“Clever enough, my lord, but on my best day not near to touching you,” he said, and smiled again, hoping his sweetness would take the sting from the old man’s tongue. Conversing with him had of late become like playing hide and seek with a hornet. “My lord—”

“I know, I know!” his father said, still stinging. “Not that letting Nydd twiddle his thumbs is such a bad thing. It does no good to let these fellows think too highly of their importance.” He wagged a gnarled finger. “Heed that, my clever son. And don’t claim I never gave you a smatter of good advice in your life.”

Since most anything he said would be taken as argumentative, Morgan simply nodded. “No, my lord.”

His father grunted. “And don’t you forget it. Now why are you standing about like a coat rack, Morgan? You look no better than a servant, standing there like that.”

He’s an old man, and he’s dying. Nothing else matters. “Sorry, my lord.”

More than anything he wanted to cast the velvet coat aside and help his father off the bed, but that would cause such grave offence they’d go without speaking for days after. So he stood and watched in pained silence as his father tried to stand and stay standing. Not ’til his third attempt was the old man successful. To save them both, he had to pretend the other tries were figments of his imagination. Risking censure, he stepped to meet his father midway across the chamber’s carpet with the velvet coat outstretched, and then eased him gently into it without revealing the care he took or that he knew full well his father could do little more than hold out one half-lifted arm after the other.

It never should’ve come to this. He should’ve gone to meet death a whole man, in his prime. This slow decay is an undeserved punishment.

For both of them.

Gentled into his blue velvet finery, Lord Danfey suffered to have the old-fashioned coat’s buttons fastened for him, and even permitted his upstart son to rearrange his lace cravat. Its gold-mounted firestone pin flashed in the chamber’s glimlight, a rare display of vanity.

Morgan smiled yet again, hoping his grief was well-disguised. “As ever, my lord, you are the epitome of elegance.”

Halfway down the staircase, his father nudged an elbow to his ribs. “You’re paying close attention to the Garrick girl, I’m told. That is, when you’re not hiding upstairs in your attic.”

And who’d told him? Venette? She simply couldn’t help herself, could she? If she weren’t careful, his interfering friend would soon find herself on the receiving end of his considerable ire.

“Don’t blame the lovely Lady Martain,” his father added. “I wrangled the truth out of Rumm. Had to, didn’t I? You didn’t see fit to tell me.”