Unveiled (Turner #1)(25)
“Mr. Strong. It’s your first visit out, yes?”
As he addressed Strong, the man jerked to attention, all signs of his weariness evaporating in a flurry of consternation.
Operating at a few days’ remove from London had numerous disadvantages. Most of them, Ash had been able to alleviate by dint of having well-trained, competent men in London. A smaller number of them were needed here, though, and so his men took turns traveling out to speak with him.
Not so efficient as some of the alternatives. But then, the alternatives were rendered problematic by other considerations.
“It is Strong, isn’t it?”
Strong nodded, puffing his chest out. “Sir,” he said tightly, as if he were some newly commissioned subaltern. And then, like that selfsame hapless officer, he fumbled with the brass buckles on the satchel slung about his shoulder. Before Ash had a chance to ask him whether he needed to rest or refresh himself, he pulled out a fat sheaf of papers and held it out, as if an entire war depended on whatever was in those pages.
“Sir,” Strong barked out, “your report, sir.”
“My report?” Ash felt a prickle of consternation along the skin of his thumbs. “That’s my report?”
The words must have come out harsher than he’d intended, because Strong ducked his head farther. “The report you requested on the current inclinations of the members of the House of Lords regarding the proposed act. I—” he looked up into Ash’s face and must have read the distaste Ash felt curling his lips, because he swallowed, his throat bobbing “—I h-have a detailed listing, and that, along with the alphabetical appendix, should suffice to—”
“Ah,” said Ash, enlightenment dawning suddenly. “You made an alphabetical appendix, did you?”
That explained the ink-stained forefinger, the thick sheaf of papers. It certainly explained the rumpled wild-eyed look that Mr. Strong was giving him. Ash suppressed a grin. “Did you include the Latin translation in triplicate?”
“The Latin translation?” Strong’s eyes widened in abject fear. “Jeffreys made no mention of—oh.” Strong snapped his mouth shut, almost viciously.
Ash had never hired fools. Gullible geniuses, now…
Strong swallowed. “Please tell me you wanted a list of every invitation the Dalrymple brothers have accepted over the past two months, complete with an inventory of the nearest coaching-houses, and a calculation of the shortest distance from London by stagecoach.”
“That,” Ash said, “was an exceptionally creative addition. I’ll have to talk to Jeffreys. He’s not usually quite so…so aggressive with the new men. Come. Let’s talk in my study.” He jerked his head towards the room to the right—a former parlor that he’d converted for his use.
As Ash pushed himself to his feet, Strong let out a sigh. “Sir, how much were they having me on about, then?”
“The whole report.”
If silence could blaspheme… Paper crinkled as Strong’s knuckles clenched about his alphabetical appendix.
Ash shrugged. “I abhor lists. I despise reports, written on paper. If I wanted a useless stack of pages, I would just have you all send couriers out to deliver them, and never mind the expense of carting my men about England. But I don’t. The last thing I want to do, ever, is to sit down and read through a tangle of letters, just so that I can get to the point. I want all my reports delivered orally—that way, I can ask you questions as I wish, and I don’t have to trudge through extraneous material that will be of no use to any of us.”
“Did they…” Strong rubbed his skullcap again, a grimace on his face. “That is, is this because…”
“You mean, were they trying to get you sacked?” Ash shook his head. “Jeffreys was having me on as much as you. He knows how I feel about paper.” Mostly. Even his right-hand man didn’t understand the true extent of it.
“Well. That rather explains the first message I am supposed to deliver to you. Mr. Jeffreys has sent up a handful of agricultural texts for you, in answer to your last query, which he said betrayed a great deal of ignorance which could not be answered by a mere sentence or three. He told me to tell you to…to…” Strong paused and looked away.
“Out with it.” Ash paused at the library door. “I know they aren’t your words.”
“To be a man and just read through them. Apparently, he, uh, appreciates your views on reports.”
Ash smiled bitterly, feeling the exact opposite of appreciation. “Well, your first order of business when you get back to London is to tell him to go to hell. No—write that down. I don’t want you to forget. Here, I have paper—”
He stopped, looking at the makeshift desk he’d made in the parlor. He’d left it clear last night, all the spare scraps of paper bundled away to whence they’d belonged—not that he had much use for paper as it was.
But set atop the oak surface of his desk was a solitary sheet, folded in two. It was weighted down by a clay mug. A familiar clay mug, he realized as he picked it up. It smelled faintly of honey and nutmeg. In that instant, his remaining fatigue dissolved in a cloud of anticipation.
“Wait a minute,” Ash said softly. He felt a prickle of excitement in his fingertips—an echo of the surprise he’d experienced on finding Margaret last night in nothing but a linen shift and a thin wrapper. Her hair had been down. Unbound, it had curled, and he’d longed to sink his hands in the silk of it. She’d looked like an apparition from one of his more sensual dreams. Even now, a part of him longed to go back to the conservatory, to start that conversation over again, and this time, to give in to his lust-filled imaginings. He was getting aroused, just remembering the pattern the moonlight had made on her skin.