A billow of lust surged, his vexed noggin relaying vivid images: naked skin, tousled hair, panting breath. If he had succumbed to her plea, if he had ignored rule two, at this very moment he might have been deep–
“There you are, my lord, hidden in the corner. I almost missed you.”
Jack peered up, eyes glazed. “I felt like being alone.”
“Really?” Miggens’s palm reached to Jack’s forehead. “Are you feeling amiss? You do appear somewhat flushed.”
“I feel…odd.”
“Must be Mrs Pencally’s snuffles.”
Jack nodded, satisfied. That’s what he’d concluded.
After unbuttoning his jacket, Miggens doubled it meticulously, laid it upon one end of the bench, and then tucked a book beneath its folds. He sat, boots tidily crossed.
“What are you reading?”
“Nothing. It would bore you, my lord. You’ve an abhorrence for reading.”
Jack frowned – made him sound plebeian and he plucked the thick tome out before Miggens could make a grab.
Noting the spine, he could see why.
Soil Cultivation and Crop Rotation in the West Country.
“Hah!” Jack crowed, still feeling odd but a mite cheered. “You’re going to accept the estate.”
A sulky Miggens sulked some more, arms crossed. “I encountered it in the library, ’tis all, and I like to read prodigiously, you know that.”
“Faugh, so say you, brother of mine, but don’t think I haven’t noticed your new Egyptian-brown waistcoat either. You look as smart as a newly scraped carrot lately.”
Another cider materialised, and Jack reached for it in haste, gulping the crisp cloudy liquid.
“You must indeed be feeling at sixes and sevens,” said Miggens, gawping across the rim of his lemonade. “No ribald flirtation with the barmaid. Perhaps you ought to visit Mrs Tripconey. I found eight of her calling cards amongst your garments. Four in the emerald tailcoat, two in the puce silk waistcoat, one in the hatband of your black beaver and another in the silver-engraved snuff case. I expected to find one in your fawn bree–”
“She tried.”
“And you didn’t let her?” Miggens’s brow creased. “You’re certainly ailing as she’s just your kind: attractive, mercenary, unencumbered and willing. You could visit her later, my lord.”
Jack tugged his cravat loose, nausea looming.
Perhaps this illness was graver than first thought. Influenza or some peculiar Cornish affliction – after all, he’d partaken of more than a few suspicious sea delicacies. “No, not with these…snuffles.”
“You engaged in fornication with a certain Lady Randolph last spring a mere three hours after sustaining a bullet wound to your arm.”
“Purely as pain relief.” He sipped hisFair Maiden. “How do you remember these things, Miggs? Is it you that sells those stories to the gossip sheets?”
“Hmm. Good idea,” said Miggens, sipping his own drink and smacking his lips – surely for show as who could enjoy lemonade? “I could then retire to the country and marr–” A glare. “I know what you are doing, my lord. I’ve seen it before. You witter on with nonsensical nonsense, until your dupe confesses all. Well, not I.”
Jack nibbled a fishy crumb and smirked. Miggens was an open book, and assuredly, his desire for Miss Treherne was written all down his starched sleeve, but they’d best get on with Crown matters.
“What information do you have?” Jack asked. “Please tell me you lolled in some tavern with a doxy in your lap. It would cheer me immensely.”
Not that he was down in the dumps. Just…odd.
“Faugh!” Miggens bellowed, and Jack smiled: that was his line but his brother delivered it equally well. “Did you know…” Oliver leaned close. “…the professor was given his marching orders from Oxford University? Booted out for accepting bribes.”
Jack raised a brow. “You have been busy. How in hades did you find that out?”
