For most of the day, he’d mused on how Verity Seymour had continued to slip in and out of his thoughts over the years since they’d parted, and perhaps now he knew why: because she had been thinking of him also.
Creating battlescapes of him.
She’d always been a damn good watercolourist but was no less talented with oils, and he was not surprised that the Duke of Rothwell was her patron or that her paintings were in such demand.
Now that he knew her fickleness back then to be a sham, that she’d thought of him too and been concerned for him, what were his feelings for the woman that was Verity Seymour today? For certain, a vehement passion still bound them, made ever more vehement now he was a man.
But why had she lied to him? Why had she forsaken him?
And what did it all mean?
He thrust a hand through his hair, twisted and began to pace the rug, wondering why the hell queues of suitors were not knocking at Verity’s door? Indeed, why had she never–
“Where are you off to this dingy night?”
He twisted to Dair, who didn’t appear drizzled on at all. Miles continued pacing and debated whether to tell him the truth. “I intend to trail someone.”
“Rather underhand. I’d best come along. You’ll look less military.”
“Military?”
“Straight shoulders. Short hair at the back. You ever so slightly march when frustrated.”
He ceased marching. “If you wish then. This man’s as slippery as horse dung on a marble floor.”
“Why are we following him?” Dair made for the decanters and with back turned, poured himself a short whisky.
Miles wanted to see his cousin’s expression so waited for him to turn. But Dair stayed as he was. “I have begun to believe that someone wishes rid of me,” he said softly.
A minimal hitch of shoulder was the sole visible response before Dair turned with those unreadable eyes. “I know.”
“You do?”
“Hmm. The groom told me of the snapped strapping on the new carriage. And of your near miss with a stagecoach. Both seemed…odd. And then there were those barrels at the fair.” He tipped his glass and drank. “That’s why I’ve been coming roundmore of late. I felt I should…be here. In case it’s more than just coincidence. Watch your back. You’re the only family I can bear the company of.”
Miles would have liked to say he was touched by the regard, but they were men, Dair was staring into his glass, and it was half past the hour of eight with Webb due to leave soon. “I should also tell you, there was the night I was lured into an alley and set upon by two thugs.”
“Routed them, did you?”
“The Prince interrupted.”
Dair choked on his whisky. “That’s how you came to cross paths with him then. I wondered.”
“Hmm. I’m doubly in his debt now.”
“Well…” Dair raised his glass. “Since you’ve sold your soul to the devil, you’d best not kick the bucket prematurely.” He drained the whisky glass in a single gulp. “So could this man we’re following be connected?”
Miles made for the hall. “Maybe. And I’ll tell you why on the way.”
As they turnedfrom Baker Street into George Street and the lodgings for gentlemen bachelors, Miles thought to see a shadow stir in a dark passageway between the houses opposite.
Lynch.
Soot, smoke and damp brick tarried in the air and as a distant clock tolled the quarter, he and Dair crossed the empty street. There were few carriages or people about, though the drizzle had abated. Lampposts cast tremulous circles of light but the two of them kept to the pools of darkness between and headed for the passageway.
Miles vaguely caught a salute. “Webb ain’t left yet, Captain.”
“Good. Now you get some rest.”
