Page 18 of Counting on Love

He nodded. “It’ll be easier to shave you after.”

“Easier on me or on you?”

The man grinned. “Both, I suspect.”

In private, he didn’t stand on much ceremony with Barclay. It was too much effort. He was pleased to see that his bags had all been unpacked and his things placed where he liked to keep them. He stripped to his britches, slipped on his ratty banyan, then asked: “Did you get any sleep?”

“Enough.”

“Enough to hold a razor to my throat?”

Barclay laughed. “We’ll see.”

That sounded too like the doctor’s prognostication.

Reginald went and sat at his desk. He wrote two quick letters, one to Jasper, one to Crispin. Both said much the same thing, although Crispin’s had an extra sentence or two of explanation. Essentially he said it did not look good for Father. They had best come home quickly. To Crispin, he added: if you can. General Wellesley might not grant him leave again so soon.

He folded the letters, sealed them, and handed them to Barclay.

“If Lord Taverston is not here by noon, post this. And send this one off to Lieutenant Taverston at once.”