Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(81)

Upon learning that Quincy was leaving Eversby Priory, Helen had tried to be happy for him, rather than selfishly wish for him to stay. “Will you like living in London, Quincy?”

“I expect so, my lady. I will view it as an adventure. Perhaps it will be just the thing to blow the cobwebs out.”

She had given him a tremulous smile. “I will miss you, Quincy.”

The valet had remained composed, but his eyes had turned suspiciously bright. “When you visit London, my lady, I trust you will remember that I’m always at your service. You have only to send for me.”

“I’m glad that you’re going to take care of Mr. Winterborne. He needs you.”

“Yes,” Quincy had said feelingly. “He does.”

It would take some time, Helen thought, for Quincy to become familiar with his new employer’s habits, preferences, and quirks. Fortunately Quincy had spent decades in the practice of managing volatile temperaments. Winterborne certainly couldn’t be any worse than the Ravenels.

During the past two days, a group of Winterborne’s employees, including store managers, an accountant, and a pressman, had visited from London. They had spent hours with Winterborne in the family parlor, delivering reports and receiving instructions. Although Dr. Weeks had warned that too much exertion might hinder the healing process, Winterborne seemed to have drawn energy from the interaction with his employees.

“That store is more than a mere business to him,” West had told Helen, while Winterborne had been upstairs talking with his managers. “It’s who he is. It consumes all his time and interest.”

“But what does he do it for?” Helen had asked, perplexed. “Usually a man desires an income so that he can pursue more important things… time with family and friends… developing his talents, his inner life…”

“Winterborne has no inner life,” West had replied dryly. “He would probably resent any suggestion that he did.”

The employees had left this morning, and Winterborne had spent most of the day either in the parlor or in his bedroom, stubbornly maneuvering on his crutches without assistance, despite the doctor’s instructions not to set weight on his injured leg.

Looking around the doorjamb, Helen saw Winterborne sitting alone in the parlor, in a chair beside a walnut marble-topped table. He had accidentally knocked a stack of papers from the table, and they had settled on the floor around him. Leaning over awkwardly, he tried to retrieve the fallen pages without toppling from the chair.

Concern overcame Helen’s shyness, and she went into the room without a second thought. “Good afternoon, Mr. Winterborne.” She sank to her knees and gathered up the papers.

“Don’t trouble yourself with that,” she heard Winterborne say gruffly.

“No trouble at all.” Still kneeling, she looked up at him uncertainly. Her heart skipped a beat, and another, as she stared into the darkest eyes she had ever seen, a brown so deep it looked black, shadowed by thick lashes and set deep in a complexion of rich umber. His brutal handsomeness unnerved her. He could have been Lucifer himself, sitting there. He was much larger than she’d realized; even the cast on his leg didn’t help to make him seem less formidable.

She handed the papers to him, and their fingers touched briefly. Startled by a shock of awareness, she pulled back quickly. His mouth turned grim, his thick brows drawing together.

Helen rose to her feet. “Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable? Shall I send for tea or refreshments?”

He shook his head. “Quincy will bring a tray soon.”

She wasn’t certain how to reply. It had been easier to talk to him when he had been ill and helpless.

“Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.”

“For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.”

Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured.

Meticulously Winterborne neatened the stack of paper. “He wants to start by disposing of my shirts.”

“Your shirts,” Helen repeated, perplexed.

“One of my managers brought some of my clothes from London. Quincy could tell that the shirts were ready-made.” He glanced at her warily, assessing her reaction. “To be accurate,” he continued, “they’re sold half finished, so they can be tailored to the customer’s preference. The quality of the fabric is as high as any bespoke shirt, but Quincy still turns up his nose.”

Helen considered her reply carefully. “A man of Quincy’s profession has an exacting eye when it comes to details.” She probably should have left it at that. The discussion of a man’s clothing was entirely improper, but she felt that she should help him to understand Quincy’s concerns. “It’s more than just the fabric. The stitching is different in a bespoke shirt: The seams are perfectly straight and flat-felled, and the buttonholes are often hand-worked with a keyhole shape at one side to reduce the stress of the button’s shank.” She paused with a smile. “I would elaborate about plackets and cuffs, but I fear you would fall asleep in the chair.”

“I know the value of details. But where shirts are concerned…” He hesitated. “I’ve made a point of wearing the kind that I sell, so that customers know they have the same quality as the store’s owner.”