“Peryear?That’sall?”
“Precisely. So glad we understand each other.” Peter clicked his heels together and bowed. “Let me know if you need anything, Jackdaw.”
Peter whistled as he trotted back down the stairs, but he was irritated. This did not bode well for the gradual transition back to his real self.
*
A busy party—footsteps.A breath in his ear. Fingers gripping his elbow.
“Peter. You’re coming home with me tonight.” The fingernails dug into his jacket, then released.
Peter knew the rhythm of that footfall, the squeak of those gloves, and he knew why one man in London used his Christian name. “Fine. Fine! Don’t think you’re inMacbeth.”
Lord Francis Burnett chuckled, already back to his exaggerated poise. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble?” He spun one finger in the air. “You know what’s trouble, Peter? You. You are trouble.”
“I’m not walking all that way.”
“I’ll pick you up on the corner.”
*
The two mendid not talk in the carriage, nor in the marble-tiled entrance hall, nor passing the polished mahogany dining table looming in a room where Lord Francis did not entertain since he did not have a lady to be his hostess. In silence, their steps brisk and clipped, they went around the hallway, up the stairs, opened the last door.
Peter breathed the scent of pipe smoke and rain, the familiar room decorated in walnut and creams, playbills and fashion plates and coffee mugs scattered about. John Brennan greeted them both from where he was reading in his favorite leather chair. He was officially Lord Francis’s secretary, but way back in the days when Peter had been confused and angry and rushingback home when he was supposed to be learning Modern History, Francis and Brennan had gone up a mountain and said the Service of Holy Matrimony to each other.
Peter hadn’t known them back then. Not well. They were friends with his brother James, and when Peter met Leavenworth in France, it turned out he had been part of their crowd too. So when Peter and Leavenworth sold their commissions, they all ended up together, although Peter was never quite sure if he was their friend or they were all merely stuck in the same place.
The strangest thing was that James had taken Francis home a few times, so Francis had seen his own family more recently than Peter had. All Peter had was letters.
He didn’t want to think of his family right now.
Peter flung off his neckcloth and jacket, Francis crossed to the sideboard, Brennan turned a page.
This room—too familiar. A year wasn’t enough to bury the pain.
“Sit in the red chair. Now then, your favorite drink.” Francis’s fingers flew, then he minced across the room and presented the tray to Peter with an ostentatious flourish.
It was an empty glass. A quarter of a lime was speared on the rim.
Brennan chuckled.
Peter did not take it. Still thinking of James, he was too tired to play-act. “May I have some lemonade? Or water?”
“I don’t know. Are you worth the trouble?” Francis dropped the facade, walked to the sideboard.
“Probably not.” Peter dropped his head back.
“Is this about the house?” Brennan asked, mildly.
“Yes.” Francis slammed a drawer.
“Easy, there,” Brennan murmured.
“What house?” Peter demanded.
“I heard you were buying a house.” Francis returned with a tumbler of water, complete with a fresh slice of lime. “Are you planning to set up your nursery?”
Peter was too startled to reply.
