No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(89)

“Where did it come from?” she asked.

“A man delivered it,” Mrs. Koch said. “I don’t know him, but he said it vas a gift. Vhat do you vant me to do vith it?”

“Can we eat it, my lady?” George begged. “Please, please?”

“Yes, can we cut it and eat it now?” asked Michael. “If my estimate is correct, we can slice it into about fifteen even pieces.”

“Can we give some to the rats?” Charlie asked.

Julia tapped her chin. “I don’t know if we should eat it. A gift like this—who sent it?”

“I don’t know, my lady,” Mrs. Koch said. “I asked him, but he said ‘a friend.’”

“I bet it’s from Major,” Sean said. “I bet he sent it! Please can we eat it?”

Julia did not think it was from Neil, but it might have been from someone of the upper classes trying to do a good deed. But why wouldn’t the person have left his or her name?

“Please?” James asked. “Please?”

Julia smiled. How was she to hold up against this sort of pressure? “Very well.”

The boys cheered.

“We will eat it at breakfast.”

The boys groaned.

She clapped her hands. “If we’re to have another race before bedtime, someone go with Mrs. Koch to fetch more cheese.” She almost smiled as Charlie and Jimmy both all but knocked Mrs. Koch over in their attempts to be the first to the kitchen. She would have smiled if she hadn’t seen Billy’s white face. The boy hadn’t said a word, but he had gone white as a sheet.

“Billy, what’s the matter?” she asked.

He blinked as though just remembering where he was. “Nothing, my lady. Nothing at all.”

“Are you well?”

“I… Can I go lie down? My head is pounding.”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

*

“I didn’t think it possible, but you look even worse tonight than you did last night.” Rafe Beaumont slid into the chair opposite Neil. They were alone in the dining room of the Draven Club, although it was well beyond the time when meals were served. Neil had lost all track of time.

“In fact, you look even worse than you did the morning after that skirmish in—”

“Stubble it,” Neil said, pouring more gin.

Quick as a cat, Rafe swiped the bottle of gin and Neil’s glass, handing it to Porter, who was conveniently passing by.

“What the devil?” Neil roared, rising.

Rafe blocked Neil’s path as Porter made his escape. “If you want to hit someone, old boy, hit me. I’m to blame.”

Neil stared at Rafe, and Rafe stared right back, refusing to back down.

“I would ask that you confine your blows to the area below my face. Others have found a punch to my breadbasket quite satisfactory.”

“I ought to break your nose.”

“And face the ire of London’s female population? They’re far less forgiving than me.”

“I don’t give a damn about London’s female population,” Neil said, but he sank back into his chair.

“And with the way you look, they won’t give a damn about you.” Rafe also sat, slowly, keeping his gaze on Neil. “If it’s any consolation, Porter had considered sending for Draven. I asked him to let me have a try first.”

“A try at what?” Neil muttered.

“Civilizing you for one. Sobering you up for another. How much have you drunk these past few days?”

“Who are you? My mother?”

“Oh dear God. You can’t even think of a clever retort. This is worse than I thought.”

Neil almost smiled despite himself.

Rafe leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. “Tell Uncle Rafe all about her.”

“Who?”

“Whoever it is that drives you to drink—never a good solution to the annoyances wrought by females, by the way. You had us all running in circles for the chit in Spitalfields. Is it she?”

“Be careful who you call ‘chit.’”

“Ah.” Rafe steepled his hands. “It is Lady Juliana. What happened? You love her, but she doesn’t return the sentiment?”

“What the deuce do you know about love?” Neil grumbled. For all his attempts to drown himself in drink tonight, he was still sober.

“I know all the symptoms,” Rafe said. “Hangdog mouth—check. Starry eyes—check. Quick temper, most likely due to sexual frustration—check.”

“Fists slamming into the face of the bloody idiot across from me”—Neil swung halfheartedly and Rafe leaned back—“check.”

“Fine. You don’t want to talk about it, then sit here and wallow, but I will say something before I leave you to it.”

Neil raised a brow. Rafe had sounded more serious than Neil could remember him sounding in a long, long time. “So you think to lecture me?”

“Pathetic state of affairs, is it not? Here’s the thing, Neil. We all lost friends and brothers-in-arms during the war. We were all part of the Draven’s troop, and we each have our cross to bear. You don’t have a corner on grief.”