Marsh nodded. “Iffen it makes her happy, I’d be proud to go twenty more miles.”
“For my wife?” Peter hadn’t imagined anyone looking pleased about twenty more miles in the rain and dark.
Both men agreed enthusiastically.
“She checks in on all us riders every single night,” Marsh said. “Knows my sisters’ names.”
“She wrote a letter for me,” JC added.
“Did the figures for me. I wanted to know how long to save up.”
“Fixed up a rip in my jacket with her own hands,” JC said.
“Mark that he didn’t complain,” Marsh warned Peter. “Mrs. Alcott seen it with her own eyes and stopped over tea until she had it mended.”
“I didn’t complain,” JC agreed proudly, “but I was much warmer, after.”
Peter was flabbergasted. Not that Celia was observant and thoughtful, but that all these small interactions had been happening while Celia appeared to be mired in grief and lassitude.
“I’m glad,” Peter said; weak words for a swell of feeling. “But listen—footsteps. Maybe we’ll finally…”
The door opened.
Lord Francis entered.
By himself. He closed the door again.
“White-livered fool.” Francis wiped rain off his face. “Stopped six miles back. Said he was too tired to continue. Felt a wee chill.”
Too tired. Of course.
“He took a room?” Peter stood to help Francis with his coat.
Francis had clearly just removed his hat and greatcoat in the outer room, rain and sweat leaking through the edges of his other layers. He grunted the affirmative and let Peter tug at his damp sleeves to pull off the jacket.
“Right then. We’ll head on. Join him there.” Peter gestured at the fire. “Come in and warm yourself while they change the horses.”
“You look right chilled, my lord,” Marsh said. “P’raps you should stop here for the night…”
“We’ll all be chilled soon,” Francis answered, making it clear that he would not be coddled.
“It’s not too late,” Peter said, clicking his pocket watch open and closed, open and closed. “We’ll catch him at his after-dinner toddy.”
“I’ll go and have the horses ready. Half an hour?” Marsh glanced at Peter.
Francis groaned and let his head flop against the wingback chair. “I would appreciate half an hour in front of this fire.”
“I’ll go pack up our room, guv’nor.” JC pulled himself to his feet, stretching. “Seeing as we won’t be spending the night.”
“Thank you,” Peter answered. So he would be stuck alone with Francis. It was one thing to write letters about business matters, it was another to look right in his face, no distractions. They hadn’t exactly been easy friends lately.
They never had been.
Francis untied the thong in his hair, spreading the queue between his fingers to dry. He put his stockings over the fender; it was odd to realize such a pink of thetonhad toes like any other man, knobbly and somewhat hairy. Peter filled mugs and sat in the other wingback chair.
“It’s not great, but it’s hot.” Peter passed over one mug. “Too spicy. Celia’s recipe is better.”
“Thank you.” Francis’s face was drawn with exhaustion and chill, and for once he did not tease Peter or push the conversation. “It’ll do.”
