“I didn’t think it possible, but you look even worse tonight than you did last night.” Rafe Beaumont slid into the chair opposite Neil. They were alone in the dining room of the Draven Club, although it was well beyond the time when meals were served. Neil had lost all track of time.
“In fact, you look even worse than you did the morning after that skirmish in—”
“Stubble it,” Neil said, pouring more gin.
Quick as a cat, Rafe swiped the bottle of gin and Neil’s glass, handing it to Porter, who was conveniently passing by.
“What the devil?” Neil roared, rising.
Rafe blocked Neil’s path as Porter made his escape. “If you want to hit someone, old boy, hit me. I’m to blame.”
Neil stared at Rafe, and Rafe stared right back, refusing to back down.
“I would ask that you confine your blows to the area below my face. Others have found a punch to my breadbasket quite satisfactory.”
“I ought to break your nose.”
“And face the ire of London’s female population? They’re far less forgiving than me.”
“I don’t give a damn about London’s female population,” Neil said, but he sank back into his chair.
“And with the way you look, they won’t give a damn about you.” Rafe also sat, slowly, keeping his gaze on Neil. “If it’s any consolation, Porter had considered sending for Draven. I asked him to let me have a try first.”
“A try at what?” Neil muttered.
“Civilizing you for one. Sobering you up for another. How much have you drunk these past few days?”
“Who are you? My mother?”
“Oh dear God. You can’t even think of a clever retort. This is worse than I thought.”
Neil almost smiled despite himself.
Rafe leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. “Tell Uncle Rafe all about her.”
“Who?”
“Whoever it is that drives you to drink—never a good solution to the annoyances wrought by females, by the way. You had us all running in circles for the chit in Spitalfields. Is it she?”
“Be careful who you call ‘chit.’”
“Ah.” Rafe steepled his hands. “It is Lady Juliana. What happened? You love her, but she doesn’t return the sentiment?”
“What the deuce do you know about love?” Neil grumbled. For all his attempts to drown himself in drink tonight, he was still sober.
“I know all the symptoms,” Rafe said. “Hangdog mouth—check. Starry eyes—check. Quick temper, most likely due to sexual frustration—check.”
“Fists slamming into the face of the bloody idiot across from me”—Neil swung halfheartedly and Rafe leaned back—“check.”
“Fine. You don’t want to talk about it, then sit here and wallow, but I will say something before I leave you to it.”
Neil raised a brow. Rafe had sounded more serious than Neil could remember him sounding in a long, long time. “So you think to lecture me?”
“Pathetic state of affairs, is it not? Here’s the thing, Neil. We all lost friends and brothers-in-arms during the war. We were all part of the Draven’s troop, and we each have our cross to bear. You don’t have a corner on grief.”
Neil leaned back and crossed his arms, anger rising in his chest. “So this isn’t to be a lecture on love?”
“I’m getting to that, but you need this lecture too. We let you wallow—”
“You let me?”
“—because you were taxed with giving the orders—”
“And I don’t wallow.”
“—but we all volunteered to serve under Draven. We knew the risks, so stop blaming yourself for our losses. Blame Draven for giving the orders. Blame Napoleon for starting the war. Blame the dashed government for authorizing a suicide troop. Or”—he raised a hand—“here is an even better suggestion: forgive yourself and live your life.”
“And exactly how am I supposed to forgive myself?”
“Why don’t you begin by honoring our brothers’ memories?”
Neil reached across the table and grabbed Rafe by his perfectly tied cravat. “I honor their memories every day.”
“Of course you do,” Rafe wheezed out. “Sitting here drinking all night is quite a tribute.”
Neil let him go, none too gently.
Rafe smoothed his coat and slid a finger under his cravat. “Ask yourself what your men would have wanted. If I’d died on one of our missions, I’d sure as hell want you to be back in London doing all the things I loved doing.”
“There’s only one thing you love doing.”
“You should try it before you criticize.”
“I won’t honor anyone by fathering bastards.”
“Then marry the ch—lady in Spitalfields. I’ve always known you were the marrying sort, and you’re obviously besotted with her. What are you waiting for?”
Neil shook his head. It was one thing to talk about letting go of the past and quite another for his mind to release the memories and give him peace. “And what kind of husband would a bastard be for the daughter of an earl?”
“A damn fine one,” Rafe argued. “If I were a chit, I’d marry you.”
Neil closed his eyes. “Words I never thought I’d hear. But it’s not so sim—”
“Mr. Wraxall, sir!” Porter hobbled into the room as quickly as his wooden leg would allow him. For a moment Neil was shaken. The man always walked so smoothly, but then Neil had never seen him in this much of a frenzy.
Neil and Rafe both stood, legs braced for battle. “What is it?” Neil demanded.
“There’s a boy, sir. He’s outside the club. He said he must speak with you. It’s a matter of life and death. He looks a bit rough, and I started to turn him away, but he said something about Lady Juliana, and I thought—” His gaze slid to Rafe.
Neil didn’t wait for any further explanation. He took the steps of the main staircase two at a time and yanked the front door open.
Billy stood in the yellow lamplight.
“What happened?” Neil asked.
“It’s Slag, Major. He’s back.”
Twenty-two
Julia stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed at the line of boys in the older boys’ dormitory. “Tell me where he is or, so help me God, not a single one of you will have a bit of the black pudding.”
The seven boys looked to her and then at each other. A few looked at the floor, shuffling their feet. Billy was conspicuously absent, and Julia was furious. He’d promised to stay out of trouble. Hadn’t she made it clear he would have to leave if he did not follow the rules? Her belly felt sick inside, knowing he had snuck out of the orphanage and she would have to evict him for good.
But first she wanted to be certain he was safe.
“I don’t want any of that black pudding anyway,” Walter mumbled.
“What’s that?” Julia asked. “What is wrong with the black pudding?”
Walter’s expression turned mulish, and Julia advanced on him.
“Does Billy’s absence have something to do with that pudding arriving? What? Tell me.”
Walter pressed his lips together. Robbie, who stood on his left, elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Tell her, Walter. Tell her what you told us.”
Julia looked from Robbie to the other boys. She saw she’d mistaken their expressions for guilt. What she saw now that she looked closer was fear.
“It’s a sign,” Walter said, his voice low.
“What sort of sign?” Julia asked.
“From Slag. I seen him send it before. To his enemies.”
Julia pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head pounded relentlessly. “Slag is dead. It can’t be from him.”
“He ain’t dead,” Walter argued. “Not if he sent the black pudding. He’s still alive, and he wants revenge.”
“And you think he’s taken Billy?”
Walter shook his head. “Billy went to see if he could save you—save us.” He made a sour face. “He’s probably dead by now. Killed by Slag. And we’ll be joining him soon.”
His voice hitched at the end, reminding Julia that despite his awful words, he was still a boy.
“I have to go after him. And I won’t let Slag do anything to any of you.”
Suddenly she heard the thunder of running feet and pounding on the walls. “Fire!” Mrs. Koch yelled. “Help! Fire!”
“It’s already too late,” Walter said.
*