I KNOW ABOUTE ELINOR. WATCH OUT.
Anger hit him like the roll of artillery fire, like it had every time since he had found the ripped-out page poked onto hisdoor. His personal door, since no one could bother to close the main door properly.
Leavenworth let down his chair with a thump, mouth grim, pulling his arm back.
Before he could start in scolding, Peter leaped over his boot-box, grabbing for the card. “Hey! You’re not supposed to use your key to come in here and snoop! No cribbing my personal correspondence!”
Leavenworth snatched it away. Peter leapt at him and Leavenworth raised it above their heads; Peter grabbed his arm—wrestling, grabbing, shoving—a little bit laughing and a little bit angry.
The chair clattered to the floor, Leavenworth used the momentum to seize the card, and Peter reeled away, gasping.
It felt better. Movement, physical release, uninhibited contact. Especially after the bloody miserable careful contained ball.
Leavenworth righted the chair. “Who’s it from?”
“No idea.”
“You’re supposed to tell your best mate when you’re in trouble.” Leavenworth straightened the hearth mat. Lined up square. They’d spent eight years in the military, stationed in Calais after the war was officially over—they both kept things lined up square.
“It’s not trouble yet.” Peter emptied his pockets, putting each item in its place on the dresser.
“You have a funny definition of trouble.” Leavenworth snorted.
Peter turned away. He didn’t want Leavenworth involved in this mess; fellow had sold his commission and was trying to live a respectable life. He was in politics now. Peter unbuttoned his waistcoat, couldn’t wait to be done with this night.
Leavenworth poured tea into beer steins for both of them. The tea was leftover from this morning, too weak and stone cold, but at least they knew the water had been boiled. “Elinor. That’s your sister, right?”
“Hm.” The anger was back. Peter kicked off his trousers, unstrapped the holster on his leg, and put the stiletto in its case.
“How old?”
“Yea high?” Peter held up his hand before he realized that Elinor was no longer a gap-toothed child measured by her height. “She’s three days younger than Marianne Thompson.”
“You forget, I don’t know the Thompsons.” Leavenworth sat at the table, flattening the note in front of him. “But you mention them often enough. Grown, but not quite grown up. So, what are we going to do?”
“You are going to write your speech and go to Bennington’s party tomorrow.” Peter pulled his shirt over his head and put on a fresh one as quickly as possible; he didn’t like even other soldiers to see how bad his body looked.
Leavenworth growled. “You’re the strategist, you make the plans. I’m the colonel, and I carry them out. But I don’t go to merepartieswhen there’s a battle afoot.”
Put that way, Peter was ashamed of himself, so he tried to explain. “I don’t have any particular enemies right now, that’s what’s odd about it. I’ve gone on a couple take-downs with another crew from the Home Office, but even if one of those coves knew where I lived, he wouldn’t know how to write that well.”
“He could bring it to a scribe.”
“Then it would be written better.” Peter had gone round and round in these circles.
“True. What job are you on?”
“I’m Peter Hughes this winter, but he’s too much of a fool to make anyone hate him. Just started work on the Henry Pipperly accusations.”
Leavenworth grunted. Held the paper to the light.
Peter yanked on Turkish trousers and wool stockings, although now he was too het up for sleep. “Furthermore, I keep my real family far removed from my fake names. On purpose!”
“I know.” Leavenworth met his eyes, his gaze warm and empathetic. “You’ve been so careful.”
“Damn straight!” Peter slammed his fist into his pillow. So careful.
And now he’d gotten a note threatening Elinor. If he couldn’t keep Elinor safe and she was all the way in Northumberland, he sure as hell couldn’t keep Celia safe. It’s why he’d warned her off tonight, and endured the tension in her body and the disappointment in her eyes.
