that would deter him from pursuing her acquaintance further.
Except the fact that she collected rocks.
He smiled, remembering her set down. There was a story there; he was certain of it. Perhaps he could get her to reveal it the next time they met. She would not divulge it easily, that much was clear. Sarah was a strong-willed woman, exactly what he needed. He looked forward to persuading her of that fact.
Appleby was just turning down the bedclothes when Malcolm entered the room. Malcolm started to wave him out, then remembered Chas’ advice. He eyed the fellow appraisingly as his valet went to stir the coals of the fire. The red glow from the black marble fireplace cast a somber look to the fellow’s narrow face. Of course, it took very little to make Appleby look somber. All Malcolm had to do was pick the wrong coat.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” the man asked in his slow, quiet voice as he straightened and caught Malcolm watching him.
“Do you mix much with other servants, Appleby?” Malcolm asked.
His valet’s eyebrows rose at the personal question, and Malcolm realized it was probably the first of its kind. “I’m not certain what you mean, my lord,” the fellow murmured.
Malcolm prowled over to the bed, debating how much effort to put into the questioning. He didn’t want to alienate the man -- he had little time to hire a valet and train him to work as Malcolm preferred, which was quickly and silently. On the other hand, having another avenue to learn about his fellow Parliamentarians would be very helpful. One never knew what obscure fact could win an argument. He had gotten Lord Wincamp to vote against the Corn Laws by pointing out their potential effects on badgers, which happened to be on the fellow‘s ancestral shield.
“Lord Prestwick informs me,” he said carefully, keeping his gaze on the gold-shot green bed hangings, which appeared to need a thorough cleaning, “that his valet entertains him with stories from other servants and their masters. I note that you do not do so with me.”
He could hear the frown in his man’s voice. “I never had the impression my lord enjoyed stories. In fact, I rather had the impression my lord would prefer I not speak at all.”
“Certainly you may speak,” Malcolm told him, feeling annoyed for no reason he could name. “Particularly if you had something useful to speak about.”
Glancing up, he saw Appleby’s brow clear. “Useful? I see. My lord would perhaps like tips on fashion or personal hygiene?”
“My lord would not,” Malcolm snapped. “I’m no fashion leader like Brummell.”
“You certainly aren’t,” Appleby agreed with a sigh.
Malcolm frowned. “Was that a comment on my dress, Appleby?”
Appleby frowned as well. “Certainly not, my lord. However, may I point out that my lord did just indicate that he prefer I speak? Perhaps my lord would prefer to return to our usual silence?”
Malcolm took a deep breath and prayed for patience. The bed hangings would not be cleaned until he had a wife to oversee the household. There would be no wife unless he exerted himself to find one. And Sarah Compton was the most likely candidate.
“Appleby,” he said carefully, “I understand that there is a chain of servants who bandy information about their masters and associates. What I am trying to ascertain is whether you are connected to this chain and whether you would be willing to pass information from it to me when asked.”
“I see,” his valet intoned. “You would like me to relay gossip. I generally try to avoid gossip as it is always overblown and frequently dead wrong. So, I would say this would be an addition to my duties, and I do not think I could add to my duties without expectation of an increase in pay.”
Malcolm cocked his head, amused despite himself. He would not have thought the fellow held such scruples, nor that he held them so cheaply. “I imagine additional remuneration can be arranged for the right
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