Free The Butler Did It by Kasey Michaels Page B

said hotly. “And we were here first! ”
    Â 
    W YCLIFF WAS UNCEREMONIOUSLY yanked from his bed, to go stumbling across the dressing room until he ran up against his lordship’s dressing stand and held on with one hand while he removed the satin mask with the other.
    â€œMy lord?” he said, blinking furiously. “Oh, my lord, you tried to dress yourself?” He spread his hands andshook his head, as if to say See? See what happens without my services?
    â€œNever mind that,” Morgan said, stripping off his shirt, popping two buttons loose from their moorings in the process. “Ring for hot water, man, and find me some fresh clothes. I will be downstairs, shaved and suitably clad in fifteen minutes, or you will be sleeping in the gutter. And, in that getup, I’m convinced you’ll have an interesting night of it.”
    Wycliff bolted from the room, whimpering, and Morgan turned to Thornley, who was in the act of picking up his lordship’s discarded shirt. “And now—you.”
    â€œMy lord,” Thornley said, folding the shirt and holding it in front of him, almost as if to protect himself. “There is an explanation. You see…the mansion was empty.”
    The pantaloons were launched into a corner, and Morgan stood there, stark naked. “It damn well isn’t now, man. And find my underclothes. It’s drafty in here.”
    â€œYes, my lord,” Thornley said, doing his best to keep his voice even, because he was fairly certain he’d detected a slight quaver there the last time he spoke, and it wouldn’t do to show the marquis any weakness. He knew the Drummonds, and showing any of them weakness, man or boy, would be like covering yourself with cow’s blood and strolling into the lion’s den crooning, “Here, kitty, kitty.”
    Wycliff reentered the room. Servants must be bustlingeverywhere, for he already held a basin of warmed water at the ready.
    Morgan sluiced water over his face and neck, cleaned his teeth, then submitted to Wycliff’s mercies—that is, until he realized that baring his neck to a nervous man holding a razor might not be the most prudent thing to do. He grabbed the razor, staring more at Thornley than his own chin as he looked in the mirror attached to the top of the dressing table.
    Although he did spare a moment to inspect his reflection, to notice that a small tic had begun to work in his left cheek. He was ready to explode, and he knew it, so he deliberately took a deep breath to calm himself.
    â€œGo on,” he said, twisting his mouth to the left. “Begin at the beginning. The mansion was empty?”
    â€œYes, my lord,” Thornley said, trying to put a little more poker into his poker-straight spine. “You had fallen into that unfortunate duel with the Earl of Brentwood, and—”
    â€œThis is a recitation of your sins, Thornley, not mine,” Morgan said as he grabbed a warmed towel from Wycliff and scrubbed his face with it. There. He was back under control. Marginally.
    â€œYes, my lord. So sorry, my lord. But you did say to begin at the beginning.”
    â€œI may have, not realizing that beginning, but now that I do, feel free to leap bravely ahead to the more relevant bits, if you please.”
    â€œVery well, sir. At first, having the mansion empty save for us few left behind was, well, my lord, it was as usual, as we are accustomed to the household being quite bare for several months a year. Your mother and father often were of a mind to visit again for the Little Season, but with your injuries, and your parting words—something to do with never setting foot in this Hell’s Den again—we slowly began to realize that we were destined to…well, sir, to do nothing.”
    â€œAnd be bloody well paid for it,” Morgan said, buttoning his pantaloons as Wycliff stood ready with his shirt and waistcoat.
    â€œYes, my lord, and we’re