He looked to Jenkins, having failed to hear the older servant’s approach. The man was permitted greater freedom than most in the questions he asked. He was one of the few servants whom Val had kept on. The rest he’d scattered to his various estates throughout England. But the old man had come with Dinah from her family’s home, and for that Val had remained unable to send him away.

“No one,” he said, and it was an honest answer. “It was no one.” That was precisely what the peculiar, long-winded creature was to him—nothing. “Why are you out here?” he demanded as he headed for his townhouse.

“I wanted to report to you on the current state of the household.” Jenkins limped, managing to keep up.

“And that could not have taken place when I’d come inside?” he asked tightly, adjusting his step slightly to accommodate the fool servant’s gout.

“Most of the staff has gone,” Jenkins said when they reached the inside. “Only three remain for now: Cook and the footman, Thomas, will stay on. The remainder of the maids will depart in the early-morn hours, Your Grace.”

And it was a testament to the older man’s place in the household and the length of his tenure that he took the liberty of ignoring the question Val had put to him, and instead issued an enumeration of the staff.

“Good, they should have left a week ago,” Val said, stalking—albeit at a leisurely pace—along the corridors, largely doused in the darkness he preferred. “And you should have gone with them.” He reached his offices and, drawing the door open, let Horace inside first, then made for the drink cart.

A day like this called for brandy. This time of year invariably did, and had, since his wife’s passing. But after the vexing visit from a nosy woman, with her busybody ways, he especially needed a drink more than ever.

The gall of her. Insolent baggage.

Jenkins hovered in the entrance of the room. “I would, however, like to propose”—as he invariably did—“that all be allowed to—”

“No,” Val said, already anticipating the suggestion.

“Remain on.”

“It is Christmas.” That godforsaken, most hated, heinous time of year—for Val. The last thing he cared to have about was anyone, family or staff. Not at a season where people were invariably cheerful and joyous and all things he’d never be, and never wanted to be, again. “You should be with your family.”

The butler bowed his head. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

And executing a deep, deferential bow, the servant backed out of the rooms, drawing the doors shut behind him and leaving Val completely and blessedly alone.

As he wished it.

Jenkins well knew the happiness that had once rung in these rooms, and the darkness that had come after Dinah’s death.