As he picked up Frederick’s discarded coat and cravat, his eyes moved around the room, checking the fire, the decanter, the drapes. In the dressing room he held up the coat, searching for dirt or creases. He gave it a shake—and sneezed. Pulling the material close to his face he sniffed. And scowled. He turned his head to look through the open door to where Frederick lounged with a deep scowl of his own, sleeves rolled up and buttons open part way down his chest.Cob stalked to where he’d left the boots and picked them up, careful to avoid finger prints. He stood looking down at his master almost trembling with suppressed anger.Frederick glanced up after a time. “All right Cob. What is it?”“Feeling right proud of yourself, Sir Fred?”Frederick blinked. “Proud? What are you talking about?”“Took a little ride out to Chelsea, did you?”Frederick sighed. “You know I did. You gave me the message.”“Couldn’t just find out the problem and ride home, could you, Sir Fred?”“That’s exactly what I did.”Cob hugged the boots.
