They had danced together a dozen times; she had taken his arm from one room to another a hundred times; their fingers had brushed when she handed him a teacup.
But now he had touched her while she was vulnerable. He had felt the catch of her breathing, the scent of her fear. He knew the sensation of Celia leaning closer.
Celia wanting him.
*
He dreamed ofher at night. He awoke with the ghost of her scent, the warmth of her in his hands.
In his dreams, they were in a room like but unlike the Thompsons’s music room. He was seated, Celia was moving around, glancing down at him, smiling.
In his dreams, they were walking on the downs, the wind blowing her hair loose from her chignon, her bare hand in his bare hand.
In his dreams, it was the wine-dark night and they were talking. He reached out and framed her face with his hands, and he did not draw back and she did not flinch.
In his dreams, Celia spoke to him, and said the things she held close to herself in real life.
Peter, I am worried.
Peter, when I was young I used to believe…
Peter, I missed you.
Very well—the truth: Those were the things he dreamed Celia was saying even when he was awake.
*
First, a house.
Peter sold shares in three companies so he’d have cash on hand.
He’d start courting Celia. The right way. Properly. Make it obvious.
Make a proper list of what he would need for Elinor. And Marianne; if he wanted to marry Celia, he must account for Marianne. Meanwhile, he’d figure out a strategy for his parents, so they’d agree to send Elinor to London. Having a wife would help.
Figure out who sent the threat to Elinor and kill him. Hargreaves too, while he was at it.
Peter sighed. He’d had enough of killing people, but he’d figure out how to shut them up.
He sent a letter to his solicitor and his steward at Avonleagh. He wrote a letter to his parents, left it drying on his desk. He was going to go to the bank and sort through accounts, but the message boy arrived and told him to go see his boss.
Just as well to deal with that. He’d work out the rest when he got home again.
*
“Florence? What doyou mean, Florence?”
The big man shrugged his meaty shoulders, produced a gilt-edged envelope. “Duke, or whatever he calls hisself, having a big house party. All summer. Got you an invitation.” He pushed it across the desk.
Peter closed his eyes. He didn’t take it.
“George Redingote is headed down there,” Jackdaw continued. “We had some reports about him, then he left in a hurry last week. With a half dozen men, and some suspicious looking boxes. Good pay.”
Peter took the envelope, turned it over in his hands, tapping the corners. Turn. Tap. Turn. Tap. “I’m not done with Pipperly.”
Jackdaw shrugged again. “You’ve got a fortnight while they check Redingote’s trail. I’ll have more documents for you on Tuesday.”
Peter placed the envelope back on the desk. He was going to court Celia. He was going to care for Marianne and Elinor. “I told you. I wanted local jobs.”
