He looked content. Content to be exactly who he was, doing exactly what he was doing.
Enough. No more staring. Benjamin took another, slower sip of weak, sour beer. The stranger, whoever he was, didn’t look anything like a typical King’s Head drinker. Benjamin had chosen this particular pub for several reasons: it was dingy, quiet, and close to headquarters without being close enough to attract suspicion. The men who drank here were not the swollen-headed upstarts who considered the presence of a man like Benjamin to be a challenge—no one here wanted to insult him or attack him as a way of gaining prestige. Being a war hero had many downsides, but the most irritating one had to be half of London’s petty criminals treating one as a walking target.
Benjamin didn’t like having to crack a skull whenever he went for a beer. He liked drinking, and working, in the company of men who had seen what he had seen, soldiers of old wars, old suffering. Men who’d seen such violence, such degradation in the name of eventual victory that they wished to do nothing more than drink and sit in companionable silence.
Fuentes de Oñoro. Albuera. Salamanca. Waterloo.
If he kept thinking about the list of victories, then he’d start thinking about the men left behind. One bright young man in particular. One bright young man, and a bundle of letters, and a cry that rang out in the midst of the noise as clearly as a church bell.
The anniversary was near. It seemed to come earlier every year. Damn. He’d clenched his fist so tightly that his nails had drawn blood on his palm. He’d seen so much blood over the course of his career. Blood on paler skin than his own; blood spattered on the slim white blooms of flowers.
Snowdrops. Banks of snowdrops, pale and obscenely white against the blood. Benjamin fought a wave of nausea—the cold, the godforsaken fucking cold of that wood, men stretched out moaning and crying on the frozen ground...one man lying still...
Henry.
“Do you have a favourite flower?”
The question came out of thin air; the voice was clear, idle, full of an arrogance that was as attractive as it was irritating. Benjamin looked up, his mind still in a dark wood.
The man in the corner was now standing in front of him.
Looking at him.
Smiling.
“Well? I know you heard me.” The man pulled a chair over from a nearby table, sitting on it with the grace of a dancer. “Do you have a favourite flower?”
Black hair in soft curls. Green eyes with a slightly feline slant. A mouth that seemed built for smiling, and whispering scandalous things, and—and—
And he’d interrupted Benjamin in the middle of a painful memory, with a question seemingly designed to make it worse.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Benjamin forced himself to look, and sound, as grim as humanly possible. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
“August Weatherby. Although I do not think I’m August Weatherby—I know I am.” Weatherby blinked; he had thick, full eyelashes, like a deer. Benjamin wished he wasn’t so strongly reminded of elegant woodland creatures. “I know I’m August Weatherby, but I think your favourite flower is the iris.”
“You’re wrong. It isn’t.” Benjamin drew his papers away from Weatherby. “I have no favourite flower.”
“A pity.”
“Why?” This conversation had rapidly tilted away from Benjamin, making his head spin. “What does it matter?”
“It’s good to prefer things. It shows a man has taste.” There was a curl at the corner of Weatherby’s mouth. “And the idea of a favourite flower has been very useful to me.”
“How?”
“Because asking you about it has left you too surprised to stop me from sitting opposite you.” Weatherby shrugged. “And now we’re sitting, and talking, for all the world as if we’re particular friends.” He looked over Benjamin’s shoulder, making an elegant gesture. “I’ve even managed to order a drink.”
The man had to be mad. But Benjamin wasn’t thinking of snowdrops anymore, or battlefields. All of his considerable attention rested on the man sitting opposite. As a girl arrived with a glass of beer, placing it reverently on the table between the two men, Benjamin wondered how on earth he’d managed to lose control of the situation in less than a minute.
He was tense. More tense than was encouraged, or even acceptable, in situations where control was needed. Or perhaps tense was incorrect.
He felt excited. Strangely, powerfully excited.
“Fine, August Weatherby.” He pushed the beer glass over to Weatherby’s side of the table. “Tell me why you’re disturbing my peace.”
Weatherby held up a single finger. Benjamin waited, repressing a growl of impatience as the man took a slow sip of beer.
Weatherby finally put down his drink with a soft, contented sigh. “I wanted to offer you a job.”
Benjamin couldn’t help but let out an incredulous bark of a laugh. “You think I need money, you insolent young pup?”
As an insult, it lacked teeth. He’d called other men worse. But the slight glint in August Weatherby’s eyes at the words young pup, along with the twitch at the corner of his mouth, sent a slow shiver through him.
“No. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of your exploits knows that you get a remarkable amount of things for free.” Weatherby’s voice dropped; the soft murmur had Benjamin leaning forward. “Although just what you might accept remains something of a mystery to the wider world...perhaps you could even call it a state secret.”
For a way of revealing knowledge of a man’s proclivities, it had a certain style. The thrust of it was certainly veiled in enough vagueness. The question was why he was still listening to Weatherby instead of throwing him bodily out of the pub.
He was bored. He hated paperwork. And...
...and he was lonely. Which was why, instead of listening to every better instinct, he kept looking into Weatherby’s warm green gaze.
“The job.” He spoke as curtly as possible. “What job?”
Weatherby blinked; Benjamin resisted a small smile of triumph. “Oh, nothing really. A little protection work. One night only. Interested?”
Now it was Benjamin’s turn to blink. Glaring at Weatherby, he summoned up the spirited severity that’d carried him through battle after battle with both limbs and wits intact. “I don’t undertake private work. You’ve given me no real description of the job, no idea of what I’d face, no knowledge of who I’d be protecting, and no mention of remuneration. So no.” Pausing for emphasis, looking down at his papers for a brief moment, he delivered the coup de grâce. “Fuck off.”
Weatherby didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Benjamin kept his face determinedly stony, wondering how the hell the man had managed to get the upper hand again.
How could a stranger be so damned impudent? And why, for the love of God, were his breeches tightening as a result?
“Fine.” Weatherby yawned, stretching a little; Benjamin watched, inwardly snarling. “I’ll elaborate. I’ve made a number of enemies, due to an unfortunate tendency towards profligacy.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“How you wound me.” Weatherby smiled. “They’re not particularly powerful enemies, but they’ve promised to make my life short and unpleasant. One doesn’t need to be powerful to be a powerful nuisance.”
“You should know.”
“I say, Captain.” Weatherby tossed his head lightly, a curl falling to the middle of his forehead. Benjamin deliberately looked down at his papers; the sudden temptation to brush the curl behind the man’s ear was so acute it ached. “You are rather cruel. I’m telling you that I’m to be murdered two nights hence, and you appear to take the side of the murderers.”
“If you showed them similar impudence, I can only sympathise with their irritation.” Benjamin folded his arms, leaning back a little in his chair. It wouldn�
�t do to look eager. “Why two nights hence, and why me?”
“Anyone with even a passing knowledge of your exploits knows that you don’t hunger for an easy life. You have appetites for quite the opposite.” Weatherby’s eyes gleamed. “And two nights hence, I’ll be attending the Welland Ball. I believe my enemies wish to make an example of me.”
“How do you know the Wellands?”
“I don’t. I know a distant cousin of the Wellands—Daisy. She rebels against the strictures of her parents and wrangled an invitation for me to spite them. She wishes to pretend a courtship is taking place—an irritating pretence, but one I’m willing to do for a chance to drink champagne and dance.” Weatherby sighed, rolling his eyes. “But now Daisy is abed with fever, and my invitation still stands.”
“Simple. Avoid the ball.”
“But I don’t wish to. I wish to drink champagne, and dance, and mildly scandalise people, and I do not wish to be murdered for the privilege of doing so.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “And I wish to hire the best soldier in England to protect me.”
“You sound like a spoiled princeling.”
“I sound like someone who can give you three hundred pounds for a single night of work.”
More than a cavalry captain made in a year, for a single night? Who was this young man? “Your enemies must be very difficult to dispatch.”
“I don’t think they are. But then, I have no experience.” Weatherby placed his hand on his chin, looking at Benjamin with what appeared to be a deliberately dreamy gaze. “And three hundred pounds seems a positively economical sum, for a night of Captain Benjamin Frakes.”
Benjamin lowered his voice, half-sure that everyone in the pub had heard Weatherby. “Be careful.”
“Why?” Weatherby paused. “It’s simply a commission, Captain. Nothing to blink at.”
“You know damn well you’re not speaking solely of a commission.”
“Fine.” Weatherby shrugged. “I won’t pay you.”
“You’ve got a bloody nerve.”
“I know. Isn’t it exciting?”
It was thrilling. The rudeness of the man, the implicit challenge in his voice, was more intoxicating than a draught of whisky. Benjamin, biting his tongue, knew he had to bring himself back to earth. He sat back. “I... I’m not interested in fortune hunters. Still less interested in their schemes.”
“Fortune hunter? You’re no duke. I could hunt far larger fortunes than yours, if I was in need of money. I’m not looking for financial protection—I’m looking for brute force.”
“Then engage a boxer.”
“I can’t trade witticisms with a boxer. You’re famous for being excellent company.”
“I’m famous for being a grumpy bastard.”
“I know.” Weatherby held his gaze. “Exactly the sort of company I find excellent.”
Wherever Benjamin intended to lead the conversation, he found himself at an impasse. A sunny, tempting impasse, with Weatherby’s smile at the heart of it.
“Well, Captain? You haven’t told me if you’ll undertake my commission. Am I to dress myself in my very best clothes, and linger under a lamp post on the corner of Hardwicke Street at nine o’clock, waiting to go to the ball?”
“Yes. I believe this is known as leaving you in suspense.”
“I have another word for it.” Weatherby mouthed the words prick tease; Benjamin paled, sure that someone would have seen. “Any man of good sense would agree with me.”
Benjamin fought the urge to grip the man by the collar of his coat. “Then find a man of good sense.”
Weatherby seemed less than convinced by his show of ambiguity. “Not before the ball, Captain.”
“Go now. You’re beginning to be noticed.”
Weatherby looked around the room, his manner growing more formal in an instant. It was as if he had switched roles in a play; his posture changed entirely. “As long as I’ve attracted the right kind of notice, I can discard the rest.”
“Go.” Benjamin didn’t need to tell Weatherby that his interest was piqued; the man was more than aware of it. “Now.”
Smiling again, more softly this time, Weatherby leaned forward. Benjamin leaned back despite himself. As foolish as it was, he couldn’t shake the instinct that the man was going to kiss him.
Kiss him in public, something so utterly unconscionable that he could barely imagine it. Still, he feared it.
He reached out a hand, gently pushing Weatherby away. His fingers trembled as he touched Weatherby’s arm; Benjamin was almost sure he heard the man’s breath catch in his throat.
“Two nights hence, Captain.” Weatherby’s voice felt like moonlight on Benjamin’s skin. “Two nights hence.”
With a single look back, he was gone.
For a moment it seemed that the daylight had gone away with the man, leaving Benjamin in darkness. He looked back down at his papers, the numbers as unreadable as glyphs, and took a swig of his beer with a hand that trembled slightly.
Debt, dancing, protection...one-night-only offer...
It sounded...good. Too good to be true.
But all the same, he was tempted.
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ISBN-13: 9780369700070
The Vicar and the Rake
Copyright © 2020 by Annabelle Greene
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The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts) Page 28