Dare immediately slowed down, turning to cast a questioning glance at his employee. A sergeant in his unit when they served in the 12th Light Dragoons, Batsfoam had done his part to keep England safe from Napoleon, but it had cost him his lower right leg. “Dammit man, why didn’t you tell me your leg was aching? I would have hired a carriage.”

Batsfoam shrugged a shrug that spoke of servitude, unworthiness, and emotions too depressing to be put into mere words. “I am but a lowly servant, my lord. I live to fulfill your slightest whim. Your commands are my commands. It is with the profoundest pleasure, nay ecstasy, that I am able to martyr myself upon the altar of your happiness.”

“In other words,” Dare replied, his arms crossed over his chest, “you’d like me to hire a hack.”

A momentary lifting of the ever-present gloom indicated that Batsfoam would like just that, but just as quickly his usual dour, murky, abysmal expression returned. “I would not dream of imposing on your lordship in any such manner. Indeed, it would give my life the utmost meaning if you allowed me to throw myself before the razor-sharp pounding hooves of Mrs. Benton’s approaching team, sacrificing, as it were, my frail and feeble mortal frame so that you might escape without suffering such unpleasantness as might be experienced in having to tip your hat to her.”

The earl rolled his eyes. Batsfoam had been with him for more than seven years, and despite the man’s tendency to speak with significantly less than the respect due him, Dare wouldn’t ruin the pleasure his servant found in being utterly and completely wretched. “It’s good to see you in such a happy mood for a change, Batsfoam. Such a frolicsome, carefree attitude suits you. I must remember to dock your wages a few quid just to keep you from bursting into song on the stair in the morning as you go about your duties.”

The corners of Batsfoam’s lips twitched, but he had steely command over his expression and quickly pressed his mouth into its normal grim line. “As you desire, my lord. Alas that these frivolous few moments of jocularity are about to end with the imminent arrival of a lady. What is your will? Shall I cast myself to a certain bloody and unpleasant death under the horses’ hooves, or will you suffer the cruel fate of gentlemen of your noble and honorable mien by greeting Mrs. Benton?”

Dare ignored the sarcasm that fairly dripped from Batsfoam’s voice just as he always did, glancing down the street instead to where the lady in question was slowing her team in preparation to stopping before him. He squared his shoulders and resigned himself to the inevitable. “I shall reserve your sacrifice for another time, Batsfoam. As you say, I shall be forced to do the honorable thing and greet Mrs. Benton politely.”

“Chivalrous to the tips of your noble toes, my lord,” Batsfoam murmured, bowing obsequiously as he did so. “I shall just step back off the pavement into this pile of rancid, rat-infested refuse made up largely of offal and what appears to be droppings from a violently ill horse, so as not to sully the impression your lordship makes by tainting it with my unworthy presence.”