Cold-Hearted Rake

Stroking his jaw, he discovered that he was as bristly as a hedgehog. Disgruntled, he rang the bell at his bedside. After a half hour had passed and no one had arrived, Rhys was about to reach for the bell again, when a white-haired, elderly man arrived. He was a short, burly fellow, dressed in a simple black swallowtail coat and dark gray trousers. His plain, unremarkable face had the appearance of an unevenly risen bread loaf, the nose somewhat bulbous… but the dark currant eyes set beneath the snowy frills of his brows were wise and kindly. Introducing himself as Quincy, the valet asked how he might be of service.

“I need a wash and shave,” Rhys said. In a rare self-deprecating moment, he added, “Obviously you have your work cut out for you.”

The valet didn’t crack a smile, only replied pleasantly, “Not at all, sir.”

Quincy left to make preparations, and soon returned with a tray of shaving supplies, scissors and shining steel implements, and glass bottles filled with various liquids. At the valet’s direction, a footman brought in a tall stack of toweling, two large cans of hot water, and a washtub.

Clearly the valet intended to groom him beyond a simple wash and shave. Rhys glanced at the accumulation of supplies with a touch of suspicion. He had no personal valet, something he had always considered as an upper-class affectation, not to mention an invasion of his privacy. Usually he shaved his own face, cut his own fingernails, washed with plain soap, kept his teeth clean, and twice a month went to a Mayfair barber for a hair trimming. That was the limit of his primping.

The valet set to work on his hair first, draping toweling around his neck and shoulders, and dampening the unruly locks. “Do you have preferences as to length and style, sir?”

“Do what you think best,” Rhys said.

After donning a pair of spectacles, Quincy began to cut Rhys’s hair, scissoring through the heavy layers with calm confidence. Answering questions readily, he revealed that he had served as valet to the late Earl of Trenear, and the earl before him, having worked for the Ravenel family for a total of thirty-five years. Now that the current earl had brought his own valet with him, Quincy had been relegated to providing assistance to visiting guests, and otherwise assisted the underbutler with tasks such as polishing the silver and helping the housekeeper with the mending.

“You know how to sew?” Rhys asked.

“Of course, sir. It’s a valet’s responsibility to keep his master’s clothing in perfect repair, with no frayed seams or missing buttons. If alterations are needed, a valet should be able to perform them on the spot.”

Over the next two hours, the elderly man washed Rhys’s hair and smoothed it with a touch of pomade, steamed his face with hot towels, shaved him, and tended his hands and feet with a variety of implements. Finally Quincy held up a looking glass, and Rhys viewed his reflection with a touch of surprise. His hair was shorter and well shaped, his jaw shaved as smooth as an eggshell. His hands had never looked so clean, the surfaces of his fingernails buffed to a quiet gleam.

“Is it satisfactory, sir?” Quincy asked.

“It is.”

The valet proceeded to put away the supplies, while Rhys watched him with a contemplative frown. It seemed that he had been wrong about valets. No wonder Devon Ravenel and his like always appeared so impeccable and smart.

The valet proceeded to help him don a fresh nightshirt, borrowed from West, and a dressing robe made of diamond quilted black velvet, with a silk shawl collar and sash and silk cord trim. Both were finer than any garments that Rhys had ever owned.

“Do you think a commoner should dare to dress like a blue blood?” Rhys asked as Quincy pulled the hem of the robe over his legs.

“I believe every man ought to dress as well as he is able.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s right for people to judge a man for what he wears?”

“It is not for me to decide whether it is right, sir. The fact is, they do.”

No answer could have pleased Rhys more; it was the kind of pragmatism that he had always understood and trusted.

He was going to hire Quincy, no matter what it took. No one else would do: Rhys needed someone old and experienced, who was familiar with the aristocracy’s intricate rules of etiquette and fashion. Quincy, formerly a valet to two earls, would provide him with necessary insurance against looking like a fool.

“What is your annual salary?” Rhys asked.

The valet looked taken aback. “Sir?”

“Thirty pounds, I would guess.” Reading the other man’s expression, Rhys deduced that the figure was a bit high. “I’ll give you forty,” he said coolly, “if you’ll valet for me in London. I have need of your guidance and expertise. I’m an exacting employer, but I’m fair, I pay well, and I’ll give you opportunities for advancement.”

Buying time, the valet removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses, and placed them into his coat pocket. He cleared his throat. “At my age,” he said, “a man doesn’t usually consider changing his life and moving to an unfamiliar place.”

“Do you have a wife here? Family?”

After a brief but telling hesitation, the valet replied, “No, sir. However, I have friends in Hampshire.”

“You can make new ones in London,” Rhys said.

“May I ask, sir, if you reside in a private house?”

“Yes, it’s next to my store, in a separate but connected building. I own all the property on Cork Street, and the mews behind it, and I’ve recently bought the block of Clifford that runs up against Savile Row. My servants work six days a week with the usual holidays off. Like the store employees, you’ll have the benefit of a private doctor and a dentist. You can eat at the staff canteen without charge, and you’ll be given a discount for anything you wish to buy at Winterborne’s.” Rhys paused, able to smell indecision as keenly as a foxhound on the hunt. “Come, man,” he said softly, “you’re wasted here. Why spend the rest of your years dwindling in the country, when you could be of use to me? You have plenty of work left in you, and you’re not too old for the delights of London.” Reading Quincy’s uncertainty, he went for the kill. “Forty-five a year. That’s my last offer.”