“No.” Rye had snabbled that order because the ship ferrying Fournier’s bottles across the Channel had been blown back to Calais by foul weather and then had to wait nine days for favorable winds. “I’m starting on my rounds for the spring orders. Everything slows down as winter sets in.”
“Try the brothels,” Dylan muttered, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. “A damned lot of libation is consumed in those establishments, and they have the money to pay for it.”
“I am not selling my grandmother’s champagne in furtherance of lechery.”
“Now you take up against lechery,” Dylan said. “I despair of you.”
That wasn’t quite right. Rye’s friends were worried for him. Nothing less than genuine concern would have them posing such pointed questions about the business.
“What aren’t you two saying?” he asked, feeling as if he were prying a confession from Otter or Louis. “Out with it. Is there some bill floating through Parliament to raise the excise taxes again?” Taxes were a fact of life, unless a man chose to do business with the gangs running the coastal trade, in which case extortionate schemes took the place of the crown’s levies.
Alasdhair rose to refresh his drink. “We’re hearing rumors.”
“London is perennially full of rumors.”
“Worse than usual,” Dylan said, eyes still closed. “About you. Mutterings that you were promoted because your incompetence in the field was getting good men killed.”
“I went out of my way to keep my men as safe as they could be under the circumstances. I followed orders, and you two know it.” Rye had always followed orders.
Alasdhair resumed his seat. “The gossip also bends in that direction—you dodged orders to avoid engaging the enemy.”
“Who didn’t? Every commanding officer was criticized for every order he gave, failed to give, followed, failed to follow, failed to follow quickly enough, or didn’t follow carefully enough. The men talked more than they marched.” Though these rumors were doubtless circulating in the officers’ ranks, if Dylan and Alasdhair had heard them. “Where are you coming across this gossip?”
Dylan yawned. “Here and there.”
“Over cards,” Alasdhair added. “Over a pint, along a bridle path, while indulging in my usual penchant for lechery.”
Since mustering out, Alasdhair had been a veritable monk. “If you are hearing the talk in all those places, and it’s reaching both of you, then somebody wants me to know I’m being slandered.”
And that, apparently, was the warning Rye’s friends were trying to convey. Fournier might resent Rye’s contract with the Coventry, but Fournier would also respect that Rye had a family connection to the Dornings. Fournier had gambled with the Coventry and lost—this round.
“I haven’t stepped on any particular toes lately,” Rye murmured, “so I am left to wonder why the rumors are gathering force again now, as well as who is behind them. What has changed?” If anything, banishing Jeanette’s in-laws from London in spring should have quieted the talk, not given it fresh life.
The silence that spread was broken by a burst of laughter from the dining room down the corridor. Elsewhere, life was rollicking along, nary a care in the world beyond whether to keep tomorrow’s appointment with the tailor or nip down to Brighton before winter descended in earnest.
“Might be time for you to check on your vineyards,” Dylan said quietly.
“I already checked on my vineyards.” Had escorted a pair of Jeanette’s younger family connections to France to learn the art of making champagne. Lord Tavistock and his cousin reported to Rye regularly by letter.
“Then check on your farms in Provence,” Alasdhair said. “The talk circulating now is the kind that can provoke a man to call out the fools spreading the gossip.”
“Move to France for a while.” Dylan opened his eyes and sat up. “Leave your horses and your pickpockets with us, and let the talk die down.”
Rye had tried letting the talk die down. Years after the cannon had ceased their volleys on the battlefields, he was still skirmishing with an unseen enemy. One who apparently wanted him either dead on the dueling green or permanently disgraced.
“I am done with killing,” he said. “If I know nothing else about myself, I know that.” Rye also knew he would not willingly abandon his boys, not as they were embarking upon the difficult years of adolescence.
They each needed to find a place in the world, and that journey was much easier when a lad had a home to navigate from. Then too, Benny might need a place to come back to, and a half-dozen émigré households relied on Rye’s support.
“Killing might not be done with you,” Alasdhair said, downing his drink and getting to his feet. “Powell and I will walk you home.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“They are children,” Dylan spat, rising. “Those little thieves and rogues you employ as your eyes and ears. They could summon the watch or land a few blows, but against a pair of toughs with knives, those boys would be powerless or, worse, distract you in a fight. We’ll walk you home, and we will take the streets, not the alleys you favor.”
Alasdhair rose as well, and while Rye could have held his own against either man in a fair fight, he could not best them both at the same time.
“I accept your friendly offer of an escort,” Rye said, standing. “This once.” They couldn’t nanny him at every hour, but that was not the point. The point was that a pair of generally sensible men who well knew Rye’s abilities with his fists and firearms were worried for him.
He ambled along through London’s noisome darkness, ignoring the invitations of numerous prostitutes, half of whom knew Alasdhair by name. While Alasdhair stopped to exchange a few words with one of them—quiet words Rye and Dylan weren’t meant to overhear—Dylan pretended to study the sulfurous illumination of the nearest streetlight.
“You really ought to spend some time in France, Rye.”
“That won’t solve anything.”
“It will keep you alive, which solves rather a large problem for those you’d leave behind. There’s something else you should know.”
In Rye’s late-night imaginings, where he relived old battles and prognosticated about new ones, he speculated that Dylan and Alasdhair were planning to leave England. The New World held vast opportunities for men who could work hard and plan carefully. He’d hate to see them go.
Hate it, but wish them well. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
“Deschamps is back in London.”
Philippe Deschamps, former officer in the French army, charmer at large, and opportunist without limit.
“We are no longer at war with France, Dylan, and I, for one, am pleased to keep it so.”
“He’s a dead shot, Rye.”
“So am I. Shall we be going? It appears our dear Alasdhair has been taken captive.”
“Dare!” Dylan called. “Leave the lady in peace, or pay her for her time.”
Alasdhair glowered at him. “A moment.” He passed something to the woman—a flash of metal gleamed in the lamplight—and jogged to Rye’s side. “What is the bloody hurry?”