Phoebe managed a smile as she shook her head in a dismissive manner.
“Of course you should. You were his dear friend,” she said, then continued. “No two siblings ever plotted and schemed like Alex and me. I lost count of how many times we landed ourselves in hot water with our father. And you were there for many of them the year of Alex’s accident. You even became our conspirator-in-arms on a few occasions if I remember correctly.”
His expression was solemn, yet his eyes twinkled. “I had to help you two with the bull. But afterwards, I couldn’t very well tell anyone, because if your father found out, he’d no doubt think me a bad influence and forbid me from spending time at Eileanach. And so, your conspirator-in-arms was born.”
Her heartbeat quickened, and warmth started in her chest and suffused the entire length of her body. “You came to our aid like a knight in shining armor after we purloined two bags of boiled sweets. And then there was that time when you saved my life.”
Warmth and fondness brightened his expression. “I seem to have fallen into a pattern then, didn’t I?” He chuckledgood naturedly, then continued. “That time involving the boiled sweets, we all shared in the spoils. You loved sweets back then.”
Desserts had been, and still remained, one of her weaknesses.
He considered her for a second, then startled her when he reached out and gently touched her shoulder. “I hope you are recovered from earlier?—”
She gasped at the contact and sprang from her seat. Her heart lurched and the gossip column fell. He immediately stood up, perhaps out of courteousness, and stepped back, his body momentarily freezing in alarm. Regret sank into her belly. She’d panicked and overreacted again.But this is Slade. He’s a friend, she reminded herself a second time. It seemed the knowledge didn’t dictate her body’s instinct, prey backing away from its perceived predator.
Mortification at her action burned her face. Embarrassment and shame made her want to run.
“Are you well? Are you still unsettled by the footman’s shooting?” he asked, eyebrows drawing together in concern.
“I suppose I am,” she lied. “I just realized I need to return to my duties. Lady Bolingbroke will be quite put out at my long absence.”
He bent down, retrieved the gossip column, folded it, and held it out to her. “Of course. I’ve delayed you long enough.” His expression had become inscrutable, no doubt sensing her change in countenance. He must think her abominably rude. But there was no way she could explain her odd behavior.
She took the gossip column from him. “It was quite lovely seeing you again after such a long time,” she said, interjecting a lightness into her voice she didn’t feel.
“And you. I hope we can see each other again soon,” he said, executing an immaculate bow.
She turned and broke into a run. Perhaps if she ran fast enough, it would wipe her awkward behavior from her memory, and his.
CHAPTER 6
Two days later Slade found his friend, former Ensign Peter Horton of the Royal Scots Greys, at the back of Hortons gunsmith building engaged in conversation with a worker. The smell of gun oil and ammonia was strong in the air. Peter was average height with a husky build, warm, whisky-colored, trusting eyes and unruly coffee-brown hair.
As Slade approached, Peter’s head lifted and his whole face lit up. Slade smiled at his friend.
“Here you are at last. I expected you a week ago,” Peter said.
Slade took the hand Peter extended and shook it. “You know how stingy the general is when granting permissionnaires.”
“Like an auld mongrel with a juicy bone. And here I was thinking you got distracted by a lass or two.”
Slade grinned. “That as well.”
Peter laughed and ushered Slade into a large unoccupied admiralty boardroom. With open palms, Peter beckoned for Slade to take the seat across from the chair he pulled out. Slade took the chair and sat down. The monstrously long wooden table stretched between them below a Gothic, wrought iron, ten-candle chandelier.
Two mounted deer heads high on the unvarnished wooden walls eyed them. The countless haphazard stacks of papers on the sideboards and the book-filled ceiling-to-floor shelves gave the room a utilitarian air.
“I am eager to hear of all the new sales you procured from our friend the general,” Peter said.
Slade straightened in his chair and took in a lungful of air, regretting his boastful words to Peter about increased sales when he’d bought into Hortons and proposed approaching the general. “The general took the proposal, but not precisely as we might have hoped.”
Peter’s eyes sharpened with interest. “How do you mean?”
“The army does not yet have the budget to outfit their garrisons with your elite standard of Brown Besses. At present, they have the budget for the outdated, cheaper versions. Besides, the general is a Charleville musket man.”
Peter’s brows knotted. “There is a ‘but?’”
“He will apply to his superiors for a larger budget. There is still a chance he could order a sizable number of Brown Besses. We will have to wait and see.”
