“Unknowingly, I’ve held it since before we left England. My brother Chase hid it in the blasted carriage. He must have known I’d flee before the wedding, the bastard. I didn’t discover it until we were well on our way.”

Paul shook his head. “Then ye’re doomed.”

St. John smiled, a peculiarly sweet smile, one that made Paul stand a little straighter despite his tiredness and the wetness that trickled down his back. “Like hell I’m doomed. I was not made for marriage. Not now, not ever. I’m afraid the fates will have to wait a few weeks to deliver their verdict.”

“Weeks, sir?”

“Until I can get this blasted ring into my oldest brother’s hands. Marcus is the last of us to remain unwed other than myself.”

“God help him then, sir. Marriage is a horrible thing indeed.” Paul shuddered, thinking of all the near misses he’d had. “I don’t envy you, sir.”

The master’s blue gaze twinkled. “I don’t envy myself, Paul. At least not on this occasion.”

Not a single one of Paul’s previous employers had bothered to remember his name, so he was impressed that Mr. St. John had bothered to do so. Not that his new master was overly familiar in any way; he wasn’t. He might stand for an occasional exchange of quips, but he brooked no nonsense when it came to disrespect, thievery, or slovenly behavior.

It was that special combination of familiarity and stern but fair grace that made Paul and all the other servants loyal unto death for Mr. Devon St. John. It was well known throughout the servant circles in London that there was no more plum spot to work. Had Mr. St. John’s last footman not succumbed to an unfortunate stomach complaint that had turned fatal, Paul would not now be in such a wondrous position. Even with the rain, he could scarcely believe his luck.

Smiling, Paul opened the door wider. “The rain has let up, so ye shouldn’t get too wet.”

“Thank God.” St. John placed his hat over his black hair, grimacing as he stepped into the thick mud. “Tipton will be appalled when he beholds my lovely new boots.”

Tipton was Mr. St. John’s valet, and a more starched, outraged person Paul had yet to meet. “Indeed, sir. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the sight of yer boots don’t put him to tears.” Paul grabbed the lantern and held it aloft to light the way as they proceeded to the large wooden doors.

“I am sure Tipton will not hesitate to tell me what he thinks of the mud upon my boots. He has a tongue in his head that could scorch your soul if you were so silly as to bare it.”