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“Well, as much as one might wish to be known as heroic, I’m afraid my name is already known to Lady Bellingham and the sister, so that plan will not fadge.”
“A pity. I have no wish to deceive, and less wish to socialize. Once I’m recovered, I have no intention to stay beyond fixing things to a certainty with my niece.”
“Your niece, you say?” Musgrave eyed him with a gleam of interest in his eyes.
“My niece.” Anything—anyone—more was quite out of the question. “Then we shall return to London and pretend this sorry episode never happened. I’d be home yesterday if I hadn’t hurt my leg.”
“Yes, about that.” Musgrave stretched out his hands. “You never really told me how you managed to escape from that situation.”
Daniel told him.
Musgrave whistled. “Miss Stapleton rescued you? She’s quite the heroine for our hero, isn’t she?”
“Musgrave,” he growled.
“No, don’t snap off my nose. If you wish for me to maintain your subterfuge, then do not deny me what pleasure I can extract from the part.”
“Thank you.” He eased up in the bed, wincing. “Truly it should not be above a week or two, until I can settle things to a certainty with Mannering.”
“But what about your Miss Stapleton?”
His heart thumped. He ignored it. “She is not my Miss Stapleton. She is simply a friend who has proved to be most sympathetic in her understanding.”
“I bet she has.”
Daniel chose to ignore the glint in Musgrave’s eyes.
“Given your experiences in London, I can understand your desire to lay low. It is considered rather bad form to puff off one’s consequence, after all.” Musgrave screened a yawn with a hand. “Such a thing is hardly considered a sign of humility.”
“Quite so.”
“Although, forgive me for mentioning it, but such a plan seems to hold the appearance you are afraid of a certain sharp-tongued squire’s wife.”
“You sound like Miss Stapleton now.”
“Oho! What does our fair hostess have to say about the matter?”
“She is of a mind with you.”
Musgrave nodded, his grin stretching wide. “I need to have further conversation with that lady.”
Daniel’s guts twisted disconcertingly. Did his friend have an interest in that quarter?
“I must say, your little niece is a taking thing.”
The abrupt change of subject caused a mental blink. “Becky? She has her mother’s fairness and features.”
“Yes, she will be a beauty, I believe. I could not see much resemblance between you and she,” he teased.
“Lucky for her.”
“Indeed.” Musgrave crossed one booted leg over the other and clasped his hands behind his head. “Now, tell me more about your Miss Stapleton. I want to know about the way of things here.”
They settled into a comfortable coze and exchanged stories about the past months. Musgrave offered further opinions of his initial impressions of the general—“most pugnacious, rather like a terrifying old bull terrier we have down at the house in Thorpe Acre”; and Mrs. Stapleton—“a kindly soul”; and Mrs. Riley—“reminds me of a Persian cat.”
Daniel shared about his letters from colleagues and the War Office, the latter meeting with Musgrave’s shock.
“I have replied,” Daniel assured, “demanding an interview, and now await their response.”
