“Nothing.” John lifted his foot to the seat of his chair and brushed a bit of ash from his white leather boots.
“You have informed him.” Sutton crossed his arms and squinted. “He does know we’re breaking into the Home Office tonight.”
John sniffed. “The prime minister has shown a decided lack of interest in our skills. As such, I have no interest in seeking his approval of our endeavors.”
“John.”
“Hmm? Yes?”
Sutton merely arched an eyebrow.
John blew out a breath. “I want to learn more first. As of now, I would only have the barest suspicions to tell Liverpool. My inquiries have turned up no connection between the man and Raffles.” He rubbed the back of his head. “After I learn something of substance, then I will go to the prime minister.” Perhaps. It could be satisfying to lay a fully-foiled plot at the man’s feet. Show Liverpool just what he was missing by not utilizing John’s talents.
“And if we are caught tonight?” Sutton asked.
John tutted. “When have we ever been caught?”
“Well, there was that time in—”
“Hardly ever,” John interrupted. “Truly, you have gone soft since your retirement.”
Sutton pinched his lips together. “Robert isn’t the only Chaucer brother who likes to gamble.”
John’s stomach tensed as though punched. His friend was wrong. John never risked what he couldn’t afford to lose. And he knew his limits. Breaking into a file room wasn’t even close to them.
He turned on his heel and strode for the front door, Sutton following behind. They slid into their coats. The footman held the door, and John and Sutton stood on the front steps while his carriage was brought around.
“I wonder how long it will take to get around security,” Sutton said.
John arched an eyebrow.
“Not that I’m not happy to spend the evening with you, of course,” Sutton hastily added.
“Of course.” John shook his head. He couldn’t blame his friends. Having a fine woman at home did tend to change a man’s priorities. But where was the excitement? The thrill of a good intrigue? How did his friends not knock their heads against the wall in abject boredom ever since they’d left the service of the Crown?
“Don’t worry.” John tapped his thumb against his thigh, trying in vain to squash the foolish feeling of abandonment that dug its claws into his skin. “You’ll be home abed before the hour strikes three.”
“Truly,” Sutton said, “a night getting into trouble with you is just the thing. It will be like old times.”
Old. Yes. Everything was starting to feel old. If he—John swallowed—was truly retired from the spy game, what on earth would he do with himself? He’d once dreamed of spending his life developing new metals. The chromium steel he’d created had yielded more profit and pleasure than he could have dreamed. If it hadn’t been for the accident…if it hadn’t been for his mistake, he might never have taken up working for the Crown. His small laboratory had fulfilled his needs.
Since the explosion, he only ever entered it to whip up some concoction that would assist in one of his clandestine assignments.
And now, not even for that.
These days, he woke up, read the papers and his correspondence, ensured production from his mills was running smoothly, and went to bed. Even with shopping jaunts and routs and races, it made for a dull life.
Only Robert’s trouble had roused him of late.
His brother’s trouble, and Netta.
He glanced back at his house. “Yes. Old times,” he murmured. In times of old, he wouldn’t have hesitated to liven up his job with an affair between the sheets.
His carriage pulled to a stop before them, and the driver hopped down to open the door. John followed his friend inside.
Perhaps if he didn’t want to feel so bloody old, he should stop acting it. Life was short. No need for it to be made miserable with self-denial.
He settled back against the seat as they pulled into motion.
