John raised his chin, his shoulder muscles easing. If Wilberforce wouldn’t have quit on the spot, John would have made him his valet long ago. No one tied cravats quite like the man.
“I’d like to arrive at Sudworth’s before he leaves for his evening’s entertainment.” Which was a lie. He’d rather he didn’t go to the man’s home at all, but it needed to be done.
John hadn’t seen Netta yet that day, and he missed her devious smile. She’d stayed in her room for breakfast, no doubt for the sole purpose of provoking him, thinking that her absence would only further stoke his lust.
He sniffed. It wouldn’t work. He was the one who toyed and teased, and he wouldn’t relinquish that role easily. “Has Netta left with Lady Mary yet?”
“Not five minutes ago.” Wilberforce’s jaw hardened, and the next tug at the cravat was a shade firmer than usual.
“Something on your mind?” John asked.
“Just wondering what your intentions are to the girl.” Wilberforce gave one last adjustment to the elaborate knot and stepped back. “She’s not your usual bored widow or experienced mistress. She could get hurt.”
“Netta?” John’s voice dripped with disbelief. “Hurt? If ever there was a woman who knew how to take care of herself, Netta is she.” He hadn’t even tupped the woman yet, and still he received the censure for it. Wasn’t that just the way of life?
Wilberforce held up the waistcoat. “She’s not like the others,” he said quietly.
John slid his arms into the garment and considered. No, she kept him on his toes more than any other woman had. And the more he knew her the less he believed her street urchin act, but he’d let her maintain that deception for a while longer. But he didn’t lie when he said she could take care of herself. She wasn’t a woman to trifle with, and whatever pleasure John was able to take with her was only what she allowed. “You don’t take her measure well.”
Wilberforce button him up and reached for the jacket lying on the bed. “I know she’s had a rough beginning to life. I know she’s vulnerable. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
“And you think I’m in the business of hurting women?” John turned his back on his friend and smoothed the edges of his cream jacket, examining the image he made in the mirror. He didn’t know if he should be offended by Wil’s question or not.
Yes, he decided. Yes, he should. Wil had known him too long to insinuate such an unjust accusation. And he was offended on Netta’s behalf, too. She was no thin-shelled egg, easily broken.
“Don’t get your smallclothes in a twist.” Wilberforce pulled a small silver brush from his pocket and swept the shoulders of John’s jacket. “I, more than anyone, know you have a good heart. I just think you should be careful.”
And now Wil was accusing him of having a good heart. “I can’t believe we’ve known each other for thirty years.” He turned at the scratch to the door and waved the footman inside. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
He ignored Wil’s huff of displeasure and flipped open the missive the footman handed him. Nausea roiled in his stomach as he read.
“What’s wrong?” Wil asked.
“Nothing.” He tossed the letter on his bureau and looked at his reflection once more. “Alan Hampson only writes me news of my brother’s actions.” He licked his finger and brushed his eyebrow into place. “Or should I say inactions. Robert has taken to napping in the mill’s office in the afternoon.”
“You’ve asked Hampson to spy on Robert?” Wilberforce slapped the brush into his palm. “That won’t end well for either of you.”
“I won’t sit back and let my dissolute brother ruin the Summerset fortunes.” He clenched his fist. “I’ve worked too hard to restore them.”
Wilberforce rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He caught John’s eye in the mirror’s reflection. “His actions don’t reflect on you.”
John snorted. Of course not. Society was most prudent about only implicating the individual with his or her own behavior. They never scorned anyone for the transgressions of his family. He shook his head. What a fine fantasy to live in.
Wilberforce turned and picked up a cherry wood case from the bureau. “Do you remember what you said to me when you found me those years ago?”
John had to strain to hear the man, he spoke so low. “Something about getting your lazy arse moving, if I recall.” He infused his voice with a lightness he didn’t feel. Anything to counteract those dark memories. Bile still rose up his throat when he remembered how callously his father had sent the small boy away to pay for his debts. Wil had been the orphaned son of Summerset’s stablemaster, and had been pressed into service cleaning their chimneys and mucking out the stalls.
It hadn’t been enough for John’s father. The boy was worth more as an asset to pay off his debt than as a laborer, especially considering it would be one less mouth to feed if he sold the boy.
Wilberforce lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the handles of the daggers that lay within. “You told me it wasn’t my shame. That his actions were not my own.”
John swallowed, the back of his throat burning. Even now, the words sounded hollow. But he’d just been a child himself, not five and ten years of age when he’d tracked down the man who’d bought the small child who liked to follow John and his brothers about with curious eyes and few words.
What did a person say to a child found locked in a closet, the evidence of man’s capacity for evil marking his innocent body?
There were no words. Only actions. He and Montague, friends even from that young age, had made the man pay and taken the boy home, hiding him from his father’s eyes while letting him heal.
And John had been stuck with the bounder ever since. Wil had followed him about like a lost puppy as a child and now he thought he could tell John his own business. It was like having one’s mother shadowing every move.
