“You mean, you think that if you know where I live, you can blackmail me into taking on a difficult task and earning you glory. And a good commission.” Peter hated the part of himself that thrilled to Jackdaw’s words. He didn’t want to ever see this boss again, but country parties did get dull. He liked working. “I’ve got a wife, now,” he reminded them both.
“Pretty little thing.”
Peter didn’t know if it was a compliment or a threat, but he didn’t like it.
Jackdaw spread his hands, half-laughed. “But she gets one in the basket, you’re lonely for a few months. Might as well take a quick jaunt to Amsterdam or Caen. Earn us both a pretty penny.”
Visions flickered through Peter’s heart: with his mother at Avonleagh whenever she was great with child; the children’s relief with their father gone; whether Celia would be equally glad to be rid of him. Temptation—his own adult pride in a job well done.
And what he had never, even for a moment, let himself envision—Celia, wreathed with joy and pain and holding his own infant. He was crying, laughing, holding them both. He knew the weight of a baby in his arms, but had to imagine Celia’s trust in him.
The duty of it pulled him back to the moment.
“I’m not going to Amsterdam or Caen, and you are not to look at my wife. You are not to follow me. You are not to try to contact my sister, ever. Do you understand?”
“Oho, so Miss Elinor is your sister?” Jackdaw crossed his arms, the flicker of a sneer in the dark. “I thought it was a wife, at first. Lately, I was thinking she was your lover.”
Peter shook his head at the absurdity of having any wife or lover who wasn’t Celia. His physical liaisons had been practical arrangements, and people who could take care of themselves. “It doesn’t matter that you know, because you are about to forget everything. You don’t want to work with me. You don’t want to talk about me. And you truly do not want to get on my bad side.”
“Cocky, aren’t we?” Jackdaw took a step forward.
“Ready?” Leavenworth asked.
“Ready,” JC confirmed.
Jackdaw took two steps back.
His baby, Peter thought. Celia in his arms, trusting him.
He had to stay calm. Couldn’t dive forward, ram his head into that deliciously rotund belly. Even better—an elbow in the gut and the back of his head slamming into Jackdaw’s chin, then pop his cork with his back fist. Man was big, but Peter could get him on the ground in one good lunge. Just hadn’t decided if he’d put a boot on his neck or first give him a couple swift kicks in the bread basket.
“You embarrassed me,” Jackdaw said, and that was probably the heart of it all. Men like him didn’t like to be played the fool. “I was talking you up, saying what good pals we were. And you went and scarpered. And you—”
“I had to get married.” Perfect; Peter sounded almost bored.
“Oho, so the pretty lady is—”
“Please recall, you do not talk about my wife. Do you know who she is?”
Jackdaw paused. “I know about her uncle. His faith injewels, and those bushel-bubby, hoity-toity wenches who will soon be all aground.”
“While we’re discussing matters, do not talk about my female relations. Particularly do not regard theirbubbies.” Peter paced forward, slowly, letting his rage ripple and burn. “If you’ve noticed all that, surely you know about my wife’s brother, who is in the House of Lords. So you know the queen knows my wife. You know the Irish faction, how they vote together…and pay their grudges together.”
“I—” Jackdaw took a step back. Licked his lips.
Peter slid a hand into his coat pocket, rubbed his finger against the smooth metal. Stepped forward.
Jackdaw reached for his own pocket. His men rustled and yelled.
“Hands where I can see them,” Leavenworth called.
“Ready,” JC said.
“Get back, you purple dromedaries!” Jackdaw waved at his own men, his hands pale blotches in the dark.
Peter stepped forward again. “Do you know who I am?” He spoke very quietly.
Jackdaw froze in the middle of the churned mud.
