A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(68)

Thorne shook his head. “I have money set aside.”

“I see you’re determined to be stubborn and self-sufficient. I can respect that. But I insist you accept a gift, friend to friend.” He tilted his head at a long, gleaming rifle from the mantel. “Take that. It’s Sir Lewis Finch’s latest design.”

When Thorne’s eyebrows knitted in skepticism, Rycliff hastily added, “Professionally manufactured, of course. And thoroughly tested.”

Thorne lifted the weapon with his good left hand, testing its balance. It was a fine rifle. He could see himself out tramping the woods with this gun in his hand. Of course, to make the picture complete, he’d need Badger at his heel.

Damn it. He would miss that dog.

Thorne watched with curiosity as his friend gently rocked the sleeping baby in his arms. “You love her,” he said. “The baby.”

Bram looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Of course I do. Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s my child.”

“Not every father loves his child. How do you know you love yours?”

Thorne knew this strayed beyond the normal boundaries of their conversation, but if Bram wanted to do him a favor . . . this was a favor he could use.

Bram shrugged and looked down at his sleeping daughter. “I suppose it’s a fair enough question. I mean, as of yet she doesn’t do much, does she? Except deprive me and her mother of sleep, food, peace of mind, and sexual congress.”

Bram lowered his weight into the desk chair. Slowly, so as not to wake the babe. “When she’s freshly washed, she smells better than opium. There’s that. And even though I know it’s not statistically likely, no one could convince me she’s not the most beautiful infant in Britain.”

“So she’s pretty. And she smells good. That’s all you have?” If that was all there was to love, Thorne thought, he would have been chest-deep in it for ages.

“What can I say? She’s not much of a conversationalist yet.” Bram shook his head. “I’m no philosopher, Thorne. I just know how I feel. If you require a definition, read a book.”

Sliding his daughter to his left arm, he reached for his brandy and drew a healthy swallow. “Does this line of questioning mean there’s truth to the rumor? You’ve taken up with Miss Taylor?”

“Taken up?”

“Susanna’s had some very strange letters from Spindle Cove. There’s some talk of an engagement.”

“It’s only talk,” Thorne said. “No truth to it.” Not anymore.

“If there’s no truth to it, then how would the rumor be started?”

Thorne set his jaw. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

Bram shrugged. “Miss Taylor is Susanna’s good friend. I just want to be certain she’s been treated well.”

A white flare of rage rose in Thorne’s chest. He worked hard to conceal it. “My lord, when will this discharge go into effect?”

“You’ve permission to speak freely now, if that’s what you mean.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll thank you to mind your own affairs. If you make any further insinuations that disparage Miss Taylor’s virtue, we’ll have more than words about it.”

Bram stared at him, surprised. “Did you just threaten me?”

“I believe I did.”

He broke into low laughter. “Good God. And here Susanna and I were placing wagers on whether you even liked her. Now I see she has you utterly tied in knots.”

Thorne shook his head. She did not have him tied in knots. She hadn’t held him tied in knots for at least . . . fifteen hours.

Bram raised a brow. “Don’t take offense. Stronger men than you have been brought to their knees by Spindle Cove women.”

Thorne harrumphed. “What stronger men would those be?”

A knock sounded at the study door.

“How do you do it?” Lady Rycliff asked, marveling at the sleeping babe in Bram’s arms. “For a gruff old soldier, you charm lambs and babies with remarkable ease. Corporal Thorne, what is his secret?”

Bram gave him a stern look. Don’t tell. It’s an order.

Thorne wouldn’t disobey an order. But neither could he let that “stronger men” remark go unanswered. “It must have been the . . . the lullabies, my lady.”

“Lullabies?” Lady Rycliff laughed and turned to her husband. “I’ve never heard him sing a note. Not even in church.”

“Yes, well,” Thorne said. “His lordship sang them very softly. And then he made little kissing faces. There might have been a story about fairies and ponies.”

Bram rolled his eyes. “Thanks for nothing.”

Chapter Seventeen

After the midsummer fair, activities in Spindle Cove returned to the usual routine. Still nursing an adder-bitten heart, Kate embraced the familiarity as some comfort.

The ladies of the rooming house followed a predictable schedule during the summer. On Mondays they had country walks. Tuesdays were sea bathing. On Wednesdays they turned their hands to gardening.

And Thursdays were their day to shoot.

On this particular Thursday—a rather overcast, gloomy sort of morning—Kate had invited the Gramercys to join the ladies’ target practice at Summerfield, Sir Lewis Finch’s estate.