The realization that he could, at any time, disrupt Mr. Barton and his sister led to a different type of tediousness, the sort that made him itch like he was wearing woolen underthings. He had followed Nelson around the house, asking him important questions, like why the silverware needed to be placed in its exact arrangement every time they dined and whether Nelson had ever purposely dreamt of being something more than a butler, like a pastry cook or a snuffbox maker. Nelson hadn’t taken well to that last one. He had sarcastically assured Everton that his highest ambition in life had always been to serve a baron who trailed along after him while he tried to work.

Nelson had never seemed happier than when Everton had taken his leave this morning.

Everton’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Bartons’ office on Rochester Street. He leapt from the carriage, smiling as he loosened his cravat. His neck was always the first place Diana’s eyes landed when he stepped into her office. Her brother would most likely be bothered by it as well.

Nate Barton was one of the most fortunate men he knew. He had a graceful wife who looked at him as if the sun rose and set on him. His sister loved him. Somewhere back in Baimbury, a mother worried over him as well.

Everton couldn’t look at such happy men without itching to ruffle their feathers a bit.

Or a lot.

He went over his planned topics of conversation in his mind as he strode toward the door.

Mr. Barton’s wife.

Mr. Barton’s sister.

Mr. Barton’s lackluster kissing abilities at his own wedding.

There was a positive skip in his step as he bounded across the pavement almost as if he were galloping with Diana again. It truly was a joy to have Mr. Barton back in town.

The bell had never sounded happier at receiving him than when he opened the door that afternoon.

Mrs. Oliver sat in her usual spot. A small desk had been added to the room, but both it and Diana’s desks were empty.

He let the door close behind him, all his pent-up energy suddenly gone. Did the world truly insist on conspiring against him? When he was finally about to have a bit of recreation?

Mrs. Oliver stood in surprise. “Lord Bryant, what are you doing here?” Her aged mouth was turned down in a frown, accentuating the lines surrounding it. Mr. Barton’s seriousness had gotten to her, it seemed. Everton would have to fix that.

“My dear Miss Oliver—”

“Mrs.”

“Mrs. Oliver. I forget of course—you don’t seem old enough to be married.”

Mrs. Oliver pursed her lips, her brows heavy over her eyelids. “I’m old enough to have married granddaughters, and I don’t take kindly to flattery.”

Everton smiled in return. She didn’t take kindly to it anymore. “Is Diana out?”

“I believe you can see that for yourself.”

Yes, he could. “Do you know when she might be returning?”