The peevish tone rolled off Hadrian’s back. Chumley had been in a snit ever since learning the purpose of this journey. In fact, Hadrian had a wry suspicion that the servant had doctored the wine in protest. But he made allowances for the man, who had been with the family since before Hadrian was born, having first served his sire, then Hadrian himself when he’d ascended to the dukedom as a lad of five. The old retainer wasn’t likely to change his fussbudget nature at this late date.

He accepted a goblet of mulled wine and gamely endured the herbal taste. “It’s the second week of March. No one could have predicted an ice storm.”

Chumley sniffed in lieu of a reply. He unfolded a length of white linen and draped it over the scarred wood table. The valet always packed items for unforeseen stops like this one, though apparently he’d neglected to bring coffee. With finicky precision, he laid out serviette and silver utensils, then uncovered several dishes, arranging them atop the tablecloth.

“Appalling!” he muttered.

“What is it now?” Hadrian said, looking up from his paper.

“The innkeeper’s wife had nary a roasted chicken nor even a beefsteak to offer. In all my years, I’ve never had to serve the Duke of Clayton slops fit for a pig’s trough.”

Allured by a delectable aroma, Hadrian arose to take his seat at the table. He glanced down at the bowl containing chunks of potatoes and meat in thick brown gravy. The fragrant wisps of steam made his stomach growl. “They must be pampered pigs,” he jested.

“Bah, this is hardly the sort of inn suitable to one of Your Grace’s stature. The servants here are slipshod, and the other guests might charitably be described as riffraff. Had you seen fit to heed the duchess’s wishes and remain in London—”

“My mother had no say in the matter.”

“One cannot dispute Your Grace’s authority as head of the family. Yet if I may be permitted to point out, the duchess only desires what is best for you.”

Sampling the tasty mutton stew, Hadrian reflected that his mother’s idea of best was derived from the silly romantic novels that she liked to read. She had reacted to the news of his marriage plans with pouting and pleading, accusing him of scorning love, of being cold-blooded like his father, and had even lapsed into a bout of weeping. The tears had almost been his undoing. He’d disliked having to wound her tender heart. But it had been necessary to speak firmly in order to convince her that his decision to wed Lady Ellen was final.

Now, though, it seemed she had gone behind his back to recruit Chumley as her advocate.

The hot savory meal put Hadrian into a mellower mood. Eyeing the valet’s puckered brow, he said, “Speak up, man. Vent your spleen and be done with it. I won’t have you suffering a bout of dyspepsia on my account.”

Chumley huffed out a breath. “It is merely that I find myself in agreement with the duchess. She believes Your Grace needn’t feel bound by that long-ago contract between your father and his cousin, Lord Godwin. Dynastic marriages may have once been common practice, but they are not in vogue in these modern times.”