Aunt Mary rummaged in her cloth bag. “But they are a few years older than you, my dear.”
“Yes.” Jo’s thoughts inevitably went to Reade and Mr. Cartwright, who would be in their thirties. “Older men are more interesting, having had so much more experience of life.”
“I cannot say I’ve had much to do with gentlemen, apart from my father and brother, and your father.” Aunt Mary’s knitting needles flew, the beige wool trailing from her bag. “All decent, upstanding citizens. But it’s been my observation women do mature earlier,” she added with conviction as the clack of her busy needles filled the room.
To her annoyance, Jo could not agree, for here she was foolishly thinking of the curly black locks and dark brown eyes of the most unsuitable gentleman in London.
In his bedchamberat Albany, Reade woke when his valet knocked.
“Come.” He threw back the covers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rubbed the back of his neck. He’d had another nightmare and woken in a sweat. It was always the same dream. Reaching for his pocket watch, he thumbed it open. Nine o’clock. An indecent hour to rise. He ran a hand over his bare chest and yawned.
“You asked me to wake you at nine, my lord,” Minshull said. “I have brought your coffee and hot water.”
Reade took the coffee from him with a nod of thanks. “What sort of day is it?”
“Rained earlier.” His valet went to the window and drew back the curtains, admitting the morning sun into the room. “Clouds have blown away. Promises to be a fine day.”
Reade swallowed the last of the rich brew. He had an appointment at Horse-Guards. He’d be at the Regent’s beck and call on Friday. Prinny had taken to him, demanding Reade be among his entourage when he ventured out.
At the washstand, Minshull poured more hot water into the basin from the jug.
Reade briskly sponged himself all over with the soap he favored. He washed his hair over the basin, then, with a shiver, rubbed icy water over his face and torso with a sponge. Despite the sun, a cool breeze swept in through the window. He dried himself and rubbed his hair briskly with a towel.
During his years in the army, he’d grown to appreciate a douse of cold water. It helped banish fatigue. But tiredness because of consistently poor sleep didn’t stay away for long. He applied shaving soap to his jaw and picked up his razor. His eyes stared back at him groggily. He hadn’t slept well since Waterloo. Every night when he rested his head on the pillow, his thoughts took him back there.
Reade brushed his teeth, acknowledging that he did not join with others to relive the battle stories or to glorify the dethroned monarchs and victorious generals. It was the men who had died that he remembered—some who had been with him for years.
He shrugged into his dark gray coat and settled the tall beaver on his head. Pulling on gloves, he walked through to the bay-fronted drawing room. Minshull rattled crockery in the small kitchen. Sometimes he wished for more space but resisted moving into the London house. This suited his needs. It was comfortable enough but provided no sanctuary from his troubled dreams. But nowhere could. While he yearned to put up his feet and read the books piled on his dresser, he doubted he would ever feel peaceful enough to do so.
Reade strolled to the inn a block away in Piccadilly for breakfast. The dining room filled with the aroma of roasting coffee, warm patrons, and hops, and he washed bacon and eggs down with a mug of ale while perusing the newspaper.
Beyond the window, the street was busy, men wending their way home from a late night at their clubs, women shopping with their maids, a hawker selling clocks. One of Reade’s men, Wallace, walked into sight. He raised his hand in welcome and entered the inn dining room.
Reade gestured to a seat. He sawed into his bacon. “Anything new to report?”
“Apparently, Mrs. Virden danced with a Mr. Dalrymple at the Lisle’s masked ball.”
Reade paused as his stomach muscles constricted. “Dalrymple?”
“Yes, Mrs. Virden seemed on friendly terms with him…” Wallace began.
Reade waved his fork. “I heard you. Let me think.” He had not met Dalrymple. But according to his daughter, the lovely Miss Joanna, he was a shopkeeper from Marlborough. It was unlikely there’d be another Dalrymple at the ball. How the devil did the fellow who had been in London for less than a month, according to Miss Dalrymple, meet Mrs. Virden? Or had he known her for some time? “Friendly, were they?”
“Yes. Seemed more than acquaintances.”
How had Miss Dalrymple’s father come to know the Virdens? Letty had befriended the Dalrymple’s and might have some knowledge of them. He pulled out his watch. She was unlikely yet to have risen, and Cartwright, if he had any sense, would be with her. Reade swiftly banished seeking her opinion. She was too astute not to want to know the whole. And that he was not about to tell her.
“There’s one other thing,” Wallace said, interrupting his train of thought.
“What is it? Out with it, man,” Reade demanded, ignoring that he’d motioned him to be silent a moment earlier.
“Yesterday afternoon, they followed Virden to a house in Upper Brook Street, Mayfair, owned by a Lord Pleasance.”
“Don’t know the fellow. I will look into it, Wallace,” he said. “Any further news, bring straight to me.”
Wallace stood and saluted. “Right, Captain Reade.”
“Don’t salute me,” Reade said irritably.
