growing wistful. "Not once, after you were grown."
It was one of her best tricks, that look. As a boy, he had been gulled by it times without number. He stared at her face, that lovely affectionate lie, and felt something dangerous spring awake in the depths of his brain, as if a sleeping wolf opened golden eyes in the dark.
He made an effort to give her his sweetest smile. "I disliked him excessively. And there was the small matter of various admirals, you see, who kept suggesting that I postpone my social engagements until I was no longer needed to blow up hapless foreigners in the interest of His Majesty's peace of mind."
"You might have left the service anytime these twenty years."
The wolf lay there, watching from the shadow. He imagined a wall, built a cage brick by brick to keep that other self at bay. With his fists safely trapped in his pockets, he said, "And done what, my love?"
She clasped her hands and looked down with a little shrug. "Gone into politics, perhaps. Certainly with your reputation you could have—"
"Starved to death quite nicely, I'm sure. You seem strangely naive for a woman your age, Julia. Medals are helpful, no doubt, but it takes hard cash to buy a seat in Parliament. And no"—he pushed himself away from the door abruptly—"my father would not have paid for it, I assure you."
"You don't know that."
"I know it," he said deliberately. "Do you think I'm still a ten-year-old fool, dear?"
Her smooth brow creased in a little frown. "What will you do now?"
Sheridan east his coat over a chair. He walked to a small table and picked up the dusty decanter that sat atop smooth mahogany, blew on the crystal stopper and opened it, sniffing the contents. "Do you suppose this is actually brandy, or some droll imitation that will cause me to fall down in amusing convulsions?"
"I worry for your future," Julia said.
He ignored that and set the decanter down again. "Best to let Mustafa try it. Nothing will kill him. I've attempted it myself several times, but no luck."
"Sheridan," she said, "what will you do now?"
"Now that I have no prospects whatsoever, you mean." He turned to the window, where the last ghoulish gray of daylight still flowed into the candlelit room. He put his hands on the sill. "I've been thinking about that. Cataloging my assets. I have my medals—I imagine those will bring a farthing for the lot, at the very least. My epaulettes might be worth fifteen guineas if I cleaned 'em up well enough. I've a presentation sword I can pawn." He leaned on one hand and massaged the back of his neck. "But perhaps I should keep hold of that. I'm a knight, after all. I might post a notice outside debtors' prison. 'Dragons slain. Princesses rescued. Naval battles and accidental harebrained heroics a speciality.'"
"You're in debt?"
"Oh, yes. Quite spectacularly." He laughed, looking back at her. "And the devil of it is, I didn't even have any fun getting dipped." He shrugged. "Can you imagine that just a few years ago I swallowed the bait again—that I was idiot enough to believe my father when he offered to loan me the money to invest in a stock he recommended? One of these damned railway notions, it was—with a locomotive engine, if you can credit that. It was certain— certain , mind you—to make so much blunt hauling coal, I could afford to leave the navy within the year."
She stood watching him, her fine lips pursed.
He shook his head and stared out the window. "I was ripe for the taking, I'll tell you. Been hanging off Burma in the monsoon for six months, waiting on those poor suckers of marines holding Rangoon. Foodstores all gone rotten in the heat—flies everywhere, mud stink and rain and nineteen out of twenty on board dying of dysentery or cholera or some goddamned disease that I don't even know the name of—and the putrid corpses showing up in the mud flats every time the tide went out. No land transport, the stinking Irrawaddy in flood; not allowed to go back, no way to go
It was one of her best tricks, that look. As a boy, he had been gulled by it times without number. He stared at her face, that lovely affectionate lie, and felt something dangerous spring awake in the depths of his brain, as if a sleeping wolf opened golden eyes in the dark.
He made an effort to give her his sweetest smile. "I disliked him excessively. And there was the small matter of various admirals, you see, who kept suggesting that I postpone my social engagements until I was no longer needed to blow up hapless foreigners in the interest of His Majesty's peace of mind."
"You might have left the service anytime these twenty years."
The wolf lay there, watching from the shadow. He imagined a wall, built a cage brick by brick to keep that other self at bay. With his fists safely trapped in his pockets, he said, "And done what, my love?"
She clasped her hands and looked down with a little shrug. "Gone into politics, perhaps. Certainly with your reputation you could have—"
"Starved to death quite nicely, I'm sure. You seem strangely naive for a woman your age, Julia. Medals are helpful, no doubt, but it takes hard cash to buy a seat in Parliament. And no"—he pushed himself away from the door abruptly—"my father would not have paid for it, I assure you."
"You don't know that."
"I know it," he said deliberately. "Do you think I'm still a ten-year-old fool, dear?"
Her smooth brow creased in a little frown. "What will you do now?"
Sheridan east his coat over a chair. He walked to a small table and picked up the dusty decanter that sat atop smooth mahogany, blew on the crystal stopper and opened it, sniffing the contents. "Do you suppose this is actually brandy, or some droll imitation that will cause me to fall down in amusing convulsions?"
"I worry for your future," Julia said.
He ignored that and set the decanter down again. "Best to let Mustafa try it. Nothing will kill him. I've attempted it myself several times, but no luck."
"Sheridan," she said, "what will you do now?"
"Now that I have no prospects whatsoever, you mean." He turned to the window, where the last ghoulish gray of daylight still flowed into the candlelit room. He put his hands on the sill. "I've been thinking about that. Cataloging my assets. I have my medals—I imagine those will bring a farthing for the lot, at the very least. My epaulettes might be worth fifteen guineas if I cleaned 'em up well enough. I've a presentation sword I can pawn." He leaned on one hand and massaged the back of his neck. "But perhaps I should keep hold of that. I'm a knight, after all. I might post a notice outside debtors' prison. 'Dragons slain. Princesses rescued. Naval battles and accidental harebrained heroics a speciality.'"
"You're in debt?"
"Oh, yes. Quite spectacularly." He laughed, looking back at her. "And the devil of it is, I didn't even have any fun getting dipped." He shrugged. "Can you imagine that just a few years ago I swallowed the bait again—that I was idiot enough to believe my father when he offered to loan me the money to invest in a stock he recommended? One of these damned railway notions, it was—with a locomotive engine, if you can credit that. It was certain— certain , mind you—to make so much blunt hauling coal, I could afford to leave the navy within the year."
She stood watching him, her fine lips pursed.
He shook his head and stared out the window. "I was ripe for the taking, I'll tell you. Been hanging off Burma in the monsoon for six months, waiting on those poor suckers of marines holding Rangoon. Foodstores all gone rotten in the heat—flies everywhere, mud stink and rain and nineteen out of twenty on board dying of dysentery or cholera or some goddamned disease that I don't even know the name of—and the putrid corpses showing up in the mud flats every time the tide went out. No land transport, the stinking Irrawaddy in flood; not allowed to go back, no way to go
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