Trotting up thegrand staircase at Brooks’s, Peter flicked water off his cuffs. Subscription Room or library, first? He had the evening free, humming with eagerness and potential. Wanted to chat with a couple people about which investment to cash out and had offered to listen for some political rumors for Leavenworth. Oh, and he should eat while he was here. Smelledbeef. Headed down the gilded corridor towards the Subscription Room—
“Sir?” The footman bowed, the tip of his powdered braid tipping over his shoulder. “Letter for Mr. Hughes.”
“Thank you.” Peter took the folded page from the polished salver and found a coin in his pocket.
Hm. No monogram, just an unmarked blob of muddy wax—
Damn and damn and damn.
Inside was a familiar rough sheet. Peter knew it was dangerous before he even unfolded it, the shadows from the gas lamps flickering ominously, a hurricane hurtling through his once promising evening.
I am not forgotted about ELINOR ALCOTT. If you good boy, I will forget, you hear? YOU NOT GOOD BOY PETER ALCOTT.
He was supposed to defend and protect, but instead he was providing an opening for attack, his whole life falling like paperboard. The mystery blackmailer had set his scopes on Elinor, which was bad enough but at least she was in Northumberland. If the cove followed Peter now, he would find Uncle Derrick, and there was no one easier to hurt than a bumbling old man with plenty of money.
Unless it was a young lady whose last protector was about to go bankrupt in a spectacular fashion. One whose brother was making waves in politics while letting his sister dance with scoundrels.
If the blackmailer found out the truth of their relationship, Celia was in danger too.
Peter was sick. Needed air, needed to run. He twitched his foot, testing the sensation of the holster and stiletto against his trouser leg. Still there. Peter knew the place between bones and ligaments, he knew the twist and henever wanted to do that againdamn the man in hell—but Elinor. Celia. Elinor.
Peter ran down the stairs, out into the rain. Forgot his great coat. Shoes, puddles, cold.
He didn’t know who was sending the messages. He didn’t know whom he needed to obey. Just like when he was a child, he didn’t know how to be a good boy.
Memories pounded his skull, so his feet pounded fast on the pavement—it didn’t work. All these years—battles in Spain, reconstruction in Calais, spy missions to Italy and Denmark—and now in this quiet London rain he could not run fast enough any longer.
Be a good boy. Be a credit to the family name. You ruined another frock, Eliza, and a hoyden like you will ruin our family. Think before you speak, James. Think before you act, James. Be quiet, James. Girls must not speak. Boys must not cry. Girls must not complain. Boys are not frightened.
Before Peter knew it, his steps had taken him to Trafalgar Square, where they slowed. St Martin in the Fields rose in the darkness, moonlight glinting off the spire. And the scaffolding. Still the scaffolding.
Peter hadn’t just failed James that night. He had failed years ago.
Peter didn’t become who their father wanted, either, because Peter’s cheeks were wet with tears and he did not even try to stop them. Just wipe them away when they tickled. He was a highly decorated Lieutenant-Colonel in His Majesty’s Army, and he’d killed men and bled into the sawdust in field hospitals and written strategies that changed battles. Still, he cried when he was sad so according to his father’s standards, he still wasn’t a man.
According to Peter’s own standards, he wasn’t a man either. He put his hands on his hips, letting his coat bell out around him, the soft rain cooling his pounding chest, and stared at St Martins like it had any answers for him.
He had vowed to do better by Elinor. There were no solemn words in a church like this, no bets written on the books at Brooks’s. His vow had been her tiny body cradled in his arms, that particular smell of newborn hair, her eyes blinking blurry until they latched onto his own. His vow had been learning to hold his temper when she threw her porridge on the floor and giggled. His vow had been missing lectures so he could sit in the garden beside her, watching her crumbling dirt in her pudgy hand, her wide-eyed amazement at a lady-beetle. Not saying a word about her frock.
Maybe he, Peter, did not deserve another chance.
But Elinor deserved what he could do for her.
If Celia could do it—comforting and teaching Marianne despite the troubles in her own life—then Peter could do it too. He was a grown man, with a good reputation and a bank account that allowed him to take risks. It was not fair to Elinor that he keep his distance because of his guilt of what happened in the past.
Peter didn’t know how to get through the miasma of guilt, not when its white spire stared him in the face, even through his dreams. He didn’t know how to raise a girl who had grown past porridge and nursery rhymes.
He couldn’t save James, ever again. But these anonymous notes would be his bugle call to muster up—and do the right thing for Elinor.
Chapter Eleven
The Bonnet Brigade
Celia entered thebreakfast room slowly, out of place in her driving gown and wind-blown hair. Rose sat at the head of table with a teapot, iced biscuits, and a box of marzipan, and Marianne, Henrietta, and Charlotte all looked up as Celia entered.
“Good afternoon.” Celia smiled awkwardly, and slipped into the place between Rose and Charlotte.
“Fresh tea please, Lily?” Rose said. The maid curtsied and left.
