“Well, it is an interesting story, actually. You see I’ve been back in the country for two days and all I seem to hear about is you. Why is that, Bellamy?”
Oliver closed his eyes for a moment. He could really do without the interrogation right now.
Tony laughed. “What, no smart remark? You must be suffering.” He picked up the morning post and unfolded it.“Now, where was it? Blah blah, Napoleon is rumored to be ill, blah, blah. Can you believe it? Bonaparte has been near death every other week and still the Prince Regent nearly vomits at the mere mention of his name.” Tony shook his head.
Oliver raised a brow. “You came here to tell me about Bonaparte?”
Tony sighed and flipped through a few more pages. “Only if his missives suddenly began to be written in code. Fortunately for you, he still prefers French. Vile soppy stuff too. Sentimental old fool.”
A pained expression passed over Oliver. “Ashton, what do you want?”
Tony looked up and smiled. “Lord B,” he read in a clear voice. “That would be you,single-handedly won the long-standing Black Raven Wager last night. Witnesses confirmed he spent over twenty minutes in the infamous countess’s townhouse and came out unscathed. Whatever did he do there, dear readers? Do tell, Lord B. We are all anxious to know.” Tony raised a brow. “Yes, Lord B, do tell.”
Oliver watched as his friend abandoned the paper to prowl around the room, and it was not an exaggeration. It was the way he moved.
“I’m not telling anybody anything,” Oliver replied, pretending to look interested in his breakfast.
“Oh dear, you really did do it then. I thought perhaps my source had had one too many ales.”
“Are things so slow in the Home Office you must spend your time spying on me? How dull, but if you are asking me if I won the wager the answer is, yes.”
Tony looked out the window. “I suppose, I shouldn’t ask you why you did it?”
“No.” He poked at the cold beefsteak in time with the throbbing in his head.
“You should have told me about Henry.” Tony appeared at his elbow.
Oliver wasn’t surprised. “Why? What could you have done? Brought him back from the dead? Stopped him from riding that day?” Oliver looked away.
Good lord, his chest hurt.
“He was my friend.”
“He was my brother!” Oliver spat out standing up and knocking his chair over. He walked over to the windows which overlooked the busy street beyond. “Your mother sent flowers,” he said, his voice flat. “Your brother, Warrington, wrote a lovely eulogy for the papers.”
Tony nodded. “Yes, he’s good at those. I am sorry, damnable way to go.”
Oliver looked back at him. “No, hardly a glorious ending, was it? Breaking your neck is dramatic, but not glorious.”
“It could have happened to anyone,” his friend said.
Oliver didn’t reply. Why was he so angry at Tony?
Tony was a man you would never guess as being anything other than what he was—a younger son of an aristocratic family. He was so much more. Of average height, with sandy blond hair he was able to blend into a crowd easily. However, if he wanted to have his presence known there was no way of escaping his gaze.
Oliver had met him during the war where Oliver was a code breaker under Scovell. Oliver had been quick-witted and handy with a pistol and so he had found himself often picked to go on special missions. He missed those times. At least then he’d had direction in his life, a purpose. The danger for some reason had never bothered him.
“Oliver, there is something else…”
“Please. There is no need of any pity. You can go away now.”
“Oliver,” Tony began.
“It is done.” And it was. There was nothing anyone could do for him or say to him, which could make this right. It was all wrong. It was supposed to have been him. He was the soldier, after all. He was the one who should have died on the battlefield—not Henry—with his neck broken and his face in the mud. Oliver rubbed at his chest again. Will this ache ever leave him?
“Thetonis going to want to know what happened last night,” Tony explained.
“Thetoncan go to hell!” he said, and he meant it.
