“Isn't the better question how you ended up so muddy?” George asked, biting back a smile of pleasure when Theo laughed in response. He remembered that rich, generous laugh from their school days. Back then, whenever he’d got Theo to laugh, he’d felt an absurd sense of accomplishment.
It seemed nothing had changed.
Turning away to hide his smile, George gave his attention to removing his saddlebags while Theo strode off to find a stable hand to deal the horses.
Later that evening, after a plain but filling dinner, they relaxed in the small, private dining room the innkeeper had offered them.
“It’s nice in here,” George said, sipping the rather rough wine the maid had brought them. “But I’d’ve thought you’d prefer to eat in the main dining area.”
Theo glanced over at him. “I would’ve done if I’d been alone,” he said, “but I thought you’d prefer somewhere quieter. Was I wrong?”
“No,” George admitted, smiling. “You weren’t wrong. Am I so easy to read?”
“I remember how you were at school—you were always happier with just two or three people than in a crowd.”
George blinked, surprised that Theo had noticed that about him.
“That’s true,” he admitted, his voice a little husky. “It’s probably because I’m not wonderfully adept in social situations.”
Theo’s gaze sharpened. “Where do get that idea? You have very graceful manners—unlike me—and from what I’ve seen, other people seek out your company.”
George gave a dry little laugh. “And the fact that I’m the heir to a dukedom has nothing to do with that.”
“I’m sure it does for some people,” Theo admitted, “but I’d wager many others appreciate you for your kindness and good conversation.”
George’s throat closed at the unexpected compliment. Swallowing against the unwanted rise of emotion, he said, his tone slightly hoarse, “Will you tell me about your travels on the Continent?”
Theo sent him a wry smile. “Are you sure you won’t be bored?”
“Very sure,” George assured him. “I would love to hear about your adventures. I’ve barely set foot outside of England in all my life.”
“Have you wanted to?”
George thought about that. “Not actively,” he admitted, “but I like to think I’d go if the opportunity presented itself.” Hearing his own words, he made a face. “That doesn’t sound very assertive, does it? But that's how I am. When we were young, it was always my younger sister and brother who came up with the ideas for our games. And then at school, as you know, I tended to follow Ollie.”
Theo shrugged, unconcerned. “We can’t all be leaders all the time. And some people who love to lead are terrible at it.” He chuckled. “When I visited the Grindelwald, I joined a climbing tour. The trip only took three or four days, but it covered quite a bit of ground. We were hiking up to a glacier, then to the summit of Mount Scheidegg before descending through a gorge. It was a very picturesque route, and popular too. Our guides were two local men. Quiet, stoic types, both very experienced climbers. There were a few of us in the group, some English, some German. Most everyone was fine, but there was this one Englishman—he was probably the least experienced of the whole group, truth be told—yet he was absolutely determined to take charge.” Theo laughed again at the memory. “He was unbearable. The guides were very patient with him, which did absolutely no good at all. He kept questioning the route, and trying to take us off course, contradicting the guides’ advice, till we were all driven half-mad by him.”
“What happened?” George asked. “Did he lead you all into danger?”
Theo snorted. “After a day and a half of his nonsense, I took him aside and told him that if he didn’t shut his mouth and start doing as he was told, I was going to tear the alpenstock from his pack and insert it up his rectum. Sideways.”
George gave a surprised shout of laughter. “What did he say?”
Theo laughed too. “After that, very little! He was as quiet as a mouse for the rest of the trip.”
George topped up both their glasses with port. “Tell me how you came to be in Grindelwald.”
“It’s quite a long story,” Theo said. “Are you sure you want to hear it? I have a tendency to bore on about my travels. I suspect it’s exceedingly dull. ”
“I’m very sure,” George said, settling back in his chair with his port.
“Very well. You asked for it.”
And so, for the rest of the evening, Theo told George about his travels on the Continent, starting in Paris where he’d enjoyed a brief period of debauchery, before heading for Geneva, then the Bern Oberland. There, he’d found what he hadn’t even known he’d been looking for—a landscape of such astonishing, stunning, dangerous beauty that he could barely describe it. After spending several months there, the harsh winter conditions had driven him south, first into Lombardy and then further down into the Papal States. Then, in the spring, he’d ventured north again, travelling back up through Austria and Bavaria, before finally landing in the Netherlands where he’d booked his passage back to England.
“You must find England very dull now,” George said.
“Not at all,” Theo replied, “but I did have the time of my life.” He sounded wistful.
