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Authors: Susan Carroll
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his
brother with wearied patience. "Where do you come by this notion
that I carry every female that I meet off to my bed?"
"Because you do. At least, all the
pretty ones."
Sinclair grimaced. Charles would be
astonished to learn that over half of the conquests attributed to
Sinclair were the result of barracks-room gossip and Sinclair's own
boastful attitude as a youth. Sinclair admitted to a certain amount
of flirtation with the ladies, because he had discovered that
flirting always kept affairs from drawing too near the heart.
Becoming too serious about any relationship was one more set of
shackles Sinclair had managed to avoid.
Choosing not to reply to his brother's
comment, Sinclair fetched Charles's still damp coat from the
peg.
Charles stood up slowly. "This has
turned out to be a rather short visit," he said in forlorn
accents.
"Bad timing, old fellow. In a few
months, when this work is done, I'll look you up and we'll spend a
night carousing and scouring the streets for wicked
women."
Sinclair's words coaxed a faint smile
from Charles, but as he helped Charles into his coat, the young man
sighed. "I suppose you won't be slipping to Norfolk to see Mother
anytime soon, either."
"Regrettably, no. You must give her and
the girls my love.” The girls? Sinclair rolled his eyes at his own
choice of words. His sisters were older than himself, spinsters
both of them because none of their suitors had ever measured up to
the general's exacting standards. Eleanor and Louise had been
pretty enough in their youth, soft and blond like Sinclair's
mother, like Charles. It was rather ironic, Sinclair thought, that
it was himself, the wayward son, who was the only Carr to bear a
strong physical resemblance to the general.
Even after Charles pulled his cloak
around him, he attempted to linger. Sinclair took his brother by
the arm and guided him inexorably toward the door.
"Mother will be terribly disappointed
to hear you can't come home for so long," Charles said.
"Can't be helped." Sinclair felt
ashamed of himself for sounding so cheerful. Although he did
occasionally slip home to see his mother when he knew the general
would be gone, the visits were more penance than pleasure. His
mother invariably began crying over his disreputable life, then his
sisters would join in. Weeping females always made Sinclair
uncomfortable. They generally could never find their own
handkerchiefs and ended by snuffling against the shoulder of one's
favorite frock coat.
As Sinclair maneuvered his brother to
the door, for one moment he had the horrible fear that even Charles
meant to burst into tears. But although Charles looked pale, he
managed to smile as he held out his hand.
"I suppose this is good-bye then,"
Charles said. "Dammit, Sinclair. I hate seeing you go off on these
things. It would be far easier to watch you charge a row of blazing
cannons than this affair where you won't even know who your enemy
is. I have a very bad feeling about this assignment of
yours."
Charles caught Sinclair's fingers in a
hard clasp. The gesture triggered a memory in Sinclair, his father
barking at Chuff not to be a puling babe, that Charles didn't need
a candle to find his way to the nursery. The general's orders
bedamned—Sinclair had always let his brother clasp his hand,
guiding Chuff up the dark stairs to his little bed.
Although much moved by Charles's
concern, Sinclair tried to shrug it off. "Are you turning
fortuneteller, Chuff?"
"It is nothing to make jests about. I
keep having these horrible visions of you lying somewhere dead with
a knife stuck in your back."
Sinclair had had the same premonition
himself more than once—that he would end his life in just such a
fashion, dying alone in some dismal set of lodgings like these. But
he gave Charles's hand a reassuring squeeze before pulling
away.
“I will watch my back," Sinclair
promised. "And you take care of yourself, young scapegrace. After
all, you're the only one of my relatives I can
brother with wearied patience. "Where do you come by this notion
that I carry every female that I meet off to my bed?"
"Because you do. At least, all the
pretty ones."
Sinclair grimaced. Charles would be
astonished to learn that over half of the conquests attributed to
Sinclair were the result of barracks-room gossip and Sinclair's own
boastful attitude as a youth. Sinclair admitted to a certain amount
of flirtation with the ladies, because he had discovered that
flirting always kept affairs from drawing too near the heart.
Becoming too serious about any relationship was one more set of
shackles Sinclair had managed to avoid.
Choosing not to reply to his brother's
comment, Sinclair fetched Charles's still damp coat from the
peg.
Charles stood up slowly. "This has
turned out to be a rather short visit," he said in forlorn
accents.
"Bad timing, old fellow. In a few
months, when this work is done, I'll look you up and we'll spend a
night carousing and scouring the streets for wicked
women."
Sinclair's words coaxed a faint smile
from Charles, but as he helped Charles into his coat, the young man
sighed. "I suppose you won't be slipping to Norfolk to see Mother
anytime soon, either."
"Regrettably, no. You must give her and
the girls my love.” The girls? Sinclair rolled his eyes at his own
choice of words. His sisters were older than himself, spinsters
both of them because none of their suitors had ever measured up to
the general's exacting standards. Eleanor and Louise had been
pretty enough in their youth, soft and blond like Sinclair's
mother, like Charles. It was rather ironic, Sinclair thought, that
it was himself, the wayward son, who was the only Carr to bear a
strong physical resemblance to the general.
Even after Charles pulled his cloak
around him, he attempted to linger. Sinclair took his brother by
the arm and guided him inexorably toward the door.
"Mother will be terribly disappointed
to hear you can't come home for so long," Charles said.
"Can't be helped." Sinclair felt
ashamed of himself for sounding so cheerful. Although he did
occasionally slip home to see his mother when he knew the general
would be gone, the visits were more penance than pleasure. His
mother invariably began crying over his disreputable life, then his
sisters would join in. Weeping females always made Sinclair
uncomfortable. They generally could never find their own
handkerchiefs and ended by snuffling against the shoulder of one's
favorite frock coat.
As Sinclair maneuvered his brother to
the door, for one moment he had the horrible fear that even Charles
meant to burst into tears. But although Charles looked pale, he
managed to smile as he held out his hand.
"I suppose this is good-bye then,"
Charles said. "Dammit, Sinclair. I hate seeing you go off on these
things. It would be far easier to watch you charge a row of blazing
cannons than this affair where you won't even know who your enemy
is. I have a very bad feeling about this assignment of
yours."
Charles caught Sinclair's fingers in a
hard clasp. The gesture triggered a memory in Sinclair, his father
barking at Chuff not to be a puling babe, that Charles didn't need
a candle to find his way to the nursery. The general's orders
bedamned—Sinclair had always let his brother clasp his hand,
guiding Chuff up the dark stairs to his little bed.
Although much moved by Charles's
concern, Sinclair tried to shrug it off. "Are you turning
fortuneteller, Chuff?"
"It is nothing to make jests about. I
keep having these horrible visions of you lying somewhere dead with
a knife stuck in your back."
Sinclair had had the same premonition
himself more than once—that he would end his life in just such a
fashion, dying alone in some dismal set of lodgings like these. But
he gave Charles's hand a reassuring squeeze before pulling
away.
“I will watch my back," Sinclair
promised. "And you take care of yourself, young scapegrace. After
all, you're the only one of my relatives I can
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