Page 103 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He did not remember standing up to leave. He did not even realize he was moving until he was in the street, cold and grey, and Kettlewell’s hand landed on his shoulder. Holly said nothing at all, which Roman didn’t mind in the least.

“Come have a drink,” Phineas said, with a sort of uncertain gentleness in his tone. He clearly wanted to be useful, but was not certain how. “The Black Swan is nearby.”

“I fear I am not in the right mind for company.” Roman scarcely recognized the quality in his voice. He sounded…small.

“No one asked if you felt like it,” Kettlewell said, brusque but not as loud as usual. “Come anyway. Sit in a corner and say nothing if you like. We will talk over you.”

There was something restful in the offer. Nothing would be asked of him there; he could sit among men who would not require him to explain the shape of the thing he’d lost, or perform his recovery from the loss before he’d had the chance to feel it properly.

Home would ask something different of him. He was not steady enough, not yet, to let Tamsin see whatever his feelings were before he’d had the chance to put them in some order. He needed time.

“One drink,” he finally agreed.

Thaddeus, who so rarely spoke at all, said only, “Good.”

That, too, was somehow exactly what Roman needed.

The Black Swan was warm enough that fog crept across its windows, and crowded enough that no one paid attention to five gentlemen taking possession of a table near the back. Kettlewell procured a bottle of claret without asking anyone what they wanted. Holly complained about the quality before he’d taken so much as a sip. Phineas objected that a man could hardly condemn a wine on sight, and Holly informed him he had eyes and had found them broadly reliable.

It was exactly the sort of conversation Roman ordinarily enjoyed. Tonight he drank and let it flow around him.

“They’d decided before Patchett stood up,” Kettlewell said eventually.

Roman looked at him. His friend had lasted longer than he’d expected.

“He knew precisely what he was doing,” Kettlewell continued. “That little performance about ratepayers was for the benefit of men who already meant to vote with him.”

Looking over the rim of his glass, Roman huffed. “Yes.”

“And he made you the villain of it.”

Roman did not bother to agree. “That is overdramatizing the case.”

That brought one of Kettlewell’s eyebrows up. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

Kettlewell snorted and downed his glass. Roman turned his own glass between his fingers. The wine was not especially good, Holly had been right about that.

Finally he voiced, “He made the better argument.”

Four faces turned toward him.

“Utter rubbish,” Holly said. “You cannot possibly believe that.”

“He did.” That was the crux of it, surely. He had not made the right argument, the right connections. Had not done enough, written enough, tried enough.

That brought a snort from Kettlewell. “He called you sentimental.”

Roman shook his head. “He called the preservation of the barbican sentimental.”

“While looking directly at you,” Phineas pointed out.

“Toward me.”

“Hartwell.” That was Holly, his tone one of warning.

“He knew his audience,” Roman said, with more impatience than he intended. He stopped, drew a breath, and set his glass down. “He gave them a reason to do what they already wished to do. I gave them reasons they ought to wish otherwise.”