Daizell sounded a touch strained, as well he might. It wasn’t, indeed, an edifying story, but the Duke had known he was Daizell Charnage when he hired him. He could scarcely complain when the details were filled in.
And for all that, he’d seen Daizell act in the coach spill. The Duke of Severn was obliged to take an uncompromising line on what constituted acceptable behaviour, without making allowances; perhaps Mr Cassian might be more understanding.
‘Well, I think you’re extremely kind,’ he said.
Daizell hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’ He sounded rather wary. ‘I know it wasn’t a very admirable way to go on—’
‘I’d say she treated you exceedingly poorly if she intended you to suffer for her elopement and gain nothing by it. I’m astonished you were ready to help her now.’
‘Oh, well, I owe Vier a bad turn,’ Daizell said. ‘And it wasn’t so bad of Miss Beaumont really. I will admit to being extremely annoyed at the time, but she was only eighteen, and desperate for a way out, and I was a tool at hand. She did what she had to do. Don’t we all?’
Cassian sipped ale, thinking about people who did what they had to. He’d had to do a lot himself. Had to take up the mantle of his father aged six, had to carry the burden of rank and wealth and lands, had to live under scrutiny because of his position, and always be conscious that he was Severn. The weight he lived under was crushing. He’d wanted to flee his position so much that he had become bosom friends with a notorious rascal under a false name.
He had no idea at all what it wasnotto have money, or people, or prospects. He’d never been aimless or hopeless, or desperate.
He’d been lonely. He’d very often been lonely because he was a quiet man who didn’t make friends easily or in great numbers, and his position had got in the way of friendships he could have made. If he’d been merely Harmsford at school, not Severn, the other boys wouldn’t have been instructed how to behave to him, and might have been readier to include him. Then again, if he enjoyed parties, or if he was minded to matrimony, or if he let it be known he wanted a crowd of companions to gamble with, he could have made all the friends he liked. In his place, Daizell would probably be on intimate terms with everyone from the Houses of Parliament to the houses of correction, and having a marvellous time.
What might Cassian do in Daizell’s place, the penniless son of a disgraced man? He hoped he wouldn’t just drift around. He might become a horse trainer, he thought, or a stagecoach driver, even. Both of which would use the skills he’d acquired through owning a lot of horses, and having all the time he wanted to drive and ride. He wondered what skills George Charnage’s son had beyond cutting profiles.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘I maintain you areextraordinarily generous to help her a second time. Did they get away safely?’
‘I trust so. I handed Miss Beaumont over and waved goodbye, and that is the limit of my responsibility.’
‘Fair.’ Cassian contemplated his ale. ‘Were you afraid I’d be shocked by that tale?’
‘You don’t strike me as an unconventional gentleman,’ Daizell said. ‘You’re clearly concerned about appearances, and correct behaviour. So . . . yes?’
That was rather lowering and Cassian wasn’t even sure why. Hewasconventional, mostly, and hewasconcerned about correct behaviour, and so he ought to be. And Daizell hadn’t said it in a patronising way that might imply he was timid or boring, not at all. That was still how it felt.
‘Well, I dare say I am,’ he mumbled.
‘If ready to assist an elopement at the drop of a hat,’ Daizell added, a touch of amusement returning to his voice. ‘So maybe not entirely conventional. Prepared to infringe convention when you dislike someone enough?’
‘Or when I like someone enough,’ Cassian batted back, and then felt a pulse of panic as Daizell’s eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to say that, or admit it, and they were once again sharing a room tonight. ‘I mean, I liked Miss Beaumont. I thought she was very, uh . . .’
‘Yes, very,’ Daizell said, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. ‘So you can discard unwanted social strictures if you happen to like the person?’
‘I . . . have done that, now and again,’ Cassian said, astonished at his own daring.
The smile broadened temptingly. ‘That’s good to know.’
Chapter Seven
Cassian was delightful when he was flustered. Daizell felt an overwhelming urge to fluster him some more.
He needed to resist it. Cassian was clearly conventional, whatever he might claim, and you never knew when a conventional gentleman might decide he didn’t associate with erratic elopers of notorious family. That was a horrible prospect. Daizell needed the fifty pounds, but far more than that, he wanted the growing friendship and purpose he had with Cassian. He’d been more desperate than he realised for something to do, and someone to do it with, and, most of all, someone who wanted to do it with him.
He could forget how lonely he was for a lot of the time, because he was mostly lonely in company. He was very good at drifting with the tide, washing in and out of inns and tap-rooms and other people’s homes with the rest of life’s flotsam. Making himself pleasant, never showing he felt directionless and useless because that wasn’t what people wanted to hear. Enjoyable temporary company was the most that anybody wanted of him, and he went along with that because crying and struggling didn’t do much good. But just now and then he couldn’t avoid feeling the great echoing void of his life, and it hurt unbearably.
Cassian was making it hurt. This companionship was so joyous, it reminded Daizell forcibly of how alone he’d been before and how alone he’d be again. But he had becomeadept at living in the moment, so he tried to focus on the pleasure of having someone to travel with, sharing meals and making plans. Cassian’s quiet conversation, and the smile that lurked in his eyes far more often than it made its way to his mouth. Cassian’s warmth, constantly near him. Daizell liked physical closeness and affectionate touch: waking up with his arm over Cassian had been perfect.
Nearlyperfect. Perfect would have involved him moving his hands down and pulling Cassian round, and finding out what those curved lips could do, how his sun-and-rain eyes might widen, what that neat, compact body felt like and how it responded. Unfortunately, Cassian was a conventional gentleman.Unless he liked someone enough, he’d said, and Daizell wasn’t sufficiently sure about that.
And since he wasn’t willing to risk their companionship for a chance at physical gratification – really, he was becoming terribly mature – he had better leave well alone.
He took a long pull at his ale. ‘What about you, then? Any luck today?’
Cassian took a second to register what he was talking about. ‘Ah. Yes. No. No, I’ve visited every inn here, not just coaching inns, and asked questions till the words lost meaning, and got nowhere. If he came through here, he didn’t stay, and nobody remembers. Of course, that doesn’t mean he didn’t—’
