Page 37 of The Count’s Charade

“Do not look so shocked, mon ami. You see that I manage.”

“Aye, sir, but you’re using your bad arm.”

Henri flexed his left hand. “It is stiff a little, but if used with care, it is possible to be without pain there.”

Reuben remained unconvinced, tutting over the exertion of tugging on the breeches, and refusing to be diverted by an aside of congratulation for his having found the correct size in garments at the tailor’s shop.

“I will send to you the money when I have more English guineas, Reuben.”

“It weren’t nobbut a few shillings, Mister Henry, and them things ain’t proper for a gennelman nohow.”

“They will serve me very well.” He finished buttoning the fall of his breeches. “And now for the coat.”

But here Reuben became stubborn, and would by no means allow Henri to manage the coat alone. Submitting, Henri admitted it was easier with his help. He had tried it by himself yesterday, and although it could be managed, it took time and much trouble.

“The sling, sir,” said Reuben, folding the square of cloth in two.

Henri held up his right hand. “But no, mon brave. I try without the sling.”

“Without the sling?” repeated the lad, dismayed. “Miss Grace will have me guts for garters, Mister Henry!”

“Peace! I will assure her that it is me who will not let you put it on.” But the boy looked so gloomy Henri was moved to reach up to his massive shoulder. “Do not fear, Reuben. If my arm begins the ache, I will use again the sling.”

“Well, you had ought to let me fashion it, sir, so’s you can slip it on at need.”

This Henri consented to do, and then he lifted it over his head and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked at Reuben and grinned. “My hair it is tidy?”

“Aye, sir.”

“My cravat he is tied straight?”

Reuben nodded. “You look fit as ninepence, Mister Henry.”

“Merci. Then let me present myself to Mademoiselle Grâce.”

Leaving the lad to tidy up, he descended the stairs and made his way into the parlour. Grace was seated at the table, where the breakfast things had been cleared away, all except the teapot. She saw him, and Henri stood still, watching as she carefully set her cup down with fingers that trembled slightly. He met her steady gaze, and could not but admire her courage. Her voice was expressionless.

“You are going.”

Henri felt ridiculously guilty. He did not answer at once, but came to the table and pulled out a chair. Playing for time, he smiled and gestured with his good hand at the teapot.

“You have some left for me?”

Her eyes did not shift from his face. “I thought you preferred coffee.”

“Oui, but one must accustom oneself, enfin. The tea, it is an English habit.”

Grace unconsciously wet her lips with her tongue. Henri felt a stirring at his loins and suppressed it. His gaze dropped to high neckline of her gown. She was again clad in the blue one, and it struck Henri inconsequently that the colour set off her grey eyes better than the green.

“You mean to remain in England?”

“I have not a choice, ma chère.”

Busying herself with the teapot, Grace strove to overcome the rise of feeling in her breast that urged her to plead with him to stay. Even if his life did not depend upon his going, she could scarce demean herself in such a fashion. But the effort to hold back put strain into her fingers and the spout of the teapot wavered, spilling the brown liquid.

“Lord, how clumsy!” Unaware she had muttered it, Grace set down the pot and handed the cup to Henri as she rubbed unavailingly at the stain on the cloth.

“You make it worse like this,” commented Henri.