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century.
    But since Neville
had
lived in the last century, it wasn’t all that surprising, after a bit of thought, that he might prefer the gaily carved and painted look of it mat he had no doubt been raised with. Duncan would not be a bit surprised now if his grandfather showed up in one of those silly, puffy old white wigs, which had been the rage of the day when such furnishings had been in high style.
    It took four servants—the haughty butler, who turned him over to a downstairs maid, who then turned him over to an upstairs maid, and finally the no-nonsense housekeeper—to show Duncan to his room in the upper regions. He’d almost been laughing by the time the housekeeper arrived to welcome him, that it had taken so many people to get him upstairs, when any one of them could have just pointed the way. But that was by no means the end of the procession.
    A new maid showed up to light the fire in his room. Then another showed up carrying hot water and towels. Yet another followed on her heels with a large platter of morning-type refreshments, biscuits, sausages, and a few sweetpasties, with small pots of both hot tea and chocolate. Not ten minutes after that one left, yet another young miss arrived to ask if there was anything else he might be needing.
    And lastly, Willis arrived.
    Willis was a thin little man of middle years on the high side of middle, who proudly proclaimed he’d been chosen to be Duncan’s valet. He had brown hair, what little hadn’t receded on him, and brown eyes, his expression what one might call true haughtiness—and here Duncan had thought he’d seen the most haughty one could get in the Glade’s butler, but Willis managed to appear even more proud and lofty.
    Duncan wasn’t so ignorant that he didn’t know what a valet was for. He was just so surprised that one was in his room expecting to do for him, that Willis was already unpacking his traveling valise—which he’d had to fight with a footman to bring upstairs himself—before Duncan had a chance to tell him he wasn’t needed.
    And then he heard, “A skirt, m’lord?”
    “That’s a kilt, y’dafty mon!” Duncan fairly roared over the insult, his cheeks turning hot with color.
    Willis was undisturbed by his tone, merely tsked as he moved to put the kilt away in the bureau. Duncan stared at him aghast. The insult had been bad enough, but for the little man to ignore his fury over it?
    Tight lipped, Duncan ordered, “Get oout.”
    That did get Willis’s full attention, but he merely said, “M’lord?”
    To the perplexed look he was getting, Duncan explained, “I’ve ne’er needed a valet in m’life, and I’ll no’ be needing one now.”
    But instead of getting huffy and leaving, Willis simply tsked again and said, “It’s no fault of your own where you were raised, but you’re in England now and will want to do things properly, I’m sure.”
    “Will I now?” Duncan replied ominously, his temper on the rise again.
    “Of course you will, and of course, you
do
need me. No gentleman of any consequence would even think of dressing himself.”
    “I’m no’ a gentlemon, no’ a lord, and I’ll be bluidy well dressing myself. Now be gone, mon, afore I have tae toss you oout.”
    At that, Willis finally took him seriously and looked somewhat panicked. “You wouldn’t
really
dismiss me, would you? It will reflect horribly on me.”
    “Just because I dinna need you?”
    “But no one will believe that,” Willis assured him. “No, this will be my fault alone, and prevent me from ever aspiring to such a prestigious position again. I will be quite ruined, m’lord, if I’m sent back to London.”
    Duncan would swear the man’s lower lip just quivered. He sighed. He wasn’t a mean man, just one set in his own ways. Yet he had no desire to be responsible for someone’s being “quite ruined.” Bedamned, he didn’t
like
compromising.
    “Verra well, you can see tae the pressing andcleaning o’ what’s tae be