She drew a breath, annoyed at the neatness of it. “I object to power unchecked.”
“As do I,” he said quietly. “I would beg you to give other soldiers a chance.”
That stopped her. She looked at him again, really looked at him this time, beyond the agreeable cut of his coat and the irritating steadiness of his manner. There was something there she had not expected: restraint, perhaps, or an understanding hard won.
He regarded her for a moment longer, then said, in a tone that suggested idle curiosity rather than inquiry, “May I ask what you intend to do with your opinions this Season, Miss Vale? Will they remain confined, or do you mean to give them wider exercise?”
She considered him. “If by exercise you mean politics, reform, and the occasional salon where such matters are discussed without fear of impropriety, then yes. However, I have promised our godfather that I will comport myself with restraint when in Society.”
“Then I must hope,” he replied lightly, though his gaze was anything but, “that when you attend these assemblies, you will permit your newly appointed escort to observe how revolution is conducted over tea.”
“You may yet surprise me, Major Manners,” she said.
CHAPTER 3
Arch returned to Renforth’s house with the particular fatigue a man acquired in drawing rooms, where one had to be perpetually attentive and yet never frank, perpetually amiable and yet never earnest, perpetually present and yet never entirely oneself. The night air, though chill, felt almost restorative after the scented warmth of his mother’s dining room, and he took a cleansing breath, in the hope the cold might cleanse him of polite conversation and strategic smiles. He had survived the evening without offering offence beyond that of being a soldier.
Arch found, to his irritation, that he could not quite reconcile the memory of Miss Vale as the sharp-tongued girl with freckles and unruly plaits, who had once informed him that soldiers were a public nuisance, with the young lady next to whom he had dined. She had become something altogether more formidable: auburn hair drawn into deliberate elegance, bright green eyes which missed very little, and a composure that suggested she had long since decided the world would not arrange itself properly unless she compelled it to do so.
He approached the house standing in the respectable St. James’ Square. Colonel Renforth owned it in the same mannerhe owned most things: without show, without fuss, and with the comfortable certainty that it would serve his purposes. A lamp burned in the lower windows, and Arch felt absurdly relieved by it, as if light in a soldier’s lodging signified something more than mere wakefulness.
O’Malley appeared, as if conjured, before Arch knocked on the door. He was Irish, imperturbable, and possessed of a countenance that was earned by war—the air of a man who could carry a tray of liquid refreshment through an ambush without spilling a drop. It had once amused Arch to discover that O’Malley’s loyalty was of the same unshakeable kind he valued in the field.
“Major Manners,” O’Malley said, taking Arch’s coat with an efficiency that discouraged complaints. “I trust the evening did not exhaust you beyond recovery?”
Arch handed over his hat and gloves. “It attempted to,” he confessed.
O’Malley’s mouth suggested possible sympathy. “There is brandy in the drawing room, sir. Colonel Renforth said you would require it.”
Arch paused. “Did he, indeed?”
“He did, sir,” O’Malley returned, as if this were simply good household management. “Mr. Baines has also expressed a professional interest in your survival.”
“If Baines has a professional interest in anything, it is usually the disruption of peace.”
“Then perhaps your survival is essential to his amusements,” O’Malley said in solemnity, and left Arch to find his way to the drawing room. The room was not large, but it was comfortable in a manner suited to gentlemen who preferred understated elegance. A fire burned low. The lamps were shaded. A decanter stood open on the sideboard as if it were part of the furniture. Renforth sat in a chair near the hearth with his usual economyof posture, which made him look both relaxed and ready to rise at an instant. Baines lounged opposite him, long legs stretched out and a glass already in hand, whilst Stuart and Fielding occupied the sofa opposite. Stuart looked up first. “The dutiful son returns.”
Fielding was the most quietly observant of them, with the mildness of manner that hid a mind like a blade kept carefully sheathed. He smiled and raised his glass in greeting.
Arch accepted the offered glass from O’Malley with gratitude and took the empty chair.
“How did our heiress perform?” Baines asked, and his tone suggested he already knew that the word was an insult.
Arch took a sip of brandy. It was good enough to make him almost forgiving.
“Miss Vale performed as if she were a martyr,” he said, “which is, I suppose, one way to distinguish oneself in Town.”
Baines leaned forward with relish. “Did she draw blood?”
“Not openly,” Arch replied, though he could still hear her calm, dangerous voice, “but she did not surrender her mind to keep the peace.”
Renforth’s eyes rested on Arch with that disconcerting, evaluating look that had kept men alive. “And you?”
“I surrendered nothing,” Arch said, because it was safer to sound arrogant than uncertain. “I merely endured.”
Stuart’s gaze flicked to the door, then back again, as if ensuring the house remained sealed against intrusions. “Endurance will be the most useful of your talents in the coming weeks.”
“It is not a talent I care to practice,” Arch replied, and took another sip.
