“He owns the family seat. And I’m sure he’s terribly sorry, he’s never done something like that before. If one of my father’s cousins would come live with us, then we could manage—”
“You don’t even know them?”
“I do! Everyone came to visit when I was about seven. But that branch of the family moved to north Ireland.”
“North Ireland,” Rose repeated dully.
“Up near Buncrana,” Celia offered, as though that meant anything to Rose.
“Second cousins up near Buncrana mightalmostbe possibly, slightly,marginallymore advantageous than Owen Featherstone in Istanbul,” Rose said.
Celia sighed. She had just remembered that her cousins didn’t speak English, which would not improve their utility in Rose’s eyes.
Rose plunked down her spoon. “Do you remember the musicale at the Pipperlys’?”
“Of course.” The change of subject threw Celia off balance. Peter catching her, his voice steady in her ear.
Rose sighed, deep and long-suffering. “I don’t want to like Mr. Hughes. He still keeps bad company, and he always has a brandy glass in hand.”
Celia fortified herself with another sip of coffee. She couldn’t forget the way he looked at her, his fingers over hers in the music room.
“But I have to say,” Rose continued, “he was useful. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like he had to be thinking clearly in order to intervene when he did. I tried to get to you, but he was right there.”
He made Celia feel safe. Celia stirred her coffee and couldn’t bear to remember.
“Then the way he stared down Lord Dead-mund! You were upset, you probably can’t remember, but it was quite impressive.”
“Hm.” Celia took another sip.
“I think he’s on our side.” Rose stared at Celia, intent. “A clandestine member of the Bonnet Brigade.”
“Hm.”
“You need to talk to him, Celia. You need to ask him to help.”
Celia had been afraid that was coming.
*
Italy. Pipperly. Keepingprivate spies on Jackdaw. Cashing out some investments. There was no time to think, barely time to sleep, no moments to speak with Francis or Thompson. Twice, Peter woke up to the smell of coffee in Leavenworth’s rooms. The first time, he’d gone there on purpose, wanted to talk things over. The second, he wasn’t sure how he made it. Last thing he remembered, he’d taken a swig of tea and realized too late that Pipperly was sharing his drugs.
Leavenworth had gotten him home. Apparently.
“What are you up to these days?” Peter pulled the blankets up his chest, breathing in the scent of coffee and friendship.
“When I’m not chasing you down?” Leavenworth shrugged, slow and easy. “Dunno. I have a commission for a speech, but it’s done already.”
“Getting many of them lately?” Peter put one foot over the mattress, grit his teeth, and swung the other. The room spun but he didn’t allow it. He hated mind-muddling substances with a fiery passion, otherwise reserved for bayonets pointed at himself—and Edmund Hargreaves.
“Some,” said Leavenworth. “But then I write them. And there aren’t any left to do. Let’s buy that house.” He started to laugh, the low chuckle that spread like warm honey, and Peter couldn’t resist. Didn’t want to. He clutched the bedpost, forbade the world to spin, and laughed with the one man he trusted.
*
That evening, Peterhad wrapped his neck in flannel and wastoasting bread in his fireplace when a message boy came. Things going all dickey on a case in Croydon. Peter put away the flannel, pulled on a dark suit, and didn’t realize until he was in the carriage that he’d never eaten his cold beef and burnt toast.
When he got back the following afternoon, bruised and tired to the bone, there were two letters. One from Elinor, her handwriting tentative, her reasoning circular.
The other was from Celia.
