Page 11 of Wicked By Design

“So I see,” Marcus replied dryly, regarding the small slice of dry toast on Sherry’s plate. “Had a good night, did you, Sherry?”

“Marvellous,” Sherry replied, curling his lip a little.

Marcus snorted.

They sat again, though Hawkney did not miss the slightly stiff manner in which Marcus moved. The papers which had reported his heroics with such slavish devotion had told the world he’d taken a musket ball to the chest but carried on doing his duty. It wasn’t until the battle had been won that Marcus finally collapsed, the toll of pain and blood loss overcoming his own stubborn determination. He’d damn near died.

Sherry, never one to shy away from a ticklish subject, regarded Marcus with a frankly assessing gaze. “You look like the devil, old man. Did that bullet do more harm than we can see?”

Marcus exchanged a long-suffering glance with Hawkney, who shrugged apologetically. “I can always rely upon you to speak as you find, Sherry. I’m well enough, thank you. It’s been a bloody long road, I’ll admit. The damn thing has left scar tissue about my lungs. Makes climbing a set of stairs feel like scaling a bloody mountain range, but I’m getting stronger all the time.” This last was said somewhat defiantly. “That’s why I’m here, actually. The blasted quack insisted I get out of London. Clean, fresh air, he said, and I’m to drink the waters,” he added darkly.

“Christ,” Hawkney replied with real sympathy. “Kill or cure, then.”

Marcus’ lips quirked. “That bad, eh?”

“Vile,” Hawkney agreed. “Where are you staying? We’ve got plenty of room here if you’re looking for a place to lay your head. You know Gee-Gee will be delighted to see you.”

Marcus’ harsh features softened. “How is the grand old lady?”

Hawkney smiled. “Marvellous. About to incite riot and mayhem in an unsuspecting public, if I know anything.”

“Ah, the same as ever, then.”

They all chuckled, but his cheerful demeanour seemed a little forced to Hawkney.

“Well, it is a kind offer, but I have rented a cottage on the seafront. It appears I was lucky to get it, as the place has become so popular. Ocean View Villa. You know it, I assume? It’s small but comfortable and the landlady seems a cheerful sort. A Miss Brown. She has ensured I’ve everything I need.”

Hawkney nodded, well aware of Miss Brown, who was the bosom friend of his cousin Aubrey’s wife, Alice. “Excellent. Well, in that case, I must insist that you come and dine with us at least once a week. No, I will hear no protests. I desperately need a companion who speaks sense instead of plaguing me with gossip and inanity.”

“Well, I like that!” Sherry exclaimed.

Hawkney grinned. “I never said it was you, Sherry.”

Sherry snorted. “Funny.” He turned back to Marcus. “I hear you’re to have your portrait painted. You’re part of the Heroes of Waterloo exhibition that they’re holding at Horse Guards, I think?”

Marcus stiffened, his expression darkening several degrees.

“Bloody load of nonsense,” he cursed vehemently. “I’d tell them where to shove their bloody portrait, only…. Well, you can’t tell the Duke of Wellington to stuff it up his arse, can you?”

Hawkney’s lips twitched appreciatively. “I think not.”

Marcus shook his head in disgust. “They suggested I sit for Thomas Lawrence. I said over my dead body. If I must have a bloody portrait done, I’ll choose who bloody well does it.”

“Ah,” Sherry said with a nod. “Yes, a fine idea. Who have you decided upon?”

“How the bloody hell should I know?” Marcus said crossly. “I don’t precisely rub shoulders with artists on a daily basis.” His breath caught, and he turned his head, giving a sharp cough. He inhaled carefully, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair before the cough came again, harsher this time, a horrid, dry, tearing that drew his body in upon itself. He clearly could not stop it.

Hawkney winced in sympathy, unable to do a thing as Marcus’ face flushed, eyes watering while he fought for breath and clasped at his chest.

Hawkney got to his feet, poured a glass of water and silently placed it beside Marcus.

Sherry too stood hovering, uncertain of what to do. He reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, pressing it into Marcus’ hands. Marcus batted it away.

“I’ve… I’ve… got my own,” he rasped, finding the thing and using it to wipe his face.

He was still breathing hard, but the coughing fit appeared to have subsided.

“All right, old man?” Sherry asked, his usually severe features creased with concern.