two of them playing whist, one reading, and the fourth one making his way through what looked like an entire bottle of whiskey.
“Colonel,” Hervey, the club’s other caretaker, butler, footman, and nanny said, approaching from the direction of the extra rooms. “Good evening.”
“Hervey.”
“Cook’s just pulled a roast chicken from the oven. Might I interest you in a plate?”
“Yes, thank you.” Refusing to grimace, Tolly took a seat at one of the empty tables scattered through the large room. From what the Duke of Sommerset had said, before he’d turned it into a gentleman’s hideaway the room had originally been a morning room and an office. However much the renovations had cost, it gave Tolly an otherwise nearly impossible privacy.
That was fortunate, because at the moment he didn’t feel very communicative. He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been weakness, frustration over hearing the dazzling Lord Montrose calling him an object of pity and charity. He’d easily defeated that bastard at every game of skill and sport they’d ever engaged in at Oxford, and now the damned earl called him pitiful.
Since his return to London, every look and every whispered comment had reminded him that his worth as a man related directly to unsubstantiated rumor and the mere fact of his survival. It had practically struck him between the eyes that Tess Weller was the first entity in eight months and two continents able to make him forget…everything—even if only for just a moment. And then with her teasing, flirting manner—he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He hadn’t wanted to stop himself.
The servant set a steaming plate of roasted chicken in front of him. “Thank you, Hervey. Some of that Polish vodka, too, if you please.”
“I’ll see to it, Colonel.”
For the first time in months, he was hungry. And that was a good thing. He damned well didn’t wish to end up an invalid again, particularly when he’d just flung a challenge at a very sharp-tongued chit.
The front door of the club opened again. Apparently several Adventurers were feeling less than social this evening. Tolly wondered whether anyone else had kissed a lady and then fled.
“Well, if it ain’t the man and his monkey,” Thomas Easton exclaimed from across the room, and Bartholomew looked up.
He’d seen the imposing Captain Sir Bennett Wolfe on a handful of occasions over the past few weeks, and witnessing the uproar that had accompanied the explorer’s return from Africa had made him exceedingly thankful to have been more or less ignored, even with the whispers over the reason for his survival.
“Left your lady love at home all alone, did you?” Easton continued with a grin.
“I would say you’re less of a fool when you’re sober, Easton,” the captain returned, heading for the wall of bookshelves at the back of the club, “but I’ve never seen you sober.”
“I spent a bloody year in Arabia being sober,” Easton returned. “Never again.”
Sir Bennett searched the shelves for a moment, then pulled a book down. As he turned around his gaze met Bartholomew’s, and he changed direction. “Colonel James,” he said, offering his hand as he stopped at the table. “You’ve been asleep or drinking most times I’ve seen you here, sir.”
Tolly shook his hand, eyeing the young vervet monkey perched on the captain’s shoulder as it eyed him in return. In the month since he’d arrived back in London very few people offered to shake hands with him. It was a social, human gesture, and he frequently felt like neither of those things. “You’ve been chasing disaster, most every time I’ve seen you.”
With a brief grin, Wolfe inclined his head. “I think I’ve finally got it on the run,” he returned.
“I heard you were on your way to Greece.”
“Next week, as a matter of fact.” Hefting the book, the captain backed a step toward the door. “If Sommerset asks, I’ll have this back tomorrow. Just
“Colonel,” Hervey, the club’s other caretaker, butler, footman, and nanny said, approaching from the direction of the extra rooms. “Good evening.”
“Hervey.”
“Cook’s just pulled a roast chicken from the oven. Might I interest you in a plate?”
“Yes, thank you.” Refusing to grimace, Tolly took a seat at one of the empty tables scattered through the large room. From what the Duke of Sommerset had said, before he’d turned it into a gentleman’s hideaway the room had originally been a morning room and an office. However much the renovations had cost, it gave Tolly an otherwise nearly impossible privacy.
That was fortunate, because at the moment he didn’t feel very communicative. He shouldn’t have kissed her. It had been weakness, frustration over hearing the dazzling Lord Montrose calling him an object of pity and charity. He’d easily defeated that bastard at every game of skill and sport they’d ever engaged in at Oxford, and now the damned earl called him pitiful.
Since his return to London, every look and every whispered comment had reminded him that his worth as a man related directly to unsubstantiated rumor and the mere fact of his survival. It had practically struck him between the eyes that Tess Weller was the first entity in eight months and two continents able to make him forget…everything—even if only for just a moment. And then with her teasing, flirting manner—he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He hadn’t wanted to stop himself.
The servant set a steaming plate of roasted chicken in front of him. “Thank you, Hervey. Some of that Polish vodka, too, if you please.”
“I’ll see to it, Colonel.”
For the first time in months, he was hungry. And that was a good thing. He damned well didn’t wish to end up an invalid again, particularly when he’d just flung a challenge at a very sharp-tongued chit.
The front door of the club opened again. Apparently several Adventurers were feeling less than social this evening. Tolly wondered whether anyone else had kissed a lady and then fled.
“Well, if it ain’t the man and his monkey,” Thomas Easton exclaimed from across the room, and Bartholomew looked up.
He’d seen the imposing Captain Sir Bennett Wolfe on a handful of occasions over the past few weeks, and witnessing the uproar that had accompanied the explorer’s return from Africa had made him exceedingly thankful to have been more or less ignored, even with the whispers over the reason for his survival.
“Left your lady love at home all alone, did you?” Easton continued with a grin.
“I would say you’re less of a fool when you’re sober, Easton,” the captain returned, heading for the wall of bookshelves at the back of the club, “but I’ve never seen you sober.”
“I spent a bloody year in Arabia being sober,” Easton returned. “Never again.”
Sir Bennett searched the shelves for a moment, then pulled a book down. As he turned around his gaze met Bartholomew’s, and he changed direction. “Colonel James,” he said, offering his hand as he stopped at the table. “You’ve been asleep or drinking most times I’ve seen you here, sir.”
Tolly shook his hand, eyeing the young vervet monkey perched on the captain’s shoulder as it eyed him in return. In the month since he’d arrived back in London very few people offered to shake hands with him. It was a social, human gesture, and he frequently felt like neither of those things. “You’ve been chasing disaster, most every time I’ve seen you.”
With a brief grin, Wolfe inclined his head. “I think I’ve finally got it on the run,” he returned.
“I heard you were on your way to Greece.”
“Next week, as a matter of fact.” Hefting the book, the captain backed a step toward the door. “If Sommerset asks, I’ll have this back tomorrow. Just
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