He offered Thorne a tumbler of brandy with one hand and a firm handshake with the other. “It’s good to see you.”
Thorne accepted the brandy and made excuses for the handshake. His right arm was still numb from the elbow down, though he was slowly regaining sensation.
As he drank, he sized Bram up, noting the changes a few months’ time and new fatherhood had made on the man. One thing was clear—he ought to dismiss his valet. Only late afternoon, and Bram was dressed in a waistcoat and a rumpled, uncuffed shirt. To Thorne’s eyes, he looked exhausted—but he’d venture to deem it a contented exhaustion, quite different from the grim fatigue of campaign.
Lady Rycliff reappeared, her arms full of wailing infant. “I’m so sorry,” she called over the din. “She’s a very fretful baby, I’m afraid. She cries with everyone. Our first nursemaid’s already left us. No one under this roof is getting much sleep.”
“She sleeps for me,” Rycliff said. “Give her here.”
His wife did so, with obvious relief. “Two months old, and she’s already Papa’s darling. I fear we’re in for a time of it.” She looked to Thorne. “I do hope you weren’t planning on a quiet, restful stay in Town.”
“No, my lady,” Thorne said. “Just business.”
And when he wasn’t occupied with business, he imagined he’d be spending long hours engaged in self-castigation and regret. Distraction of any kind would be welcome—even if it came in the form of a wailing infant.
“Go on ahead,” Bram told his wife. “I have her. I know you’ve dinner to oversee.”
“Are you certain you don’t mind? I’ll just check on the corporal’s rooms upstairs.”
“She always sleeps for me,” Bram said. “You know that. Come along, Thorne. We can discuss our business in my library.”
Squalling daughter in one arm and brandy in the other, Bram backed out of the parlor. Thorne followed him across the corridor to a richly paneled library.
Bram kicked the door shut behind them, placed his brandy on the desk blotter, and readjusted baby Victoria’s weight in his arms. He paced the floor back and forth, jouncing the wailing baby as he went. His persistent limp from a war injury gave his steps an uneven rhythm.
When he caught Thorne’s inquisitive look, he said, “Sometimes the walking helps.”
Not every time, apparently.
When the babe’s crying still didn’t abate, Bram swore quietly and pushed his rolled sleeve to mid forearm. He fixed Thorne with an authoritative look. “I’m still your commanding officer. You are never to tell Susanna I did this. That’s an order.”
He dipped the tip of his little finger in the brandy, then popped it into the babe’s mouth. Little Victoria went quiet instantly, contentedly suckling.
“God help me,” Bram muttered down at her. “You’re going to be a handful when you’re sixteen.”
He released a heavy breath and looked to Thorne. “So. Are you certain you want this?”
“Want what?” Thorne asked, wary.
“An honorable discharge from the army. Not the infant. Loud as she might be, I’m not willing to part with her.”
“Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “To answer your question . . . Yes, my lord. I’m certain.”
“Enough with the ‘my lord,’ Thorne. I’m not asking you lord to servant, or even commander to soldier. I’m asking you friend to friend.” The baby released his finger, falling into a shallow sleep. He lowered his voice and resumed pacing the room, slowly this time. “I want to make sure this is really your desire. You could make a good career for yourself in the army. I’m well enough placed now, I could easily grant you a commission, if you wished.”
The words gave Thorne a moment’s pause. What Rycliff offered was no small favor. If he accepted a commission, he could be assured higher standing in Society and a steady income for the rest of his life. Enough to support a family.
“That’s very generous of you to—”
“It’s not generous at all. It’s piss-poor compensation. You saved my life and my leg, and you served under me faithfully for years.”
“It was my duty and an honor. But I don’t belong in England anymore, if I ever did. I need someplace bigger. Less civilized.”
“So you’re going to America. To be a farmer?”
Thorne shrugged. “Thought I’d start with trapping. I hear there’s good money in it.”
“No doubt. And I can’t deny it would suit your talents.” Bram bounced his daughter. “I’ll never forget that time in the Pyrenees, when you used nothing but a bayonet to skin and gut that . . . What was it, again?”
“A marmot.”
“Yes, marmot. A tough, greasy bastard. Can’t say I’ll be requesting marmot stew on the menu anytime soon, but it tasted fine when it was the first fresh meat in a fortnight.” Rycliff nodded at his ledgers. “Can’t I lend you some funds? Let me do that much. We can call it a loan.”