“We all knew that already.”
“Yes, but all that talk of money is rather vulgar. I would think your father might take him in hand.”
Ewan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tightness there building.
“At any rate, I hadn’t realized the Duke of Ridlington had that much blunt. No wonder he wanted a bodyguard for her.” Rafe’s brandy was all but gone. “I suppose he will marry her off, and then you will be back at Langley’s, knocking together heads.”
“I like knocking together heads.”
“And that’s precisely why I wanted you in my troop,” said a voice from the door of the reading room. Ewan glanced up and Rafe, whose back was to the door, turned. Both men jumped to their feet as Lieutenant Colonel Draven entered.
“Be at ease,” he said, waving them back down. “I’m no longer your commanding officer, thank God.”
“Join us for a drink, sir,” Rafe said, pulling out the third chair at the table in invitation. Manners, Rafe mouthed to Ewan.
“I will.” He eyed Ewan. “That is if Mr. Mostyn doesn’t mind sharing.”
Ewan realized he had pulled the brandy bottle close to his chest, and now he set it back on the table. “It’s all yours, sir.”
Draven took a seat and glanced about the room. He was not a particularly tall man, but he had a barrel chest and wild red hair and a commanding voice that Ewan had heard sent more than one prime minister scurrying. Draven was in his late forties, but he was still as fit as any of the men who had served under him. He might have been tasked with giving the orders, but he’d shown on more than one occasion that he was willing to do anything he ordered his men to do.
He poured three fingers of brandy, then leaned on the table, giving Ewan a measured look. “I’ve been thinking about you, Mostyn.”
Ewan sat up straighter, although his back was already ramrod straight. Even if he hadn’t had the utmost respect for Draven, no one slouched in the man’s presence.
“I heard you have been keeping the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington safe from those with designs on her dowry.” The careful way he spoke left no doubt that the lieutenant colonel, like Beaumont, had heard the rumors Francis Mostyn was spreading.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are your plans when your employment with Ridlington is at an end?”
Ewan hadn’t even considered the question. “I have a position, sir.”
“Throwing men out of that gambling hell.”
“Langley’s,” Rafe supplied.
“Yes.” Draven’s sharp blue eyes seemed to assess Ewan. He remembered the first time he’d met the lieutenant colonel. The man had assessed him very much the same way, then asked him the question he asked every man before adding them to his team. Are you afraid to die?
Ewan had said no, of course. But it wasn’t until after he’d served Draven for a few weeks that he realized death would become as natural to him as life. And that sensation—the loss of life and the way it became almost commonplace—had scared him.
“You are the son of an earl, Mostyn. You are better than the muscle in a gambling hell.”
Ewan didn’t think so, but he would not contradict Draven. “Yes, sir.”
“Gentleman Jackson’s,” Draven said, his eyes narrowed as he continued to assess Ewan.
“Fine establishment,” Rafe said.
Draven cut him a look. “Beaumont, everyone knows you are a lover, not a fighter.”
“I can hold my own,” Rafe said without animosity.
Draven nodded and looked back at Ewan. “Have you ever been to Jackson’s?”
Ewan nodded.
“But not often, because you have nothing to prove. Nothing to learn either. But you have something to teach.”
Ewan shook his head, uncomprehending.
“Last week I went for my lesson with Jackson. I like to keep fit. Never know when another war will spring up. With these blockheads in the Lords running things, it may be any day. In any case, he told me he has a list a mile long of men who want lessons.”
“I’m not surprised,” Rafe said. “He’s one man, and everyone wants to train with him.”
“Because he’s the best,” Draven said.
“Exactly.”
But Draven was looking at Ewan again. “You’re the best at what you do, Mr. Mostyn. You are one of Draven’s Survivors, and the fact that you survived twenty-three suicide missions is no small matter. Men would flock to you to learn pugilism and self-defense as well.”
“Isn’t that more Rowden’s area of expertise?” Rafe asked of another member of the dozen who was known for his skill in pugilism.
“He likes fighting too much ever to teach, but you have nothing to prove,” Draven said to Ewan. “Not in the ring, at any rate.”
Ewan stared at the lieutenant colonel, uncertain what he was being offered. But a warm feeling had begun in his belly. He could picture himself in the boxing ring, and the image seemed…right.
“Think about it, Mostyn,” Draven said. “If you’re interested, I’ll help get you started. I have friends.”
Started… Ewan could only stare at the man. Did he mean to back Ewan in his own business? For a moment, elation surged through Ewan. He wanted to hold out his hand and accept immediately.
And then he remembered.
How was he to succeed in business if he agreed? He couldn’t read. The first charlatan who came along would cheat him.
“Thank you, but no,” Ewan said, looking away so Draven would not see the disappointment on his face.
Draven seemed unsurprised by his answer. “Think about it more,” he said. “I won’t take your answer now.”
“It won’t change, sir.”
Draven nodded, then rose. “If it does, you know where to find me.”
Seventeen
Ewan woke the next morning with a dull throb in his head. He and Beaumont had finished off the brandy and another bottle besides. Ewan didn’t usually drink so much, but Draven’s offer had niggled him. He’d never considered that he might own a business. Ewan hadn’t thought he had any skills. But if Draven and Beaumont, who’d talked his ear off in an effort to convince Ewan Draven’s advice was sound, thought knocking heads together a skill, then perhaps the idea had merit.
Later, that was. When his head didn’t pound.
He rolled over and the thudding continued. Ewan pulled his pillow over his head, then realized the pounding came from outside his tortured brain box.
“Go away,” he called, wincing at the lance of pain through the base of his skull.
“It’s important, sir. Open the door.”
“Later,” Ewan muttered. He was fit company for no one.
“Sir, it’s Arthur. I’m a footman with the Duke of Ridlington.”
Ewan sat, making his head spin. He clenched his hands and pushed down the rising nausea as he stumbled to the door to unlock and open it. He scowled at the tall footman with curly brown hair standing at attention in the doorway.
“Here.” Arthur handed Ewan a note.
Ewan glanced down at it. Even if he had been able to read, his eyes were not altogether focused enough to make out any letters.