Arthur slipped his arms into the evening coat his valet was holding for him and waited while Clayton smoothed it over his shoulders. The mirror told him that they had achieved his customary understated elegance. “What word among the household?” he asked. “What do they say about young Geoffrey?”
Clayton looked thoughtful. The man had been with the earl for more than twenty years, and Arthur valued his canny insights as much as his personal services. “Opinions vary, my lord, depending on how close the person is to the young heir. Concerning the incident today, the general suspicion is that Master Geoffrey was playing a prank. He does not habitually run about the house clad in a tea towel, I gather.”
“That tomahawk was no toy,” Arthur pointed out.
Clayton nodded. “Yet he didn’t actually strike anyone, I understand. Even under, er, provocation. He’s said to be an intelligent child. Apparently, he can read.”
“What, at four years old?” The earl was impressed. “Who taught him, I wonder?”
“People were reluctant to discuss the exact arrangements of the nursery with an outsider,” Clayton said. “Particularly after the housekeeper entered the kitchen.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes, my lord. The head gardener is of the opinion that the boy disguises what he can and can’t do and is devious in bargaining for what he wants.”
“At his age?” Arthur replied. “That would be precocious indeed.”
“The junior kitchen maid believes he is possessed by the devil.”
Arthur laughed. His valet didn’t, but his eyes showed amusement. “It sounds as if he might become a son for a father to be proud of.”