what taverns you favor with your commerce."
The groom rubbed the side of his nose with a crooked finger. "I figure a man's got to watch to his 'orizens, sir."
"Just as well, for my purposes."
"Sir?"
Branstoke's thin smile cracked to reveal straight, white teeth. "Sit down, George, and have a cup of coffee. You do drink something other than libationary spirits, I presume?"
"Course I do, and I'd be right honored, guv'nor." He sat down on the edge of a chair before the desk, hands on his knees as he waited for Sir Branstoke to pour him a cup. He almost wished that Friday-faced butler, Charwood, could see him sittin' here with his nibs. Sir Branstoke weren't never one to stand on points. Treated a man fair, he did.
"I do seem to remember, George," Branstoke drawled as he handed him his cup, "with what remarkable agility you foraged in Portugal and Spain."
George grinned. "That were a trooper's art, sir. One I'll own a mite o' proficiency in."
"Yes, and I have always been of the mind that should I have failed to take you with me when I sold out in ' 14, you'd have ended as gallows bait. Now I find myself wondering if perhaps all my efforts were in vain. I should hate to discover at this late date that I made an error in judgment."
Indignant outrage skewered Romley's visage. "As if I would ever, sir!" He paused and shrugged philosophically. "Leastways while I were in your employ. You was always up to every rig and row. There weren't no fobbin' you off with any gammon."
"I am happy to see we understand each other so well," Branstoke said evenly, though his hooded eyes gleamed with hidden amusement.
"Well, course, sir. Now tell me, guv'nor," Romley said, leaning forward across the desk, "how come I'm gettin' the nacky notion that you've a lay for me akin to them Penins'lar days?"
"I suppose, George, that's because I do," Branstoke said slowly, appreciating his man's shrewdness. He'd chosen wisely.
"I knew it!" Romley crowed, slapping a hand on his knee.
"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," he said drily. He picked up the letter he had written, absently tapping it against the blotter. "I suggest you listen intently. I want you to deliver this letter to Mr. Hewitt, Mr. Dabney Hewitt."
"Hewitt! I remember him! Bad sort, guv'nor, very bad sort. What do you be wanting with the likes of him?"
A slight smile pulled at Branstoke's thin lips. "He was, as you say, a bad sort and would likely have been cashiered from the military if our need for men had not been so great. We were, perforce, left with the likes of men of his ilk."
"Should ha' marked him for cannon fodder," Romley grumbled.
" War never slays a bad man in its course, but the good always! " murmured Branstoke.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?"
Branstoke smiled. "Sophocles. Never mind, George. Suffice it to say, life is never that easy, and I, for one, never held it that cheap. You see, I once had the questionable good fortune to save Mr. Hewitt's miserable life from extinction."
"Good fortune, bah!"
Branstoke stopped tapping the letter and stared blankly at it, as if seeing something else entirely. "The interesting thing about Hewitt is that he has his own sense of morality. It's a very rigid morality, in its own way. As I saved his life, he believes that he owes me a favor. It seems he believes he must do something important for me that will wipe the slate clean between us. He is determined in this."
George grunted. "So he said then; but guv'nor, there's promises and then there's promises. I don't hold faith with the likes of him keepin' promises."
Branstoke laid the letter down and leaned back in his chair. "So I would have thought myself. We are wrong. Truthfully, I'd forgotten all about the incident until I chanced to run into him again six months or so ago. It is not important how that occurred. Let it stand that I came away with my purse and body intact. This, however, was not sufficient for Mr. Hewitt. He lamented being beholden to a flash cove such as myself,
The groom rubbed the side of his nose with a crooked finger. "I figure a man's got to watch to his 'orizens, sir."
"Just as well, for my purposes."
"Sir?"
Branstoke's thin smile cracked to reveal straight, white teeth. "Sit down, George, and have a cup of coffee. You do drink something other than libationary spirits, I presume?"
"Course I do, and I'd be right honored, guv'nor." He sat down on the edge of a chair before the desk, hands on his knees as he waited for Sir Branstoke to pour him a cup. He almost wished that Friday-faced butler, Charwood, could see him sittin' here with his nibs. Sir Branstoke weren't never one to stand on points. Treated a man fair, he did.
"I do seem to remember, George," Branstoke drawled as he handed him his cup, "with what remarkable agility you foraged in Portugal and Spain."
George grinned. "That were a trooper's art, sir. One I'll own a mite o' proficiency in."
"Yes, and I have always been of the mind that should I have failed to take you with me when I sold out in ' 14, you'd have ended as gallows bait. Now I find myself wondering if perhaps all my efforts were in vain. I should hate to discover at this late date that I made an error in judgment."
Indignant outrage skewered Romley's visage. "As if I would ever, sir!" He paused and shrugged philosophically. "Leastways while I were in your employ. You was always up to every rig and row. There weren't no fobbin' you off with any gammon."
"I am happy to see we understand each other so well," Branstoke said evenly, though his hooded eyes gleamed with hidden amusement.
"Well, course, sir. Now tell me, guv'nor," Romley said, leaning forward across the desk, "how come I'm gettin' the nacky notion that you've a lay for me akin to them Penins'lar days?"
"I suppose, George, that's because I do," Branstoke said slowly, appreciating his man's shrewdness. He'd chosen wisely.
"I knew it!" Romley crowed, slapping a hand on his knee.
"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," he said drily. He picked up the letter he had written, absently tapping it against the blotter. "I suggest you listen intently. I want you to deliver this letter to Mr. Hewitt, Mr. Dabney Hewitt."
"Hewitt! I remember him! Bad sort, guv'nor, very bad sort. What do you be wanting with the likes of him?"
A slight smile pulled at Branstoke's thin lips. "He was, as you say, a bad sort and would likely have been cashiered from the military if our need for men had not been so great. We were, perforce, left with the likes of men of his ilk."
"Should ha' marked him for cannon fodder," Romley grumbled.
" War never slays a bad man in its course, but the good always! " murmured Branstoke.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?"
Branstoke smiled. "Sophocles. Never mind, George. Suffice it to say, life is never that easy, and I, for one, never held it that cheap. You see, I once had the questionable good fortune to save Mr. Hewitt's miserable life from extinction."
"Good fortune, bah!"
Branstoke stopped tapping the letter and stared blankly at it, as if seeing something else entirely. "The interesting thing about Hewitt is that he has his own sense of morality. It's a very rigid morality, in its own way. As I saved his life, he believes that he owes me a favor. It seems he believes he must do something important for me that will wipe the slate clean between us. He is determined in this."
George grunted. "So he said then; but guv'nor, there's promises and then there's promises. I don't hold faith with the likes of him keepin' promises."
Branstoke laid the letter down and leaned back in his chair. "So I would have thought myself. We are wrong. Truthfully, I'd forgotten all about the incident until I chanced to run into him again six months or so ago. It is not important how that occurred. Let it stand that I came away with my purse and body intact. This, however, was not sufficient for Mr. Hewitt. He lamented being beholden to a flash cove such as myself,
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