Callander Square - Anne Perry [41]
He hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to be bothered with Reggie Southeron right now, but Reggie was a neighbor, and as such had to be tolerated. Not to do so would provoke reactions that would be endless, and cause all sorts of minor discomforts.
Max was waiting silently. His immaculate figure and calm smile annoyed him as much as the request he made. Wish Augusta would get rid of him and find someone else.
“Yes, of course,” he said tartly. “And you’d better bring something to drink—the Madeira, not the best.”
“No, sir,” Max withdrew, and a moment later Reggie came in, large, affable, clothes already settled in comfortable creases, although he could not have had them on for more than a couple of hours.
“Morning, Brandon,” Reggie said cheerfully, eyes glancing round the room, noting the fire, the comfortable, deep leather chairs, looking for the decanter and glasses.
“Good morning, Reggie,” Balantyne replied. “What brings you visiting on a Saturday morning?”
“Been meaning to see you for a while, actually.” Reggie sat down in the chair nearest the fire. “Not had a decent opportunity before; always something else going on, what? Place like a beehive lately.”
Balantyne had not, to this point, been paying more than nominal attention to him, but now he began to hear a note of strain in Reggie’s voice, and that in spite of his bonhomie, he had come about something specific that caused him an anxiety he was needing to share. Max would be back with the Madeira in a moment, and there was no point in approaching anything serious until he had gone.
“I gather you’ve been busy,” he said conversationally.
“Not me, really,” Reggie replied. “Those wretched police fellows, all over the damn place. Pitt, what’s-his-name, creeping around the servants’ halls, upsetting everything. Damnation, how I hate upheavals in the house. Servants all in a twitter. Great heavens, man, you must know how difficult it is to get decent servants and train them to the way you want them, to know your own tastes, and how to cater to them. Takes long enough. And then some damned fool thing like this has to happen, and before you know where you are, they’re all unsettled. It’s hard enough at any time to keep a good servant. Get ideas of bettering themselves. Fancy working for a duke or an earl, or something. Take an idea for foreign travel. Think they’re badly done by if they don’t get to spend the season in London, summer in the country, and the worst of the winter in the south of France! Wretched creatures take offense at the oddest things and before you know it they’re off! Deuce knows why, half the time; no loyalty. But doesn’t take a fool to know they’ll all go if this damned fellow Pitt goes on asking questions about their private lives and their morals, interfering and making suggestions.” His voice trailed off in exasperation as he anticipated a bleak winter of training new and unsatisfactory servants, cold rooms, burnt meals, unpressed clothes.
Balantyne did not think the eventuality in the least likely, although admittedly he did not especially value his creature comforts; but he did value his peace of mind. The domestic conflict such a crisis would provoke was truly appalling to contemplate. He did not like Reggie very much, they were as different as men could be; but he was sorry for the man’s obvious fears, unfounded though they might prove to be.
“Shouldn’t worry about it,” he said casually. Max came in with the decanter and glasses, set them down, and departed, closing the door silently. Reggie helped himself without being asked.
“Wouldn’t you?” Reggie demanded with a mixture of anxiety and offense.
“Not very likely.” Balantyne declined the Madeira. He did not like the stuff, and it was too early in the day. “No good servant is going to hand in notice because she’s asked a few questions, unless she’s already got another place to go to. And he’s pretty civil, this fellow Pitt. None of my household has complained.