Page 72 of Holding Onto Love

Some, but not all. Even Hazard disagreed with Walpole’s vehement anti-papism. Of all the Tory’s steadfast dictums, Jasper was now finding that refusing to grant basic rights to Catholics stuck most in his craw. Reg would certainly agree with Hazard that religious discrimination against Catholic Englishmen, even against Irishmen, was blatantly wrong. And Jasper trusted no man’s opinions more than those of his brilliant brother.

Good God. Imagine if his maiden speech before Parliament was a cry for Catholic Emancipation. The stir that would cause. Father would roll over in his grave.

Could he do it? Break from the Earl of Iversley mold? If the cruel world they inhabited was one of their own making, should he not work to change it?

He closed the book in his lap, thinking, and grew aware of a pulsing in the room. Like the air was gathering momentum for a storm. In fact, the house, the dull tomb of a house, had developed a chatter. A noise. Which was absurd. His mental energy was insufficient to create a thunderclap. Yet he was not imagining it. There was noise.

Before he had a chance to rise and investigate, the library door clicked open, and Crispin strolled in. As if returning from an evening promenade in the park.

“Hallo, Jasp. The library? Really?”

The deuce.

Jasper vaulted from his chair and crashed across the room to wring his brother in an embrace. For a moment longer than Jasper expected, Crispin held on.

Then Crispin stepped back. “Do we hug now?”

“Don’t blame me. Reg started it.”

Crispin’s eyes widened. “Good God!”

While Jasper laughed, Crispin paced a few steps and then sat in Jasper’s chair. He picked up the book Jasper had dropped, scanned the title, dropped it, and rose.

“I’m in the wrong house. That explains.”

“Sit down. Tell me everything. When did you get back?”

“Ship got in yesterday.” He plopped back down.

“And you had better things to do last night than be hugged by me?”

“Yes.” He crossed his legs at the ankles and lounged. “Long boat ride. Men have needs.”

Jasper snorted. Very likely Crispin had reveled the night away in Southwark. Equally likely, he’d been in meetings at the War Office from debarkation until dawn. He was still in uniform, red cutaway jacket with gold buttons, white pantaloons, and waistcoat—the crisp cleanliness suggested duty rather than pleasure, but with Crispin, it could go either way.

Wellington’s success at Vitoria was evidently as impressive as the dispatches for public consumption made them out to be, though perhaps it could have been more complete. But there was more to it. There was always more. The army was pushing on into France. And Crispin would be as tight lipped as ever. Still, he might have something burdensome to talk around.

“So, Lieutenant Taverston, Vitoria? I will grant you five minutes to boast of your deeds.”

“That is Captain Taverston to you.”

“Captain?”

Crispin shrugged. “I may have been mentioned in the dispatches.”

“Crispin!” He took a proud step closer. “That is wonderful! Congratulations!”

Crispin cringed. “You aren’t going to hug me again?”

“No. But tell me! What you can of it. I want to know. More than what came in that letter of yours. I could have sworn you’d been drinking by the—”

“I had. Paid for it dearly. But just in the common way. So there is that.”

It was unlike Crispin to refer to the uncommon way of it. For a moment, Jasper was nonplussed.

“I don’t want to talk of war, Jasp. My throat is raw from it. I feel I’ve been grilled over a firepit.”

“Bathurst? Liverpool? I hope not Canning.”