“Is there a Peter Alcott in Sussex?”
“Somewhere.”
“There is now, hm?” They both laughed, and the darkness inside Peter relaxed a little. Maybe it was the hot meal, or the tisane. He told Francis about the next assignment.
Wouldn’t think about Celia. The way she held his eyes while she sipped his drink. No one could say what they meant at a party, and Celia never said what she meant anyhow, but that was definitely a dare.
If she wanted him to stay, he’d hurt her if he left. If she wanted him to leave, he’d ruin her if he stayed.
“I don’t like you being on the wrong side of old Jackdaw.” Francis stared into the fire.
“And the entire Division of Intelligence, as well?” Peter tried to chuckle.
Francis waved his hand. “Jackdaw is going to get himself fired. They just pulled him after that disaster of an election, but things are calming down now. Odds are good on September, once the uppity-ups come back to Town and realize they don’t want to deal with a criminal in their own department. But he can get you in plenty of trouble before September.”
Peter wiggled his fingers. He liked all ten of them. “So I go to Italy. Out of his way.”
By September Celia would be married.
“Fellow has a reputation for vengeance. You’ve shown him where you hurt, and obeyed him once. Why would he leave you alone, especially if he’s stinging from losing his job?”
“That’s why I want to bring Elinor here.”
“You need a wife first.”
Peter dropped his head into his hands. Celia looking up into his face, leaning into him. Deliberately, Peter imagined kissing her: the softness of her mouth, the touch of her tongue, her hands pressing the back of his neck. Now he turned the image of himself into John Cade. There. Look at that.
“Crissakes.” Francis banged his hands on the table. “Just end this thing.”
“Kill Jackdaw?”
“Then what happens to Elinor? How wouldyourmother feel watching you swing?”
If Peter had really intended to murder Jackdaw, he wouldn’t have mentioned it to Francis. He wasn’t entirely sure that Francis was not also an agent of the Crown.
“You know what I meant.”
Peter did. But he’d gotten into this trouble, he’d get himself out of it. He told Francis about Leavenworth’s plan, the house with the big footmen, under the name Peter Alcott.“Leavenworth will live there too. Pay his rent to me instead of someone who doesn’t need it.”
Francis burst out laughing. “That’s the only sensible thing I’ve heard you say all night.”
“He can say he’s my secretary.”
Francis laughed harder. “So you’re following in my footsteps now? Calling it a secretary?”
“He’ll make the place nice.” Peter laughed along, alight with hope that wouldn’t leave him alone.
Francis tipped his head back, guffawing. “Oh, you think so? Peter, I don’t know about you, but Leavenworth is firmly and solely interested in women.”
“There’s an idea,” Peter said. “Leavenworth can marry and bringhiswife to chaperone Elinor.” Wife wife wife wife—John Cade laying a naked Celia down in his four-poster bed, and Celia looking over his shoulder with the same haunted expression she had looked at him over the edge of his whiskey glass—is that even true, even true, even true—he had lied to his uncle—
Something split inside Peter and all of a sudden he was sobbing, his hands balled into fists, knees slamming into the table.
“God.” Francis was on his feet, holding Peter’s fists, pressing them against his own chest so he pulled Peter in.
Peter was lost and floating in a broken world, but not alone. Not alone. His forehead pressed against Francis’s waistcoat, the man’s narrow ribs under his fists, rising and falling with Francis’s steady breath. He focused on that, tried to breathe in with Francis’s inhale, his own exhales shuddering and shaking. He could not expect so much of Francis, not again.
When Peter could breathe again, Francis put a hand on the back of his head.
