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superfine coat, and heard the material tear. He swore. Ponsby, his valet, said nothing, but handed him another coat. Simon gritted his teeth. ‘This time, man, hold the coat properly.’

      ‘As you wish, sir. I will see that the coat is mended.’

      ‘Ponsby, the shaving water was cold this morning.’

      Ponsby made no reply, but merely gave a correct bow. ‘I will endeavour to have it warmer next time. Yesterday it was too hot.’

      Simon ran his good hand through his hair and grimaced. He refused to stoop to the indignity of quarrelling with his valet. But this morning, every little thing pricked at his temper.

      He hated the accusation in Miss Benedict’s eyes that he had been somehow at fault for the state of Robert’s room. His only mistake had been to trust that misbegotten nurse. Next time, he would know better than to ask Lady Bolt for her recommendation. And now he was stuck with a débutante as a nurse. A débutante with all her high-handed ways and a kitten. Exactly what he didn’t need.

      What had Diana been thinking when she’d dispatched Miss Benedict? Matchmaking? Simon rejected the idea instantly. Diana knew his feelings on the subject of remarriage. She would never dream of sending such a person.

      He pursed his lips. It was quite possible the suggestion had come from Miss Benedict. He would not put it past her. She would learn that he was not the marrying sort. Jayne had cured him of that for ever.

      Unbidden, the image of Miss Benedict rose in his mind with her nightgown swirling softly about her ankles and the faint scent of stephanotis and lavender rising like a cloud around her, her face lifted towards his with her lips softly parted. He frowned and made a sweeping gesture with his good arm, banishing the image. He would never stoop so low as to make a guest in his house, a gently bred lady, his mistress. He was better than that. Even the thought appalled him, and yet the image lurked in the back of his mind. He made another effort to clear it.

      His hand knocked the shaving bowl, sending a stream of dirty water onto his dressing table. With impatient fingers, he righted the thing and dabbed ineffectually at the spreading foam and mess. He bellowed for Ponsby, but the valet did not appear. Simon gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts.

      The sooner Miss Benedict departed, the better.

      ‘What are you doing, miss?’ the butler asked Phoebe, standing so that her progress down the passageway was blocked.

      She tried to balance the assortment of toys and linen in her arms. All morning she had laboured to clean up Robert’s room and not once had Mr Clare appeared or sent word. She had thought surely he would want to know how his son was doing. It was only when she accosted the little under-housemaid that she had been able to find clean linen for Robert.

      ‘These will all have to be burnt. Bedclothes, curtains and these wooden toys. They will be a mass of infection and germs.’

      ‘Have you asked the master about this?’ The butler looked down his nose. ‘It was my understanding that he did not wish the young master to be unduly disturbed. Those are some of his favourite playthings. I would hate to think of the fuss the young master will make. You saw what he can be like. And when the young master makes a fuss, the master gets cross. It pains his head.’

      ‘Do you wish to tell Mr Clare that you have condemned his son to an early grave for a bit of peace and quiet or shall I?’

      She stared long and hard at the officious butler. The man lowered his gaze.

      ‘One of the stable lads can do it,’ he said in an impassive voice. ‘The blizzard appears to have passed and the sun is out. Yes, it can be done as long as you will vouch for it, mind. I won’t have anyone saying it was one of the staff that did it. Mr Clare is not a man to cross and we all value our wage packets.’

      ‘Thank you, Jenkins. I will take full responsibility for this.’ Phoebe held out her bundle and willed him to accept it.

      ‘I sincerely hope you do, miss.’ Jenkins lowered his voice. ‘The young master before his illness was lively, but he meant well. We all want him well again. We were ashamed about the mess, but we are all frightened, like.’

      ‘And, Jenkins, I wish to speak with Mr Clare.’ Phoebe kept her gaze level and prayed that her cheeks would not flame. It was necessary—but would the butler think she was making up excuses? The memory of Mr Clare’s fingers against her wrist rose in her mind’s eye. She banished it and regained control.

      ‘Is the young master worse?’ Jenkins’s face turned grave and he shook his head. ‘Gladys was predicting such things, muttering darkly as she left. She says the house is cursed, what with the master’s accident and now this. She cannot wait to leave, having done her best for no reward.’

      ‘No, he is not worse,’ Phoebe replied slowly. She wished she could strangle Gladys and her folk wisdom. ‘I simply wish to send for the doctor, to have him confirm my diagnosis and give me some idea of the latest treatments. Mr Clare’s mind will be more at ease if he hears the truth from a medical man.’

      ‘The master is like a bear with a sore head today. Try another day.’ Jenkins shook his head. ‘His breakfast came back untouched. It is always a bad sign. Even his valet has gone to ground. I heard Mr Clare bellowing for more hot water only a little while ago.’

      ‘Mr Clare’s problems with his valet are none of my concern.’

      Jenkins tapped the side of his nose. ‘Perhaps it is best to wait, miss, until the air is calmer. I have no wish to lose any more members of staff. You have no idea how difficult it is to find someone suitable. You will learn. The master is not to be provoked. It saves trouble in the long run.’

      ‘Is Mr Clare generally of bad temper, then?’ Phoebe asked carefully. ‘Both you and John the coachman have mentioned his ire.’

      ‘He has become more difficult since the accident and Miss Diana’s marriage and her departure to London have only made matters worse. She used to smooth over his upsets. She was in charge of the household, you see. She did all the menus, hired the staff, and generally ran the place. Now all we have is Mr Clare.’ The butler paused. ‘It is best to wait and ask him later. For the sake of all of the staff, if not your own health. The one thing Mr Clare desires above all else is quiet and his orders are to be obeyed.’

      Phoebe gritted her teeth. Was it any wonder that this house appeared to be inadequately cared for if the staff were walking around on tiptoes? Mr Clare was the worst sort of tyrant. She wished again that she had quizzed Lady Coltonby more closely on her brother and his household. It had seemed enough that Lord Coltonby was able to help her brother and she was able to do something in return. She had never thought to ask about how difficult this man might be.

      She drew a breath and thought of the alternative. He could not be any worse than her sister-in-law—the Dreaded Sophia. Her complaints and tantrums over the slightest flaw or fault had driven Phoebe to despair.

      ‘Do you think he will see me?’

      The butler was silent for a long while. Phoebe’s insides tensed.

      ‘He is in his study, miss,’ the butler said finally. ‘Where he always is these days.’

      ‘Did he used to go somewhere else?’ Phoebe tilted her head to one side. ‘I had understood that Mr Clare was a gentleman.’

      ‘He used to be down at the colliery or on the staiths, but these days he prefers to stay here, seeing as few people as possible. Then he shouts when things go wrong or things are out of place. The house has not been properly cleaned for weeks. It makes for an unsettled life.’

      ‘You should give your notice.’

      ‘Mr Clare pays me extremely well, miss, and I gave Miss Diana my word.’

      Phoebe lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Her responsibility was to Robert and not to his father. She had to do what was best for him, and not what was easiest for her.

      ‘I feel certain that once he understands

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