“I can go wherever I like without any call on my time. No Parliament, no bending the knee to King George and his set.”
“Some might care about those things.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t. Nothing can change it, can it?”
“You are accepted in Society, Jack. People like you.”
“There are those that do. Others might just have liked my father and wished not to offend him.”
Scattering fallen leaves, the hearse approached Stamford village church, where in the churchyard, hunkered down in the cold, villagers waited to see off a popular duke.
“What do you intend to do next?” Harry asked. “Continue with your rooms in Town?”
“No. I’m going to travel.”
“Really? No desire for it. Saw enough during the war.”
“Not the Continent. The British Isles. And not as a well-heeled gentleman.” The plan formed in Jack’s mind. “I’ll travel light like we did in the army. Just a small portmanteau, and Arion, my faithful stallion. I’ve seen little of my own country. And I’ll visit that farm.”
Harry shuddered and murmured something derogatory about how one could hardly take a valet and how badly dressed Jack would be as the horses, stamping and snorting, drew the hearse to a halt before the family’s impressive stone mausoleum.
Jack, with a deep, anguished breath, took his place with the other pallbearers to carry his father’s coffin inside the stone edifice.
Jack and Harry continued their conversation hours later in a tavern, where two other friends joined them: Lord Miles Hawkeswood, second son of the Marquess of Sterling, and Baron Waddington’s heir, Timothy Scott. In their mid- to late twenties, the four had formed firm friendships when they’d fought with the British Light Cavalry during the Peninsular campaign.
Miles drew his eyebrows together, his blue eyes thoughtful. “You’re not remaining for the reading of the will?”
“I shan’t be missed. Everything goes to Cousin Grant. And the duchess’s relations will be there hoping to be remembered. Can’t abide any of ’em.”
“Well, I think it’s a mad idea.” Miles raised his voice above the ruckus from a table in the corner where a drunken fellow had made a clumsy attempt to pull the serving wench down onto his lap and gotten his face slapped for his pains. “Traveling rough on English roads in our foul weather sounds downright uncomfortable. Had enough of that in Spain. At least it was hot there.”
Harry shook his head. “Couldn’t agree more. Dangerous too. Youcould be robbed and murdered before you get twenty miles from London.”
“I doubt that,” Tim said. “Jack was the best marksman in our regiment. He’s mighty handy with his fists too. Might have been a pugilist. Just look at him. Is anyone going to take him on?”
Jack grinned and shook his head, then drank deeply of his ale.
Tim perched a large, booted foot on his knee and cast an eye over the breadth of Jack’s shoulders. “None of us is short, bar Harry, and Jack towers over all of us.”
“Dash it all, I object!” Harry thumped Tim on his arm. “I would be considered a reasonable height if I chose a new set of friends. The ladies have no complaints, I might add.”
Jack pushed back his black hair from his brow. “I’ll carry a pistol, but I’m not looking to use it unless I have to. An adventure appeals to me. To roam about the country without an identity. That’s true freedom. I considered re-enlisting, but after the war ended, army life was more tedious than exciting.”
Tim gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “And when you’ve seen as much as you care to, what then?”
Unable to supply an answer, Jack shrugged. “Then, I shall embark on something else.”
“Marriage? And the lady will be of your choosing,” Harry said gloomily, his fingers raking his chestnut hair, his brown eyes somber. “Father has picked out a bride for me. Daughter of a friend of his. He’s corresponding with her father as we speak.”
It was the first Jack had heard of it. Harry would be the first of them to marry. “Who is the lady?”
“The Earl of Rountree’s daughter, Lady Erina Rountree.”
“What’s wrong with Lady Erina?” Jack brought the lady’s visage to mind. Abundant mahogany hair and fine, green eyes. He’d danced with her at her ball when she’d entered society. Tall and slim, her gaze had challenged him, and she’d made him laugh when she’dcomplained about the crick in her neck she’d gotten from talking to him. He’d been one of the few men tall enough to have made her look up. “She’s pretty. Smart too.”
“All right for you to say. No one is pushingyouto marry,” Harry said.
“No, nor is marriage part of my plans.” He didn’t want to care about anyone. “You’re a lucky fellow. Don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
