Her hand was like a limp noodle in his, and he tried not to recoil over that. Tried. She was the fairer sex, after all. The fairer sex need not have a respectable handshake.

He managed to keep a professional face, and not wipe his gloved hand before clasping the touched one under the untouched hand. What was it that made a weak handshake so … gross?

“Thank you, Mrs. Carrington,” he answered politely, and took the seat as beckoned.

He started to reach for the teapot at the same time as her since she had an injured arm, though quickly withdrew when she moved to do so instead. He frowned, eyes wide in surprise, when she unsurprisingly spilled.

“Here,” he said softly, partly out of shock, “let me.”

This time, he did take the teapot and poured the empty cup.

“Whichever you like,” he said, gently … though quietly hoped she took the spilt one, because ew. “Do you … need a moment?”

He had seen plenty of criers, of course. Most of the people who sought him out were in the worst times of their lives … and Mrs. Carrington seemed no different in that regard.

The main difference was that many of his clients were gambling their lives’ savings on not dying in jail, and even at her most distraught? Mrs. Carrington could crush most.

So he kept the most polite, concerned face humanly possible.