It was quite possibly the most gloomy, forlorn-looking place Duncan had ever seen. He supposed the thick carpet of fog that rose several feet above the ground might be responsible, as well as the leafless trees that could be dead as not, for all he knew. Or perhaps the early hour of the morning was why it looked so deserted.

On the other hand, Duncan truly doubted that any small bit of sunshine would impress him much in his current mood, nor any bright fauna if there was any to be found this time of the year. He was in a state of mind to hate Summers Glade, and hate it, he would.

Sir Henry had wanted to arrive last night, which would have been easily done since the inn they had stayed at had been less than twenty minutes away at a steady clip. But Duncan wasn’t about to meet this English grandfather of his for the first time after a full day of traveling. He wanted to be at his most alert, not tired and thinking only of a hot bath and bed.

He hadn’t planned to arrive before Neville Thackeray was even out of bed, though, which turned out to be the case, and was a letdown, since he was primed for a confrontation with his grandfather. And the place wasn’t deserted, as he’d almost been hoping by the look of it. Inside it was teeming with servants, more than ten large families could possibly make use of, all there to wait on one old man.

To be fair, though, Duncan allowed it was a very large house the marquis lived in, which might be needing a few extra servants to see to the care of it. He also allowed the English might be a wee bit pampered, great lords like his grandfather in particular, and so they might think they needed huge staffs when they really didn’t.

But for all the bleakness on the outside of the old estate, there was much bright grandeur to be found on the inside. The furniture in most of the rooms that Duncan had a glance of in passing was old-style French, the delicate, overly carved kind. It was well preserved for its age, but so ornamented as to give the place a gay, if gaudy, feel.

Mirrors and pictures were in gold-leafed frames that were nearly as wide as what they framed. Chandeliers were so large and with so much dangling crystal, they were likely to blind anyone unfortunate enough to look up at them when fully lit. And there were flowers in each room, suggesting that there was a hothouse on the estate somewhere.

All in all, Summers Glade, at least on the inside of it, certainly wasn’t what Duncan had been expecting from an old English marquis, and certainly not after the dour look of the outside. Staid, unpretentious, heavy pieces had been his guess for what Neville would surround himself with, not the frivolous decor of the previous century.

But since Neville had lived in the last century, it wasn’t all that surprising, after a bit of thought, that he might prefer the gaily carved and painted look of it that he had no doubt been raised with. Duncan would not be a bit surprised now if his grandfather showed up in one of those silly, puffy old white wigs, which had been the rage of the day when such furnishings had been in high style.

It took four servants—the haughty butler, who turned him over to a downstairs maid, who then turned him over to an upstairs maid, and finally the no-nonsense housekeeper—to show Duncan to his room in the upper regions. He’d almost been laughing by the time the housekeeper arrived to welcome him, that it had taken so many people to get him upstairs, when any one of them could have just pointed the way. But that was by no means the end of the procession.

A new maid showed up to light the fire in his room. Then another showed up carrying hot water and towels. Yet another followed on her heels with a large platter of morning-type refreshments, biscuits, sausages, and a few sweet pasties, with small pots of both hot tea and chocolate. Not ten minutes after that one left, yet another young miss arrived to ask if there was anything else he might be needing.

And lastly, Willis arrived.

Willis was a thin little man of middle years on the high side of middle, who proudly proclaimed he’d been chosen to be Duncan’s valet. He had brown hair, what little hadn’t receded on him, and brown eyes, his expression what one might call true haughtiness—and here Duncan had thought he’d seen the most haughty one could get in the Glade’s butler, but Willis managed to appear even more proud and lofty.

Duncan wasn’t so ignorant that he didn’t know what a valet was for. He was just so surprised that one was in his room expecting to do for him, that Willis was already unpacking his traveling valise—which he’d had to fight with a footman to bring upstairs himself—before Duncan had a chance to tell him he wasn’t needed.

And then he heard, “A skirt, m’lord?”

“That’s a kilt, y’dafty mon!” Duncan fairly roared over the insult, his cheeks turning hot with color.

Willis was undisturbed by his tone, merely tsked as he moved to put the kilt away in the bureau. Duncan stared at him aghast. The insult had been bad enough, but for the little man to ignore his fury over it?

Tight lipped, Duncan ordered, “Get oout.”

That did get Willis’s full attention, but he merely said, “M’lord?”

To the perplexed look he was getting, Duncan explained, “I’ve ne’er needed a valet in m’life, and I’ll no’ be needing one now.”

But instead of getting huffy and leaving, Willis simply tsked again and said, “It’s no fault of your own where you were raised, but you’re in England now and will want to do things properly, I’m sure.”

“Will I now?” Duncan replied ominously, his temper on the rise again.

“Of course you will, and of course, you do need me. No gentleman of any consequence would even think of dressing himself.”

“I’m no’ a gentlemon, no’ a lord, and I’ll be bluidy well dressing myself. Now be gone, mon, afore I have tae toss you oout.”

At that, Willis finally took him seriously and looked somewhat panicked. “You wouldn’t really dismiss me, would you? It will reflect horribly on me.”

“Just because I dinna need you?”

“But no one will believe that,” Willis assured him. “No, this will be my fault alone, and prevent me from ever aspiring to such a prestigious position again. I will be quite ruined, m’lord, if I’m sent back to London.”

Duncan would swear the man’s lower lip just quivered. He sighed. He wasn’t a mean man, just one set in his own ways. Yet he had no desire to be responsible for someone’s being “quite ruined.” Bedamned, he didn’t like compromising.

“Verra well, you can see tae the pressing and cleaning o’ what’s tae be worn, but I’ll be doing the dressing, is that clear?”

“Thank you, m’lord,” Willis said, returning to his haughty and gratingly condescending tone. “And may I summon the marquis’s tailor for some fittings, or do you have more trunks that will soon be arriving?”

Duncan just stared at the man. Give an Englishman an inch