Folded up as he was in his bath, he couldn’t help seeing them. He had a large tub, but he was larger than most men. His knees were unlovely, but not the source of his rage. He washed quickly, stood up, and took the towel his valet handed him. He stalked into his bedchamber. There were things he had to do this morning, and if he had to hoist people up out of their beds to do it, he would. “Don’t fuss,” he told his valet. “This is fine, thank you.” He looked at himself in the glass and considered the result of his hurried toilette: one tall, thin man, dressed in correct morning clothes. His boots shone, his breeches were without a wrinkle, his neck cloth was pristine and tied just carelessly enough to make him the envy of every young blade in town. Much he cared this morning. But everything was as it should be. Except for the long face. He stared at himself in the glass. He looked like a murderer about to select a victim, and fast. Good, he thought, and strode from the room. His mother’s butler stared at him.
