Peter ignored him. “I know some officers stationed in Istanbul. There’s some minor rebellion—not our business, but enough they have important chaps hanging out in fancy houses, and not on half-pay either. I’ll write some letters of introduction. Won’t hurt; give Featherstone higher standing among the Brits.”
“Good. I’m glad you have a plan.” Brennan drained Peter’s cup. “I have ideas for the Thompson ladies, but they’re all blunt force, as it were.”
“Shake Thompson until his teeth rattle?”
“That too.” Brennan shook his head. “Never mind. If I went with my idea, it would bugger up whatever Featherstone is doing.”
“Is Featherstone doing anything?”
“Surely, if they’re engaged, someone told him what’s happening! He’s got to get here from Turkey, that’s all.”
Both men slid to their feet, doing the calculations. Three months’ journey, give or take.
“He wouldn’t have the news and have time to arrive just yet,” Peter said.
“The second half of May,” Brennan said.
“That’s right.” Peter raised an empty cup. “If Featherstone hasn’t shown up by June, you put your plan into action.”
“Battering ram, alert in the flanks.” Brennan clinked their coffee cups together.
Maybe he was a friend—or maybe he just approved of Peter doing something right, for once.
*
No life, nolife, no life for a lady.
Peter let the candlestick thump onto his dressing table, tugged at his buttons with fingers half-numb from fatigue. It was perhaps four in the morning, or three, or five. His blood still fizzled in his veins, each heartbeat pulsingwatch, listen, beware.
Shirt off, wincing as his arms stretched over his head, checked the mirror. Had to know which salve to use, just a bruise or torn skin. Comfrey would do for tonight.
When he was first back from France, nights like these were his favorite parts of the job. Message boy with urgent eyes, rush to meet a compatriot, quick exchange of instructions, then just act. Just do. Grab the man as he went by, climb the ivy and slide down the drainpipe.
Think with feet and fists. Just go.
Peter ran the sponge over his sides, under his arms, squeezed it into the basin and stared as the dark swirl polluted the water. A punch hurt worse than it used to; it didn’t feel like funanymore. For ten years he had believed he was lucky enough to make it through.
No.
For ten years, it hadn’t mattered if he ever came home. But then, James had been the one to die.
When Peter was creeping across a rooftop or climbing in a window, he couldn’t forget what would happen if he fell. Their family couldn’t lose both sons.
Peter pulled on a loose shirt and Turkish pants—he didn’t wear an English-style night-shirt, which would impede his ability to run—and pulled aside the curtain. Dark. Rain.
He was lonely. It was a thought that only occurred to him at four in the morning, or three, or five.
He could buy a townhouse, and it would smell better but it wouldn’tbeany better. He didn’t know how to make a house feel good. There was a secret to it; Peter folded his clothes and lined everything up neatly, but he never could make a house feel like you wanted to stay. James had rented a fancy apartment and it had been just as unpleasant; it seemed unlikely that Elinor had acquired the knack while their mother napped. For that matter, Peter vaguely recalled that Avonleagh had felt just as awkward when his mother was in charge.
This was no life for a lady, and a new house wouldn’t change everything. He couldn’t bring Elinor here, nor Celia either. He told his boss he’d keep doing small jobs, but that meant coming back like this, late at night and slightly bloody. It meant he could fall from a roof. It meant he could be in the wrong place with the wrong knife and not come home at all.
I see the way you look at her, said Francis. I can hear it in your voice, said Uncle Derrick. You could quit, said Leavenworth. Go home.
Peter was lonely and he wanted Celia. But this was no life for a lady and he had nothing to give.
Chapter Fourteen
Our Heroine Stitches Together
