Peter clicked his tongue. “It’s fortuitous we decided to wait on the expansion, even with the influx of capital when you became a principal. It would have all been for naught.”
Slade’s shoulders dropped, and he broke eye contact to avoid the disappointment plastered all over his friend’s face. A month ago, when he’d used a small portion of the fortune he’d made from his overseas weaponry deals to buy into the Hortons business, it appeared he’d oversold the idea of the army buying guns from Hortons. It had been a means to an end, a legitimate reason to set up the meeting with Bolingbroke. His investment in Hortons was a smart one, with or without a contract from the army. That’s not to say it wouldn’t be an exponentially wiserinvestment if the army did have the budget to buy the new muskets.
“He still could get the approval, if not to contract for the number of muskets we envisioned in the beginning, then perhaps a portion of it. In the meantime, he is interested in ten custom tailored Charleville muskets. And he wants a second demonstration with the American longrifle musket,” Slade said.
Peter’s expression brightened. “Ten of the Charleville muskets? Not a total loss, then. We are finishing up a couple of exquisite American longrifle muskets, maple stock, forty-eight-inch iron barrels with brass etchings on the butt and barrel tip, with more accurate trajectory and increased fire power than the older versions. They will be ready for you in three days.”
Slade nodded then reclined in his chair. He intertwined the fingers from both hands behind his neck, his lips stretching into a lazy smile. “Now that business is over with, how does your lovely Lucia fare?” Slade said.
A flush crept up his friend’s face. Slade had to remind himself Peter was five years younger than his twenty-nine and didn’t care to hide his revoltingly happy state, in love with the object of his desires, his wife. Though he was delighted for his friend, a strange pang snaked its way through Slade’s midriff. He didn’t care to give a name to it just then.
“Lucia was disappointed you couldn’t attend our wedding. She wants to meet you. To thank you for saving my hide during the war on the North Bank in Germany,” Peter said.
“I was trying to give the French grief—saving your hide was a happy coincidence.”
Peter guffawed, then his expression straightened to seriousness. “The entire unit would have perished if you hadn’t risked your neck to divert the French. You deserved more than that medal and promotion to colonel.”
A lazy smile tugged at Slade’s mouth. “Well, I did get quite a bit of entertainment out of seeing the French camp lit up when their stock of grain exploded.”
Despite the lightness he maintained in his voice, Slade recalled how reckless he’d been. How determined he’d been to get himself killed. Penance for his sin. A deed he’d been incapable of performing with his own hands. Soon after, trifling with death had become tedious.
Slade had joined the Scots Greys right after Sylvia’s death, while Peter had joined because of the need to impress Lucia’s family. Peter’s reason for enlisting was so refreshing they’d hit it off as friends on their first meeting all those years ago. Peter had been an essential light, balancing Slade’s darkness during the war.
“Something bothering you?” Peter asked.
Slade shook his head, realizing his friend had been watching him. “I was just thinking back to when we first enlisted,” Slade said.
Peter’s lips curved in a reflective smile. “I was trying to impress Lucia’s father and you were … looking to escape from the Highlands?”
Peter’s answer surprised him. Peter had shared his entire past over the years. He’d even confided in Slade the second Lucia’s father had agreed for him to marry her. Peter had, right then and there, resigned his commission in the Royal Scots Greys and came to work at his family’s gunsmithing operation. Peter liked sharing details of his life. Slade didn’t. However, it hadn’t stopped Peter from speculating on Slade’s past.
“I wouldn’t call going to war an escape,” Slade said.
“It can be, if you’re running away from something darker than war.”
Peter’s words punched his gut. A hot mist washed over his body. Guilt, his old friend.
The irony was that the inadequacy of their uniforms against the elements during the war, the inedible rations, and the starving men too weak or ill to fight had still not dulled his memories of Sylvia’s death. Many of his fellow officers would share stories of their families around a campfire in Germany when they’d have the luxury of one. Slade had never been one of those. He couldn’t bear to be reminded of what he’d lost—it unhinged him. Even after a decade, it made him want to rip his heart from his chest so the nails would stop digging into his soul.
His friend’s lips pursed for a breath, before he spoke. “I don’t know what burdens you or what made you join the Scot’s Greys, but you have to forgive yourself and move beyond your past.”
His friend’s voice was sincere. It made Slade swallow the tightness in his throat. Slade had only ever told his foster brothers Egan and Daegan the real story about Sylvia. And then later Minister Raghnall and his wife.
Slade arranged his features into what he hoped was bored indifference. “Promotion to colonel and a medal was sufficient for me. Besides, I am considering giving it all up.”
Peter’s brows lifted. “You are going to sell your commission?”
“Lachlan has been sending missives over the past few months, insisting he and Chisolm need me back at Garraidh.” A wave of irritation at his brother’s bold request caused Slade to press his lips together. “So yes, I am considering it. But not until I tie up some loose ends and conclude this deal with Bolingbroke.”
Slade had ripped up the first five missives from Lachlan, but they’d kept coming.
His father’s and Lachlan’s anti-English rhetoric had for all intents and purposes branded him a Judas, especially after almost two thousand Jacobites lost their lives at Culloden fighting against the English in April of the prior year. Slade had been overseas, having stayed there after fighting alongsidethe Hanoverian King George II himself and his son the Duke of Cumberland at Dettingen in 1743, enemies to the Jacobites, and had only returned to Scotland fifteen months ago. But if his father and brother found out where his true allegiance lay, they would no doubt want to hug him.
Slade cleared his throat to suppress his ruminations. “Speaking of loose ends, can you recommend an inquiry agent in Birmingham? I need to locate someone living in Wombourne.”
The previous night Slade had encountered two of Bolingbroke’s valets and his maid, Omelia Swindlehurst, at the local pub. After buying them several rounds of ale, and artfully ignoring the maid’s boldness towards him, he learned where Bolingbroke kept his most sensitive documents. He also learned that Bolingbroke preyed on the female staff at Camberley Manor, and he’d gotten a young maid with child. Would the young maid be willing to speak to the gossip columns for a small sum of money? And how safe was Fifi, working in the household of such a snake?
Interest flashed across Peter’s features. “Yes, I’ve dealt with one or two inquiry agents. I’d be happy to make the necessary introductions. Are you looking to cause trouble or ease trouble for someone?”
