Eleven years ago, Peter Alcott had tumbled to London, all harum-scarum, no plans. Two nights in a hotel before he’d found that his bank accounts were drained—full of visions of being thrown in prison, every constable on the street out to get him, Peter had happened to remember the address he’d seen his mother writing. He probably only remembered because of the way she half-hid it as she wrote, then slid it amongst her other letters while the ink was still damp. Peter had asked directions from a chestnut-seller and walked all the way through London, afraid to take a cab when he had no money for the hotel.
Uncle Derrick had greeted him that evening much like he did tonight—genial, pleased delight. After a lifetime of constantlybracing because nothing he did was ever good enough, Uncle Derrick had accepted Peter without question. He had loaned him money, taken him to a new bank, convinced him that nothing would make him happier than to have his great-nephew living in one of his upstairs bedrooms. It took a year before Peter had saved enough of Avonleagh’s income to buy his commission, and Uncle Derrick had accepted that, too. He wrote faithfully all through the military years.
Every time, it was Peter who stopped writing. Stopped calling when he came to town.
Every time, his uncle was delighted to see him again.
Peter asked about the friends he had known in Maybarrow Place, and Derrick asked about Peter’s brothers and sisters.
“Pity I never got to meet the others,” Derrick said, as he always did. “Maybe one day.”
They both knew better.
“I am hoping to bring Elinor to London,” Peter said. Slow. Hesitant. Because this was a person to whom it mattered.
“Oh really? Do tell!” Uncle Derrick patted his hand.
Saying it aloud, Peter had to admit that his strategy was still full of holes, but his uncle nodded along as he explained his ideas.
“Very nice, very nice.” Pat pat pat. “So tell me, Peter, my boy, are you getting married?”
Peter startled away.
Pat pat pat. “Rather, is there a girl somewhere on the horizon?” Derrick’s voice was calm, as though it didn’t matter. “If you care to. Perhaps you’d rather wait, eh?” Pat pat pat. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”
These tumbling feelings were Francis’s fault, what with putting ideas in Peter’s head. It was Mrs. Pipperly, whose kindness was making a routine intelligence job pure misery. It was Cade, looking elegant and un-bayoneted.
No, it was all Peter’s own fault. It always was.
“There is a girl I’m courting,” he said. “She hasn’t said yes, but she looks at me like she will.”
It was a falsehood. Peter was a professional liar, but he tried very hard to be honest to the people who truly mattered. Tonight, he failed.
“She’s a special one.” Uncle Derrick nodded. “I can hear it in your voice. What’s her name?”
Peter cleared his throat. “Celia Westhaven.”
Uncle Derrick sat up straight. “Why, I know Miss Westhaven! Truly lovely! The very soul of kindness.”
“The very soul…”
“She got me telling stories I’d forgotten I knew. I’m delighted for you. Even if she hasn’t said yes, it shows you have wonderful taste.” Pat pat pat. “And so does she.”
*
After Uncle Derricktottled off home, Peter went towards supper. Drunk on the fantasy image of the life he hadn’t chosen. Disgusted with the actual Peter who was telling actual lies. He sawheragain, and he stared for a moment, drinking her in and forcing himself to swallow the bitter pill of his own failure. He deserved nothing and this man deserved—
Oh, holy hells, no.
This was not John Cade or Lewis Penrose or anyone Francis would ever allow near. Holding Celia’s arm, leaning over Celia’s head, kissing Celia’s fingers like he had any goddamn right—this was Edmund Hargreaves. Peter might be a messed-up disaster, but his moldy rented parlor would be a sight better for Celia than a Hargreaves’s mansion.
Peter wove through the crowd, eyes focused on the pair.
He did not know he could be angry like this, and he had spent years fighting for his life. He had thought that Celia was at least three-quarters amputated from his life, but it just took one suggestion, one glance, one lie, and he wanted to bloodykillHargreaves for so much astouchingCelia.
Hargreaves was an earl’s son and they had been at schools together. The last time Peter heard of him, fourteen years ago, Hargreaves was taking bets on how many times his collie bitch would come when he abused her each time. He’d hand-raised that dog. The university men cheered on bear baiting and kept stables of fighting cocks, but something about that was different.
Peter planned clearly even through his anger, even striding through the crowd. He didn’t have his pistols; he always had his knife, but knife fights were not ballroom etiquette. Someone must have presented Hargreaves to Celia, and someone must have allowed him the dinner dance, which meant Mrs. Thompson or Celia’s brother. He had no right to gainsay them. Furthermore, if Peter remembered Hargreaves, there was a chance that Hargreaves would remember Peter, and already he was in enough trouble being recognized tonight.
