Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(16)
He did know how to waltz. Well, of course he did. Dancing was a skill of the body that he’d easily mastered, and he rather prided himself on his ability. But he’d assured Georgina’s sisters that he had two left feet and no memory for steps to avoid holding dancing classes in the schoolroom. Fortunately he’d had the support of their governess on that one. Miss Byngham found other subjects far more important.
Sebastian waited while Sykes saw that the luggage was carried upstairs. He allowed his valet sufficient time to be introduced to the resident staff and shown his own quarters. But when Sykes returned to begin unpacking the trunks, Sebastian could wait no longer. “I need to write Nathaniel,” he told Sykes.
The valet nodded. He went to sit at the writing desk by the window and readied the pen and paper he found in its drawer.
“In the usual style, eh?” said Sebastian.
Sykes simply nodded. They didn’t discuss the matter any further. In fact, they never had, not since the day Sykes had discovered his future master, a hulking lad of fifteen, bent over a blotted page, wrestling with a pen as if it was a writhing snake, and perilously near tears. Humiliated, Sebastian had turned away, crushing the page in one fist and throwing the treacherous writing instrument across the room.
And in that long-ago moment, he’d discovered that William Sykes was a master at ignoring things that were better not mentioned.
They hadn’t been acquainted then. Several years older than Sebastian, Sykes was the son of an upper servant’s family at Eton. He was allowed to attend classes by some special arrangement. Sebastian didn’t know the details. There was no reason he should. It had nothing to do with him.
Sebastian had been about to stomp out of the school library, using his best scowl to deflect questions, when young Sykes dropped into an armchair and said, “Would you do me a great favor?”
This was so unexpected that it stopped Sebastian in his tracks. They’d never even been introduced.
“I’m hoping to be a playwright,” Sykes had continued, even more surprisingly. “For the London stage. My family thinks I’m an idiot, of course.”
Sebastian had stared at the skinny, bright-eyed boy, with his wrists sticking out of his outgrown shirtsleeves.
“They think I should aspire no higher than schoolmaster or tutor. Can you imagine anything more dreary?”
Sebastian hadn’t found a thing to say in response to this.
“But I’m absolutely determined to find a way. So, I wondered if you might allow me to write your letter for you. It would be such a useful exercise, you see. Developing a character, with his own particular voice. Very renaissance.”
Sebastian had gaped at him, and an entire conversation had passed in one long gaze. Sebastian had understood that Sykes was an alarmingly bright and observant fellow and that, relegated to the sidelines by his ambiguous status at Eton, he’d noticed things Sebastian had labored hard to conceal. He offered no hint of threat; Sebastian would have thrashed him for that. Rather, he was silently suggesting an arrangement for their mutual benefit. Which need never be admitted, still less actually spoken aloud.
Even back then, Sebastian was a good judge of character. He’d trusted young Sykes, and he’d never been sorry. Without a word, the fellow had thought to mimic Sebastian’s disgraceful handwriting as he penned the letter. Later on, Sebastian had seen Sykes’s personal copperplate hand, a thing of beauty compared with that scrawl. He’d said nothing about that either. The whole exchange had been simply astonishing.
They’d gone on to formalize the connection when Sykes suggested that Sebastian take him on as valet once they’d left school. He’d made the scheme seem perfectly reasonable, nothing like an act of charity or a crutch. The position would give him many priceless opportunities to observe society, he’d said, and enrich the “texture” of his plays. Sebastian made certain that Sykes was paid very well and allowed ample time to go to the theater and write. To their mutual amusement, Sykes had thrown himself into the role, becoming such an exemplary valet, in public, that other young men routinely tried to lure him away.
Sebastian looked at the elegant figure seated at the desk, poised and alert, with pen in hand. He’d become a companion as much as a servant by this time.
“The usual greetings,” began Sebastian. “Arrived safely at Stane Castle and all that.”
Lately, since Sebastian’s last promotion, they’d put it about that Sykes served as his secretary as well as valet. It sounded unexceptionable. Busy men had private secretaries to manage their affairs. His father the duke had two to handle his voluminous correspondence.
Sykes began to write. Sebastian knew he would transform his offhand remarks into the proper phrases. By now, Sykes was an expert at producing a missive in the style Sebastian’s family was accustomed to from their second son. Or, to be more accurate, as Sykes put it, such letters were a genre Sykes had created from whole cloth.
Sebastian narrated some highlights of his visit so far. When he uttered the phrase, “a deuced sea of furry, yapping little rats,” Sykes cleared his throat. It was his way of suggesting that perhaps another expression would be more apt.
“You haven’t fought an engagement with the pugs yet,” Sebastian explained. “I swear they planned that assault on Mitra. He’s the Hindu fellow; the dogs make him nervous. Drustan—he’s the ringleader, the beast who keeps going at my leg, evil little sod—got them all nipping at Mitra’s ankles in turn. Diversionary actions, see? Then, at just the right moment, Drustan rushed in and tripped him. If you’d seen Mitra staggering about like a drunken sailor yesterday, trying not to step on the creatures, and then falling flat on the drawing room carpet, you’d grant that there’s no other way to describe them.”