wouldn’t dream of wasting your time, my lord.”
That declaration made him wary indeed. Damien realized he was unconsciously rubbing his aching thigh and stilled his hand at once. His smile was wry. “What do you need, Charles?”
“It’s a small matter, really.”
No, he was sure it wasn’t. Nothing that concerned Sir Charles Peyton was ever a small matter. “I see.” Damien settled back, crossing his booted feet in seeming nonchalance. “Go on.”
“A mere formality really.”
“Ah, well then, I am sure you have any number of lackeys that can handle it for you.”
Middle-aged, mild-mannered but sharp as a honed rapier, Charles chuckled, his pale blue eyes suddenly direct. “If so, I would not have sent for you.”
“I believe I was relieved of duty when I was wounded and half-dead on the field as the war ended.”
“Men like us never retire.” Charles sighed and set aside his pen, looking out the window for a moment, his expression contemplative. Then he said, “I think we have a problem. I told Liverpool I would talk to you. His response to consulting you was very flattering, I assure you.”
Whenever the prime minister’s name came into play, it really was a problem. Damien deliberately looked blander than ever. “Was it?”
Charles was not easy to fool. “You’re interested. Good.”
“I’m not—”
“You
are
.” Peyton leaned forward, picked up a pair of spectacles and put them on, his hand carelessly scooping up a piece of vellum from the cluttered table. “I saw it inyour eyes. I assume you will be available if I need you, then.”
“You aren’t going to tell me exactly what you want me to do now?”
“Did Wellington?”
Ah, so what he remembered of Charles Peyton held true. Wily, evasive, and one of the best manipulators in the business. “Eventually,” he commented, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. “Usually at the least opportune time,” he added dryly.
“Is there ever an opportune time?”
“It depends on the task. We are no longer at war.”
“Aren’t we? And here I thought you were English. Surely you took history at Cambridge. We are always at war.” Charles shook his head. “Don’t be so ingenuous.”
Damien was fairly sure he hadn’t been called that since he was in knee britches. “Care to explain?”
“I don’t often—you know that.” Sir Charles stood then and inclined his head. “I’ll be in touch.”
Damien had to admit he was mystified when he rose and left the room. Even when he walked up the steps to his club nearly an hour later he was not quite sure what the purpose of the summons had been. The interior was familiar, the lighting subdued, the scent of brandy and tobacco in the air, and the sound of voices punctuated by the occasional laugh. The furniture was dark and heavy, the carpet thick, and there seemed to be a fair number of members having either an early dinner or a drink or two. He absently handed his cloak to the attendant and it was a pleasant distraction to be informed his oldest brother was present.
Not that Colton would approve of his recent visit toSir Charles, but because Damien occasionally needed a solid dose of stalwart common sense.
If the current Duke of Rolthven was anything, he was pragmatic and dutiful.
“Have a whiskey,” his brother said as Damien approached, pushing a half-full glass across the table. “I’ll get another.”
Damien almost argued, but his leg
did
hurt and he sank down gratefully and picked up the tumbler. Very rarely was his older brother intuitive, so he must have been showing the strain. “Thank you.”
“Not at all.” Colton glanced at the waiter and the man hastened to bring another glass and the decanter. “You look a little pale. Is something amiss?”
Well, there were treacherous secret staircases and lovely maidens and cryptic spymasters such as Charles Peyton… but otherwise life was utterly calm. Damien smiled—he couldn’t help it. Perhaps he was just
That declaration made him wary indeed. Damien realized he was unconsciously rubbing his aching thigh and stilled his hand at once. His smile was wry. “What do you need, Charles?”
“It’s a small matter, really.”
No, he was sure it wasn’t. Nothing that concerned Sir Charles Peyton was ever a small matter. “I see.” Damien settled back, crossing his booted feet in seeming nonchalance. “Go on.”
“A mere formality really.”
“Ah, well then, I am sure you have any number of lackeys that can handle it for you.”
Middle-aged, mild-mannered but sharp as a honed rapier, Charles chuckled, his pale blue eyes suddenly direct. “If so, I would not have sent for you.”
“I believe I was relieved of duty when I was wounded and half-dead on the field as the war ended.”
“Men like us never retire.” Charles sighed and set aside his pen, looking out the window for a moment, his expression contemplative. Then he said, “I think we have a problem. I told Liverpool I would talk to you. His response to consulting you was very flattering, I assure you.”
Whenever the prime minister’s name came into play, it really was a problem. Damien deliberately looked blander than ever. “Was it?”
Charles was not easy to fool. “You’re interested. Good.”
“I’m not—”
“You
are
.” Peyton leaned forward, picked up a pair of spectacles and put them on, his hand carelessly scooping up a piece of vellum from the cluttered table. “I saw it inyour eyes. I assume you will be available if I need you, then.”
“You aren’t going to tell me exactly what you want me to do now?”
“Did Wellington?”
Ah, so what he remembered of Charles Peyton held true. Wily, evasive, and one of the best manipulators in the business. “Eventually,” he commented, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. “Usually at the least opportune time,” he added dryly.
“Is there ever an opportune time?”
“It depends on the task. We are no longer at war.”
“Aren’t we? And here I thought you were English. Surely you took history at Cambridge. We are always at war.” Charles shook his head. “Don’t be so ingenuous.”
Damien was fairly sure he hadn’t been called that since he was in knee britches. “Care to explain?”
“I don’t often—you know that.” Sir Charles stood then and inclined his head. “I’ll be in touch.”
Damien had to admit he was mystified when he rose and left the room. Even when he walked up the steps to his club nearly an hour later he was not quite sure what the purpose of the summons had been. The interior was familiar, the lighting subdued, the scent of brandy and tobacco in the air, and the sound of voices punctuated by the occasional laugh. The furniture was dark and heavy, the carpet thick, and there seemed to be a fair number of members having either an early dinner or a drink or two. He absently handed his cloak to the attendant and it was a pleasant distraction to be informed his oldest brother was present.
Not that Colton would approve of his recent visit toSir Charles, but because Damien occasionally needed a solid dose of stalwart common sense.
If the current Duke of Rolthven was anything, he was pragmatic and dutiful.
“Have a whiskey,” his brother said as Damien approached, pushing a half-full glass across the table. “I’ll get another.”
Damien almost argued, but his leg
did
hurt and he sank down gratefully and picked up the tumbler. Very rarely was his older brother intuitive, so he must have been showing the strain. “Thank you.”
“Not at all.” Colton glanced at the waiter and the man hastened to bring another glass and the decanter. “You look a little pale. Is something amiss?”
Well, there were treacherous secret staircases and lovely maidens and cryptic spymasters such as Charles Peyton… but otherwise life was utterly calm. Damien smiled—he couldn’t help it. Perhaps he was just
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