Madame’s capable hands. Just stay away from the coarse linens, do.”
But his eyes, Madame Feille noted with interest, still burned.
Chapter 7
T he man was waiting in the suite when Thomas returned to the Old Ship Hotel. He sat on a chair pulled up toward the window, his hands folded in his lap, his expression one of infinite patience. Though far from old, he was a seasoned man, a contemporary of Thomas’s.
He had a military bearing, his slender physique held rigidly attentive, his dark blond head angled proudly. But his trappings were that of a gentleman: the ebony cane, the conservatively tied cravat, the dark coat and top hat.
“Damn,” said Thomas, “I must speak to the management about allowing uninvited chits to wander into one’s private rooms.”
The man rose, shrugging with Gallic indifference. “But, Thomas, management knows nothing about it.” His voice was low and rasping, as though his throat had been injured at one time, his pronunciation careful.
“Of course not,” Thomas acknowledged. “I suppose it was too much to hope that I had seen the last of you.”
“Entirely too much,” Colonel Henry “Jack” Seward agreed politely. “Comes of making yourself too useful. Sir Knowlton would never happily let go his premier—what shall we say?—consultant?”
“Say spy. It’s what you mean.”
Seward continued as though he hadn’t heard Thomas. “Not with the conferences in Vienna going on. Not with Napoleon plotting away on his little island.”
“And whose fault is that?” Thomas asked angrily. “I advised, repeatedly, against furnishing Napoleon with a fortune and a pet army.”
The blond gentleman raised a hand. “And there were some who listened. But not enough, Thomas. And those who did weighed the benefits of this fine, diplomatic gesture against potential public outrage. Censure the populace, Thomas, if you must. The ton itself has made a darling of the little emperor. And who is to say the decision was not justified? Nothing has come of it yet. There are only rumors, after all. And London, Thomas! Have you been to London? The entire city is celebrating.”
“I did my celebrating after Salamanca.”
Colonel Seward’s cold eyes met Thomas’s steady gaze. “Yes. That’s right. You purchased a commission shortly after that unfortunate affair with the Leons woman. Her son died, didn’t he?”
An awful silence met his soft query.
“I’d heard you were with Wellington in Spain,” Seward continued. “Your friend, Lord Strand, was there, too. Tell me, did fighting help assuage the guilt you felt over the boy’s death? You blamed yourself entirely too much, you know. It was as much her responsibility as yours. He was, after all,
her
son.”
He was a little boy who’d died because his mother had had information Thomas had wanted. “You overstep yourself, Seward. What do you want? I can hardly believe you have come to deliver an invitation by hand to one of Prinny’s debauches.” He gestured toward the folded paper Seward was holding.
“In fact, it is an invitation. To the Friday evening affair at the Pavilion. Many dignitaries will be there, many of your old friends, including Prinny himself. He misses you now that Brummell has alienated himself.”
“In Paris I always reported to Sir Knowlton. I was never a confidant of the Prince Regent’s, nor a member of Brummell’s circle.”
“Ah, but you had just as distinct a reputation when you were first recruited.” A hint of bitterness surfaced beneath the even timbre of Seward’s soft voice. “I was there, if you recall, and you thought it all very intriguing and not a little amusing to be enlisted as a spy by Sir Knowlton himself. At what point exactly did you lose your sense of humor, Thomas?”
The flesh around Thomas’s mouth grew white.
Seward smiled, a slight stretching of his lips. “But they all do, all the fine young blades. You weren’t the only one, only the best. And success always has a
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