London, Hanover Square
November 1810
“What is it, Haley?” Lord Charleton asked, sparing a glance at the door of the breakfast room where his secretary stood, hovering about like a nervous sparrow. “Is it Rowland? Tell me he hasn’t landed in the suds yet again.”
“No, my lord.”
The man’s brow furrowed a bit. “Couldn’t be Wakefield.”
“Certainly not, my lord.”
The baron glanced up. “Wouldn’t mind if it was. Demmed waste having him mope about, locked up in that house of his.”
“Indeed,” the secretary replied, and if Charleton wasn’t mistaken, there was a note of irony to the man’s declaration—one he chose to ignore, instead pinning a glance on the impudent fellow.
Under the scrutiny, Haley’s jaw worked back and forth as if the words were stuck there in his craw.
“Well?” Lord Charleton prodded. “Out with it. Before my kippers grow cold.” As it was, the baron shoved his plate forward and set down the paper he’d been reading.
Mr. Haley cleared his throat and held out a letter. “I’ve come across a small debt your wife owed—”
There it was. That cold stillness that came every time someone had the nerve to mention Isobel’s name. How Lord Charleton wished he could forget her passing so this wrenching pain would fade from his heart. Yet, still, even a year after her loss, it was a sharp ache he woke up with, one that haunted him even after he closed his eyes at night.
Now here was his secretary bringing her up when he’d quite forbidden the matter.
“Pay it,” he ordered in a tone that said he wanted nothing further to do with any reminders of her.
“But, my lord—” Haley shuffled about.
Lord Charleton removed his glasses and slowly cleaned them. Then once they were perched back up on his nose he stared coldly at the fellow. He was a good man, Haley. An excellent secretary, but why the man continued to bring up Lady Charleton, the baron could not understand. Speaking slowly and deliberately, so there was no mistaking the matter, he said, “You know what to do. Take care of it and leave me be.”
“If you insist, my lord . . .” Haley’s voice trailed off tentatively. It wasn’t so much a reply as one last prod.
Truly? He was going to ask yet again? If he wasn’t the most thorough and honest fellow the baron had ever hired—well, actually Lady Charleton had found him and insisted he be hired, but that wasn’t the point. Haley had become rather cheeky of late and Charleton wanted nothing more than to fire him on the spot.
But Isobel wouldn’t have approved, and so Charlton inclined his head, reined back his ire and said with a final note, “Just see to it as Her Ladyship would have wanted.” Then he went back to his paper and ignored Haley, who stood for a few more moments in the doorway.
And if the baron had looked up, he might have seen the wry, wily smile that had led Lady Charleton to hire Mr. Haley in the first place.