“I am not sure if that is wise,” Caleb said. “We were almost caught last night.”
“Do we have a choice?”
Caleb sighed. “I suppose not.”
A black hackney came to a stop in front of them. Roswell shouted his address to the driver and opened the door. “Are you coming?” he asked his friend.
“Yes, but give me a moment,” Caleb replied.
Roswell stepped inside and tried not to notice how his boots clung to the grime-covered floor. The dim hackney was filled with a musty odor and the windows were cracked. He cautiously lowered himself onto the worn, uncomfortable bench.
Caleb sat across from him and he brought a handkerchief up to his nose. “This hackney smells awful.”
“It is no different than most hackneys and it is far preferable to walking.”
“Is it?” Caleb asked. “At least if I walk, my senses are not assaulted by…” His words trailed off and he lowered the handkerchief. “I am not quite sure what smell is so offensive.”
Roswell laughed. “I hadn’t taken you for being so priggish.”
“I am not a prig. I just happen to enjoy the finer things in life,” Caleb responded as he returned the handkerchief to his jacket pocket. “I’m afraid the handkerchief is doing little good.”
“What a shame,” Roswell joked.
Caleb considered him for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
Roswell tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. If he dwelled on it too long, he would grow miserable, and that would do little good. “It is all right. Just the natural progression of things.”
“It doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed. “She keeps asking for Fredrick.”
Caleb gave him a sad smile. “I am sure that Fredrick would be here if he knew about your mother’s condition.”
“I would hope that to be true, but Fredrick lives for the army,” Roswell said. “Furthermore, he would follow Wellington anywhere.”
“It is odd that the heir to a marquessate is fighting in the war.”
“Yes, it is, but my father couldn’t talk Fredrick out of it.”
Caleb nodded in agreement. “Fredrick was always too stubborn for his own good.”
“That he was, but I do hope he will return shortly,” Roswell said. “It is tiring to help manage the estate with my father and work as an agent.”
“I bet your father appreciates your help.”
“He does, but even he has limits,” Roswell said. “He is growing tired of my excuses that I need to go to White’s.”
“You might need to come up with new excuses or he might very well think you are a drunk,” Caleb teased.
“I have thought of that, as well,” Roswell admitted.
Caleb glanced out the window before asking, “Shall we search Lord Chester’s study tomorrow?”
“That would work since I promised I would take Octavia to the opera this evening.”
He was shocked when his friend queried, “What if Anette and I joined you at the opera?”
Roswell had conflicting opinions on the matter, but he knew better than to express them out loud. He had kept his true feelings for Anette carefully hidden. “That sounds delightful,” he said through gritted teeth.
