From the bedside where he was engaged in folding clothes and packing them in the portmanteau, Sattar glanced up. “I, Sahib? What know I of English fashion?”
“You’ve eyes in your head, haven’t you? Spent days watching the gentry in Weymouth. Will I pass muster?”
His henchman blew out an exasperated breath and laid the green coat down on the bed. “What matters it if you pass, or you pass not? When you are dead, sahib, no one will care.”
Giff’s gaze was concentrated on the set of his cravat, beset by a suspicion that its folds, along with his costume, would mark him at once for a foreigner. From the little he’d seen, fashion moved a deal faster in England.
His henchman’s sour comment brought his head round. “Are you at that again? Piers won’t dare touch me if I’m visible among the fashionable.”
“A foolish notion, sahib. Where had you it?”
A reminiscent smile curved Giff’s mouth. “From Delia. Or rather, not directly. It’s what she said to my great-uncle.”
“You take now advice from a woman?”
“Delia is no ordinary woman. Not that she’ll be any too pleased to see me flaunting about in Weymouth, even though she did suggest I should make a public figure of myself.”
“It is well if the memsahib approves not. She will say, as do I, that a seeming accident may befall you at the hands of these rogues as well if you are visible as not.” Sattar resumed his packing, grumbling the while. “It is to the walls I speak. There is no use in talking to as stubborn a boy as ever lived.”
Laughing, Giff came to him, giving him a buffet on the shoulder. “Rascally old devil! What should I do without you?”
“Why trouble your head, sahib, when you will neither need me nor anyone in the next world?”
Giff ignored this. “Did you find me a decent lodging?”
“It is fair, sahib,” said his faithful retainer, abandoning his scolding. “The town is busy. Sahib Favell would approve it not, but it will serve. Two rooms with meals and I may sleep on a truckle bed at your side.”
Giff raised an eyebrow at him. “So you can keep a close eye on me, eh?”
“It is fitting, sahib.” He cast an austere look upon his charge. “One servant at the least you must have in your train.”
True enough, though Giff was not fooled. No doubt these lodging houses catered for servants. Likely in the attics. But it would serve him better to have Sattar to hand.
“You’d best resume your native guise then, my friend. It will suit my story.”
He came under instant suspicion from the old man’s hard eyes. “What story is this, sahib?”
Giff grinned. “I’ve arrived from India and I’m looking about me for a suitable residence. My people came from this area. It’s close enough to the truth.”
“And what reason have you for this choice of a seaside resort?”
The sceptical note was not lost on Giff. “I have that covered, never fear. I picked up a fever on the ship and I need to recuperate.”
Sattar shook his head at him. “None will believe such a tale when they know your name.”
“They won’t know it. At least, Piers will, but no one else. And he’s not going to mention it, is he?”
The dark gaze narrowed. “You do this to lure him to come to you?”
“How else am I to confront him?”
His henchman sighed. “Reckless boy! I am wishing Sahib Favell is here to curb you.”
“Devil a bit. Papa Matt would be urging me on. He’s the one who started me on this quest, as you well know, Sattar. I’d have been content to remain in India, but Matt wouldn’t have it so.”
Truth was, he’d come to England to appease his stepfather’s guilt. Matthew Favell insisted he’d wronged his stepson in removing him from all claim to his true inheritance. At the time, burning with passion for Giff’s mother, he confessed he’d cared for nothing but getting her and the boy away. Later, when the first cotton plantation was established and he was solvent and Giff was growing fast, he’d tried to make amends and written to Lord Baunton. But no reply was forthcoming despite several attempts. The news of his father’s death had filtered through at last by way of journals from England. But by that time, as far as Giff could ascertain, Piers had already taken possession of the Keep and was trying to stake a claim to the title too.
If the fellow had been graceful enough to acknowledge the heir’s rights when Giff first set foot in Waldiche Keep, he had been of a mind at that time to forgo the earldom. He’d likely have taken the necessary steps to secede, or whatever it was one did in these circumstances. Although whether the title would then pass to Piers he had no notion. He was all too ignorant of the law in this regard.