Page 68 of Counting on Love

“No reason.”

“May I ask you then, to get the hell out?”

Crispin grinned at him. Then asked, “What’s missing?”

“What?’

“From the receipts? What’s missing?”

“I don’t know. If I did, it wouldn’t be missing.” He downplayed it more. “I warned Jasper I was likely to stumble onto his gambling debts.”

Crispin laughed. Then said, “But that would have come out of his allowance. Bradwell wouldn’t have bothered itemizing the trifling bits that we spent. Can you imagine?”

“Hmm.” The devil. The allowances. By now, Georgiana would have discovered how much he was worth. How much smaller could he possibly be made to feel? His allowance was not insubstantial, but to a duke’s daughter, it would appear paltry.

“Well,” Crispin said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad for you. Item one: books. Item two: coffee. Item three: books.”

Reginald pushed back. “You forget. Item four: opera singer.”

“Yes, but Bradwell would have said, ‘Good show, lad. About time.’”

“Ha, ha. As you leave, can you find a footman to send Barclay up?”

Crispin put the bag of nuts back into his pocket. “I suppose I need to be direct. Though it goes against the grain. Are you all right, Reg?”

“All right? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“For one thing, look at you. For another, you slept away the entire day.”

“Was it charades or whist?”

Crispin blinked. Then he said, “All right. I’ll give you a pass on the hiding and pretending to sleep. But the third thing is Mr. Tibury.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He had forgotten about Mr. Tibury. “That bothers me about as much as Plodgett does.”

“It bothered me. And it bothered Jasper. And not only because Father didn’t consult him. It was unfair of Father not to have mentioned something to you.”

“If anything, I give Father credit for knowing that I wouldn’t care. And stop looking at me like I am a dissection specimen. I’m telling the truth.”

Crispin stopped inspecting him and turned to studying his own hands. “If we’re being truthful, I give him credit too. I was a little concerned that he may not be in his right senses. That happens with apoplexy, you know. I worried that he’d been bamboozled. But he was sound asleep when I went to sit with him last night, so I went through his correspondence.”

“How contemptible of you.”

“I found Tibury’s references, and they are not only legitimate but strong. Very strong. I suppose you could say that it gave me some satisfaction to be proud of the old dog. I suspect, sick as he is, he considered the matter very carefully and concluded Tibury was the best man.”

“Thank you?”

“Well, face it, Reg. You’ve never expressed any actual interest in the church. Maybe theology as a concept, but not service to the church. I’m not saying you would not be a fine clergyman if you put your mind to it. You could do anything you set your mind to.” He smiled. “Except soldiering, of course.”

Reginald felt moved by his brother’s concern. “I don’t want to be a clergyman. That’s the truth of it. But I’ve never had the courage to tell the Earl I don’t.”

“An awkward and largely unnecessary conversation. But he’s still of sound mind. You could still talk to him.”

Reginald shrugged. Crispin had always been tighter with Father than he was, except for that one horrific row, which had blown over quickly enough. Crispin didn’t avoid awkward conversations—he barreled right in.

“Maybe. Though it will sound pettish to tell him I don’t care what he gave to Tibury because I didn’t want it anyway.” He picked up his wrinkled jacket from the floor and winced. “Barclay will also believe I was out on a drunk.” He threw it onto a chair and turned back to his brother. “Crispin, I am going to piss now. So unless—”

“I’m an officer in the King’s Army. Pissing men don’t faze me. Unless you plan to aim for my boots.”

“I won’t miss.”

Crispin hopped up. “Don’t be late for tea. Jasper is convinced you’re sulking and if he scolds you publicly, I’ll have to find another apple.”