there any cognac to be had?’
‘No, sir, but Mr Partridge always keeps a bottle of fine Scotch whisky in readiness.’
‘A heathen beverage, but it will have to do.’
‘Very well, sir.’ The valet went to a cupboard and took out the bottle and a glass, which he placed on the table by Kit’s arm after pouring a generous measure. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘No, you can get on with whatever it was you were doing.’
‘I was polishing and cleaning Mr Cherington’s dueling pistols.’
‘I didn’t know he had any.’
‘I understand they were his father’s, sir. The late Mr Cherington collected such items, and this pair is all that Mr Tom has left.’
Kit smiled a little. ‘I had no idea that Tom’s father collected firearms. It’s a strange coincidence.’
‘Coincidence, sir?’
‘My grandfather collects them as well. The walls at Highclare are arrayed with a veritable arsenal, enough to equip Wellington’s whole army, I fancy. I spent more than an hour yesterday standing before one particular pair of dueling pistols, while my grandfather saw fit to lecture me about failing in my family duty by not marrying before now and producing the required heir.’ He picked up the glass and raised it to the valet. ‘Your health, Dudley.’
‘Sir.’ The little man gladly withdrew. There were times when he simply didn’t understand gentlemen. Didn’t understand them at all.
Kit sipped the whisky and glanced at the clock. The hands were creeping toward the half-hour; no doubt he’d have to go and winkle Tom out of the Prince of Wales.
Carriages were still passing to and fro in the street outside, and he could hear the jingle of spurs as groups of gentlemen strolled along the pavement. Just as the clock struck half-past nine, he heard someone coming up toward the apartment door. It opened and Tom Cherington stepped inside.
He was of medium height and slender build, with the same dark-chestnut hair and gray eyes as the sister of whose existence Kit knew nothing. He wore a rather creased light-brown coat and fawn trousers, and his simple neckcloth boasted neither gold pin nor jewel. His expression was heavy as he entered, but Kit saw immediately that he wasn’t very much in drink. His steps were steady and his aim deft as he tossed his top hat onto a hook on the wall.
‘Good evening, Tom.’
‘Kit!’ Tom whirled about, his face breaking into a grin. ‘You’re here at last! I thought you wouldn’t get my note in time. Thank you for coming, you’re the best friend in all the world!’
‘I’m overwhelmed by such a warm welcome. Actually, I’d have been here sooner but for the damned weather.’
‘But you’re here, and that’s what matters.’ Tom went to the cupboard to look for the whisky.
‘It’s here, dear boy. And should you be indulging?’
‘Dutch courage,’ replied Tom, bringing a glass to the table and pouring himself a liberal helping.
‘Dutch courage has a habit of turning into a morning after, and that’s the last thing you need.’
‘I want your company, not your advice, Kit.’ Tom sat on a chair opposite, stretching his legs out. ‘I meant it when I said that you’re the best friend in all the world, for although we haven’t known each other for all that long, I regard you as the stoutest fellow I’ve ever known.’
‘Flattery indeed.’
‘It’s the truth. A man needs a good friend at his side at a time like this.’ Tom swirled the whisky, smiling in a way that revealed how strained he was. ‘It was an ill wind that brought the Mercury and the Spindrift together in the spring. But for that singular misfortune, Rowe would have been safely away in Cowes by now, making it impossible for you and Thea to meet, instead of dawdling back here and having the execrable taste to sit down at the same green baize as me.’
‘Which brings me neatly to my most immediate duty as your friend and second; that of persuading you not to proceed with this