel and his like always appeared so impeccable and smart.

The valet proceeded to help him don a fresh nightshirt, borrowed from West, and a dressing robe made of diamond quilted black velvet, with a silk shawl collar and sash and silk cord trim. Both were finer than any garments that Rhys had ever owned.

“Do you think a commoner should dare to dress like a blue blood?” Rhys asked as Quincy pulled the hem of the robe over his legs.

“I believe every man ought to dress as well as he is able.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s right for people to judge a man for what he wears?”

“It is not for me to decide whether it is right, sir. The fact is, they do.”

No answer could have pleased Rhys more; it was the kind of pragmatism that he had always understood and trusted.

He was going to hire Quincy, no matter what it took. No one else would do: Rhys needed someone old and experienced, who was familiar with the aristocracy’s intricate rules of etiquette and fashion. Quincy, formerly a valet to two earls, would provide him with necessary insurance against looking like a fool.

“What is your annual salary?” Rhys asked.

The valet looked taken aback. “Sir?”

“Thirty pounds, I would guess.” Reading the other man’s expression, Rhys deduced that the figure was a bit high. “I’ll give you forty,” he said coolly, “if you’ll valet for me in London. I have need of your guidance and expertise. I’m an exacting employer, but I’m fair, I pay well, and I’ll give you opportunities for advancement.”

Buying time, the valet removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses, and placed them into his coat pocket. He cleared his throat. “At my age,” he said, “a man doesn’t usually consider changing his life and moving to an unfamiliar place.”

“Do you have a wife here? Family?”

After a brief but telling hesitation, the valet replied, “No, sir. However, I have friends in Hampshire.”

“You can make new ones in London,” Rhys said.

“May I ask, sir, if you reside in a private house?”

“Yes, it’s next to my store, in a separate but connected building. I own all the property on Cork Street, and the mews behind it, and I’ve recently bought the block of Clifford that runs up against Savile Row. My servants work six days a week with the usual holidays off. Like the store employees, you’ll have the benefit of a private doctor and a dentist. You can eat at the staff canteen without charge, and you’ll be given a discount for anything you wish to buy at Winterborne’s.” Rhys paused, able to smell indecision as keenly as a foxhound on the hunt. “Come, man,” he said softly, “you’re wasted here. Why spend the rest of your years dwindling in the country, when you could be of use to me? You have plenty of work left in you, and you’re not too old for the delights of London.” Reading Quincy’s uncertainty, he went for the kill. “Forty-five a year. That’s my last offer.”

The valet swallowed hard as he considered the proposition. “When shall I begin?” he asked.

Rhys smiled. “Today.”

News traveled fast around the Ravenel household: By the time Devon came to visit Rhys later that evening, he was already aware of Quincy’s new position.

“It appears you’ve begun to hire my servants away from me,” Devon said dryly.

“Do you object?” Rhys lifted a glass of wine to his lips. He had just finished his dinner tray, and was in an unsettled, edgy mood. Hiring a valet had given him a sense of satisfaction that had lasted only a few minutes. Now he was hungry to make decisions, accomplish things, take the reins in hand once more. It seemed as if he would be stuck in this small bedroom forever.

“You must be joking,” Devon said. “I have too damned many servants. Hire ten more, and I’ll dance a jig for joy.”

“At least one of us can dance,” Rhys muttered.

“You couldn’t dance even before you broke your leg.”

Rhys grinned reluctantly; Devon was one of a handful of men in the world who had no fear of mocking him.

“You won’t go wrong with Quincy,” Devon continued. “He’s a solid old fellow.” Settling in the chair by the bed, he stretched out his legs and crossed them.

“How are you?” Rhys asked, noticing that he was moving with uncharacteristic carefulness.