It was much later in the evening when Valentine returned. I had drunk a bottle of good red wine from my cellar and pored over all the reports yet again. The figures did not change, and my interest was fitful. I leaned back in my chair and watched the coals in the hearth sink to a dull red glow. My anger was gone, drunk away with the rich liquor, and reason had returned, but by now I was wallowing in my own troubles; brooding on the current crisis.
Valentine came in carrying another bottle and two fresh glasses. He had discarded his jacket, and I knew he had locked up the House for me, sending the staff home and handling the domestic chores for supper, appraising what duties were needed tonight and what could be left until tomorrow.
One look at his expression and I knew he appraised my mo
