George felt Ollie glance his way but ignored his look, even as he wondered if Ollie’s stomach was twisting up at the memory of that summer in the same way George’s was.
“Yes, that’s right,” Piers said. “I remember now—that was the summer Theo and I went off on our mad adventure! When we got back, you were already gone so we didn’t get the chance to say good bye.” He laughed loudly, jerking his thumb at Ollie. “This one never did tell me why you were sent home and he got that thrashing.” Leaning past Ollie, he waggled his eyebrows at George. “You’ll tell me, won’t you, Sherry? What on earth kind of prank did you two pull to drive my uncle to that?”
Ollie shoved Piers's shoulder. “Leave Sherry alone,” he said, twin spots of colour on his cheeks, and Piers subsided, leaning back into his chair with a chuckle.
“Fine, fine. I know he’d never tattle on you anyway. He’s far too loyal.”
Desperate to change the subject, George said, “What was this mad adventure that you and Theo went on?”
Piers grinned. “Oh, that was all Theo’s idea, of course. He came rushing into my bedchamber one morning—it was the day of the Huckleton fair. Do you remember, we used to go every year, the four of us? Apart from that summer, of course.”
George felt his smile freeze on his face. He remembered all too well. In the years before that summer, the four boys had always gone to the Huckleton fair together. There was music and a maypole, all manner of treats to eat and games to play, and the villagers would get drunk as sailors on last year’s cider. That last summer, though, the Huckleton fair had fallen on the day Theo had caught him and Ollie together.
Did that mean Theo had gone to Piers straight after Theo caught them? George’s gut twisted. Hell, had he told Piers what he’d seen?
“So,” Piers went on cheerfully, interrupting his train of thought, “off we went to the fair in Theo’s curricle, and proceeded to get completely and utterly foxed. Got up to all sorts of mischief. But that wasn’t enough for Theo, of course. Once the fair started to quieten down, he persuaded me we should drive over to Franmere since there was a horse meet happening early the next morning.” He gave a helpless laugh at the memory. “Fools that we were, we thought we’d sleep the night in an inn, but there was no inn within five miles of the meet that would give two drunk youths a bed for the night. We ended up sleeping in some farmer’s hayloft. We did make it to Franmere, though, and we won thirty guineas on a horse called Sailor’s Fancy—which was a fortune to us. So, we headed off with our prize money to Winchester and got ourselves rooms at the best inn there and lived like kings for the rest of the week till we ran out of funds and had to limp back home with our tails between our legs.” He laughed uproariously.
“Good lord,” George said. “That does sound like an adventure.” But even as he spoke, his brain was sorting through the details Piers had disclosed. Theo and Piers had left Dinsford Park on the morning of the Huckleton fair—presumably after Theo had caught George and Ollie together. They hadn’t returned for almost a week. George distinctly remembered that Sir Joseph had been away on the day of the fair. He had only returned to the estate later in the week, several days after Theo and Piers had set off on their little adventure.
All of which had to mean that Theo couldn't have spoken to Sir Joseph before he caught George and Ollie together.
George glanced at Ollie, certain he’d see his own shock mirrored there. But no. Ollie was listening to his cousin talk, his gaze part amused, part irritated. He did not seem to be struggling, as George was, with this new information. It did not seem to have made any impression upon him at all.
“Must you wear it?” Ollie was saying now, a resigned note of complaint in his voice, and George realised, belatedly, that the conversation had moved on.
“Yes! I bought it specially, and I look as fine as fivepence in it!” Piers exclaimed, all mock outrage. “And it cost me two months’ salary! You’ll see, coz. The ladies will be struck dumb with admiration tomorrow.”
“They’ll be struck dumb all right—by how ugly your coat is!” Ollie retorted, but he was laughing, and it made his whole face seem younger. Happier. And George felt suddenly sad, because it had been a long time since he’d made Ollie laugh like that.
Abruptly, before he had really made the decision to do it, he stood up from the table. Ollie and Piers raised their heads, matching expressions of surprise on their faces.
“I’m sorry,” George said. “But I really am utterly done in. I left Wiltshire at the crack of dawn this morning and I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Sherry, please—” Ollie began, but George talked over him, addressing Piers.
“It was good to see you, Piers,” he said. “I hope to talk with you at greater length tomorrow.”
“Depend upon it,” Piers replied, his smile open and easy.
“Good night, Fletch,” George added, turning away before Ollie could say anything more, heading blindly for the dining room door.
One of the footmen standing to attention in the corridor outside hurried off to have George’s carriage brought to the front door while another went to collect his coat and hat. By the time George left the house, his carriage was waiting.
“Home, my lord?” the groom asked, as he climbed inside.
“No,” George said. “Take me to Palfrey Terrace.”
He was going to Redford’s.
When George presented the calling card to the hulking man standing at the front door of Fifteen Palfrey Terrace, he received a polite bow and a request to kindly wait for a moment. The man returned in short order with a footman in tow who guided George into a large, comfortable study. After bringing him a glass of wine, the footman advised that Mr. Potter would be with him directly.
A few minutes later, a slender, elegant gentleman, perhaps a few years older than George himself, entered the room. His hair was very fair, his complexion pale, his eyes as light and clear as glass.
“Good evening, my lord,” he said, entering the room. He offered a respectful bow, saying politely, “Arthur Potter, at your service.” But there was a glint in his eye and a pertness to his manner that somehow undid the formality of his words and gestures.
“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” George replied, rising from his chair. “I have a card to present to you.” Once again he extracted the calling card from his pocket and proffered it to Potter who took it and examined it carefully.
“Mr. Redford told me to give it to you,” George said.
