at the gasworks near Regent's Park."
Nic pulled a face. The two great chimneys across the park did their bit to add another layer of foulness
to the pall now smothering London . The working conditions were atrocious. No one who'd seen Doré's engraving of the works in South Lambeth could doubt it. Like one of the circles of Hell. Twelve hours a day. Seven days a week. He didn't wonder a boy would rather scrub pots than follow his parents there.
Pushing this disagreeable thought aside, he took a sip of Farnham's varnish-peeling coffee. The powerful brew inspired a pleasure no depression could obscure. Mrs. Choate had her virtues—an excellent pickle being among them—but Farnham made coffee fit for a man.
"Shall I hire him then, sir?"
"Mm?" said Nic, still wallowing in the drink.
"The boy. Would you like me to hire him?"
Nic shrugged. "Don't see why not. When Mrs. Choate returns from her sister's, I imagine she'll enjoy having someone new to boss around."
"Very good," said Farnham, and handed him the freshly ironed paper. Since the butler continued to
hover, Nic suspected he was in for another of that worthy's lectures.
"Yes?" he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"If you wouldn't mind my saying, sir—"
"And if I would?' Nic muttered.
"It has been my experience," Farnham pressed on, "that some light physical activity, or perhaps a visit
to a friend, would do far more to lighten your mood than this ... this torpor."
Nic narrowed his eyes. "I happen to like this torpor. As for my moods, they're an unavoidable outgrowth of my gift."
"I'm sure it's comfortable for you to think so, sir, but—"
"Farnham," said Nic, the warning razor sharp.
Like any old campaigner, the butler knew when to retreat. "Very well, sir," he said. "I'll be in my pantry should you need me."
As soon as he'd closed the door, Nic moved the tray and threw off the covers. Sparring with his butler might not be the twenty laps around the house Farnham had in mind, but it had put a bit of heat in his veins.
He finished his coffee as he dressed: trousers today rather than a robe. He thrust his arms into a clean, starched shirt, then frowned at the line of garish waistcoats that hung in his cedar wardrobe. Bother that. And bother shoes as well. He wasn't going anywhere, and no one was coming here.
He might, however, have just enough energy to send a note to his man of business. See if any new commissions had come in. What Nic wouldn't give for a trip to Paris ! Not tomorrow, perhaps, but in a week or so—once he was back to his old self.
Too lazy to button his shirt, he clumped down the stairs with the tails flapping around his hips. "More coal!" he called as his bare feet hit the chilly marble inlay in the hall.
From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow flit in the direction of the kitchen. It couldn't have been Farnham because it didn't stop.
"You there," he said. "New boy."
The shadow froze, then reluctantly turned without coming closer. The boy's gangly shape inspired a nostalgic humor. Nic remembered being that age, all legs and elbows and fits of shyness. If it was shyness. The way the boy hunched into his shoulders made Nic wonder if he were expecting some sort
of scold.
"Settling in all right?" he asked more gently.
The shadow mumbled something that probably meant yes.
"You don't have to be afraid of us," Nic assured him. "I know Farnham seems a bit regimental, but as long as you try your best, he'll more than do right by you."
"Yes, sir," said the boy, then started edging farther off. "I'll just fetch that coal you wanted."
The sudden rapping of the doorknocker did nothing to call him back.
Bloody hell, thought Nic. Can't train anyone these days.
Fortunately for his mood, the figure on the stoop called forth an immediate smile.
It was the maid from the night before. The single spot of color in
Nic pulled a face. The two great chimneys across the park did their bit to add another layer of foulness
to the pall now smothering London . The working conditions were atrocious. No one who'd seen Doré's engraving of the works in South Lambeth could doubt it. Like one of the circles of Hell. Twelve hours a day. Seven days a week. He didn't wonder a boy would rather scrub pots than follow his parents there.
Pushing this disagreeable thought aside, he took a sip of Farnham's varnish-peeling coffee. The powerful brew inspired a pleasure no depression could obscure. Mrs. Choate had her virtues—an excellent pickle being among them—but Farnham made coffee fit for a man.
"Shall I hire him then, sir?"
"Mm?" said Nic, still wallowing in the drink.
"The boy. Would you like me to hire him?"
Nic shrugged. "Don't see why not. When Mrs. Choate returns from her sister's, I imagine she'll enjoy having someone new to boss around."
"Very good," said Farnham, and handed him the freshly ironed paper. Since the butler continued to
hover, Nic suspected he was in for another of that worthy's lectures.
"Yes?" he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"If you wouldn't mind my saying, sir—"
"And if I would?' Nic muttered.
"It has been my experience," Farnham pressed on, "that some light physical activity, or perhaps a visit
to a friend, would do far more to lighten your mood than this ... this torpor."
Nic narrowed his eyes. "I happen to like this torpor. As for my moods, they're an unavoidable outgrowth of my gift."
"I'm sure it's comfortable for you to think so, sir, but—"
"Farnham," said Nic, the warning razor sharp.
Like any old campaigner, the butler knew when to retreat. "Very well, sir," he said. "I'll be in my pantry should you need me."
As soon as he'd closed the door, Nic moved the tray and threw off the covers. Sparring with his butler might not be the twenty laps around the house Farnham had in mind, but it had put a bit of heat in his veins.
He finished his coffee as he dressed: trousers today rather than a robe. He thrust his arms into a clean, starched shirt, then frowned at the line of garish waistcoats that hung in his cedar wardrobe. Bother that. And bother shoes as well. He wasn't going anywhere, and no one was coming here.
He might, however, have just enough energy to send a note to his man of business. See if any new commissions had come in. What Nic wouldn't give for a trip to Paris ! Not tomorrow, perhaps, but in a week or so—once he was back to his old self.
Too lazy to button his shirt, he clumped down the stairs with the tails flapping around his hips. "More coal!" he called as his bare feet hit the chilly marble inlay in the hall.
From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow flit in the direction of the kitchen. It couldn't have been Farnham because it didn't stop.
"You there," he said. "New boy."
The shadow froze, then reluctantly turned without coming closer. The boy's gangly shape inspired a nostalgic humor. Nic remembered being that age, all legs and elbows and fits of shyness. If it was shyness. The way the boy hunched into his shoulders made Nic wonder if he were expecting some sort
of scold.
"Settling in all right?" he asked more gently.
The shadow mumbled something that probably meant yes.
"You don't have to be afraid of us," Nic assured him. "I know Farnham seems a bit regimental, but as long as you try your best, he'll more than do right by you."
"Yes, sir," said the boy, then started edging farther off. "I'll just fetch that coal you wanted."
The sudden rapping of the doorknocker did nothing to call him back.
Bloody hell, thought Nic. Can't train anyone these days.
Fortunately for his mood, the figure on the stoop called forth an immediate smile.
It was the maid from the night before. The single spot of color in
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