Page 10 of Wicked By Design

“Coffee, my lord?” Howard said with a smile, brandishing the coffee pot before Sherry could finish his sentence.

“I have said it before, Howard, you are a prince among men. Why don’t you leave these philistines and come and work for a fellow who appreciates your finer qualities, as I do?”

Hawk cut in, saving Howard from the discomfort of having to reply to this bit of nonsense.

“Sherry, every time you come to stay you try to poach Howard and Monsieur Alphonse. If this keeps up, I shall inform my grandmother of your perfidy.”

“Tattletale,” Sherry groused, accepting a cup of coffee from Howard. He held it between his long, elegant fingers and sipped, his face pinched in an expression of suffering.

Hawkney continued to eat his breakfast in peace, though he did not expect it to last. Sherry could not have kept his mouth shut for above two minutes if his life had depended on it.

“That was quite the scene last night. If Mrs King had hoped her fine hotel would be the subject of conversation for weeks to come, she could not have done better. A scandal always puts such a delightful glitter to an exclusive occasion.”

“Sherry,” Hawkney said, ensuring his friend did not miss the warning note to his voice. “I will have you remember that Lady Cecilia is an honoured guest of my grandmother. I will also inform you it is a love match. She had just accepted Viscount Rivington’s offer of marriage,” he added, though Sherry wouldn’t swallow that pretty bit of fiction in a million years. He’d promised his grandmother he would stick to it, however, and he would. Lady Cecilia could have done a good deal better, but there it was.

As he suspected, Sherry let out a bark of laughter and then groaned, pressing his fingers to his temples and wincing. “Cobblers,” he said succinctly.

“That’s what I like about you, Sherry,” Hawkney replied mildly. “Such wit and urbanity.”

“It’s too early for wit and urbanity! The devil is using my head as an anvil, so cobblers it is, and as accurate a description as any, you’ll hear this day,” he said tartly.

Hawkney smiled, but lowered his voice. “Justin, if anyone mentions last night, you will repeat that story verbatim, or I shall be most displeased.”

Sherry’s eyes flicked to his, considering. “Fine, but between you and me, what happened?”

Hawkney shrugged, “If you want to know, you can ask Lady Cecilia.”

“You and your damned scruples, Hawk. You know I’ll not repeat it,” Sherry said irritably.

“It’s not my story to tell. I dislike gossip, especially when it attaches to someone under my grandmother’s roof. Now, for heaven’s sake, eat something. You are whiter than your blasted cravat.”

Sherry glowered at him but deigned to reach for a piece of toast. He regarded it dubiously before taking a small bite and chewing as if it might poison him.

Howard appeared in the doorway once more. “Forgive the interruption, your grace, but there is a gentleman to see you. A Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”

“Marcus!” Sherry exclaimed in surprise. “What the devil is he doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Hawkney turned back to Howard. “Show him in.”

Howard bowed and went off to fetch the heroic Colonel Hamilton.

“Well, well. I’ve not seen him since he returned. Have you?” Sherry murmured.

Hawkney shook his head. There was no need to add the words ‘from Waterloo.’ They hung in the air like the ghosts of lost men, far too many of them. “I visited him in town, in the spring, but he… wasn’t at home.”

“Ah.” Sherry’s expression was one of understanding, such an unusual expression on his cynical face that Hawkney smiled.

Footsteps announced their old friend, and they stood, both schooling their faces into impassivity as they regarded a man much changed from the one they remembered. He was still straight and erect in the way only military men ever seemed to achieve. His face appeared to have been chiselled out of rock, all hard lines and shadows with a square, uncompromising jaw, a mouth set too hard for laughter now, and deep grooves scored from nose to chin. He had always been dark, but the sun of Spain and Flanders had weathered his complexion to bronze, except where fatigue hollowed him beneath the eyes. He’d lost weight too, his clothes a little looser than they ought to be. Somehow, he looked older than them, not in years, precisely, but in wear. His dark hair was cropped shorter than fashion allowed and already threaded with silver at the temples.

Marcus Hamilton had been mentioned in dispatches more times that they could count, and his courage at Waterloo had made him a hero. Hawkney could only imagine how violently he disliked that. Marcus had always been the quiet one, steady and reliable, much preferring to let Sherry steal the limelight as he usually did.

“Marcus, how good to see you,” Hawkney said, moving forward to shake his hand warmly.

Marcus smiled, something he had never done often. Most people thought him a dull dog, too grave, too serious, but he had a wicked sense of humour if he relaxed enough to allow you to see it.

“Hawk, Sherry, it’s good to see you too.”

“Sit down! We’re just having breakfast, if you’re hungry?” Hawkney said, resisting the urge to demand he eat a full plate before he left. He looked like he’d not had a good meal in weeks.