He didn’t tell Francis. He couldn’t ask anything more, not even to drive a few blocks out of his way. Francis had told him to marry Celia, and he had not listened, and beautiful precious joyful Celia was scared and hurt hurthurtand it was all his fault.
The carriage stopped. Francis withdrew into his own corner; the footman opened the door.
At a glance, Peter saw that there was a light in his own window. Down the street, a groom was walking a horse and gig. The shadows were growing blue in the aching light of pre-dawn.
Peter sat taller, mind taking off, hands tense and poised. Someone was waiting for him in his rooms.
“Thank you for the ride,” he said, his tone carefully casual.
“Any time,” Francis drawled.
Peter jumped down. He paused, just a moment, hand on the carriage door. Whoever he faced inside, he’d be in better shape with a friend at his back.
He was sure Francis was an ally, sure he was armed, sure he would come if he asked. But Peter didn’t know if Francis was his friend.
Instead, Peter saluted and walked away from the carriage. Face whatever lay in wait on his own, like always.
*
He paused inthe stairwell, heard Francis’s carriage jingle away. Peter slipped the knife from under his cuff, checked the iron bar in his coat pocket. It wouldn’t be enough if Jackdaw had brought a half-dozen men, but he’d go down fighting—
Confound it. He had to call on Celia in the morning. Her terror, shame, if he didn’t show up. She’d blame herself for what happened tonight and think he didn’t want her.
He should have asked Francis to come with him; alone wasn’t good enough when someone else needed him.
He crept up the last few steps. All was quiet. If Jackdaw had half a dozen men in there, they would certainly be making more noise. He adjusted his grip on the knife. Jackdaw had weight and reach, so he’d have to move first and fast. He nudged his front door ajar—saw the fireplace lit in the sitting room, all the candelabras he owned alight.
No sound.
Peter slipped in sideways, keeping his back to the wall.
“Precisely what do you think you are up to, Alcott?” A slender man rose to his feet, back to the hearth. “You’re fired.”
Oxford accent, military bearing, top-cut coat, his father’s age. No one that Jackdaw could afford to hire.
“Who the hell even are you?” As he said it, Peter recalled the name. Lord George Whitely. Didn’t explain why the man was in his moldy sitting room, giving him notice at five in the morning.
“They said you were sharp but cocky. You were too smart for your own good tonight.”
They both waited, facing each other from across the room.
Lord George gave in first. “I manage your department. Your boss reports to me… or rather, to my assistant. But I know who works under me, and I was at the Latham’s ball tonight. You’re supposed to be Hughes, you’re supposed to be following Pipperly, you’re supposed to be laying low and about to switch aliases, and what thedevildo you think you’re doing with a girl in a garden?”
“I asked her to marry me.” At that exact moment, Peter realized that he had forgotten to actually ask.
Whitely gave an aristocratic snort. “If I were your father, I would be proud. But I am your superior, and apparently you need reminding that men in our division are not making a fuss with any sort of girl. Whether or not we marry them in the end, we lay low, we stay respectable, and we donotend up in the gossip columns. Clear enough?”
Peter snorted back. “She’s not just any girl.”
Whitely sighed. “So I heard. I’ve learned plenty about you in the last three hours. Now come and sit, young fool. Whatever you’ve got in your back hand, you can put it down. I’m not going to hurt you any worse than I already have.”
“And she needed help.”
That guess didn’t prove Whitely was clever; men like them always had something in their back hand. Peter tossed the knife on a side table as he settled on the chair across from Whitely; already knew Whitely would beat him if they came to blows.Peter was tired, and in Whitely’s generation the officers were all good with the sword. Naturally, the man wore a dress sword, and Peter knew it was not for decoration.
Whitely launched into a lecture about respectability, upholding the reputation of the department, and proper courtship of young ladies. All young ladies, but most especially ones who were direct relations of the upstart factions in Parliament. A quarter of an hour later, Peter had learned that gossip did not know that Hargreaves had been at the ball and that Whitely was a monarchist.
The rest of the lecture was kind of sweet. It made Peter wish that he had a father who gave him advice about treating young ladies with respect.
