A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(8)

Was it any wonder then, that for several minutes, he truly had forgotten Ginny Watson upstairs?

Minerva had paid the price for his thoughtlessness.

This was why he needed to be back in London. There, habitual debauchery kept him out of this sort of trouble. He and his friends roved from club to club like a pack of nocturnal beasts. And when he tired of the revelry, he had no problem finding worldly, willing women to share his bed. He gave them exquisite physical pleasure, they gave him some much-needed solace . . . everyone parted ways satisfied.

Tonight, he’d left two women profoundly dissatisfied. And he kept vigil with that old, familiar bitch, regret.

At least his days here were numbered. Bram was set to arrive at the castle tomorrow. Ostensibly, he was making the trip to inspect his militia after several months’ absence. However, Colin knew from his cousin’s express—he had other business in mind. After long months, Colin would have his reprieve.

Farewell, stone-cold quarters.

Farewell, torturous country nights.

In a matter of days, he would be gone.

“What do you mean, I’m staying here?” Colin stared at his cousin, feeling as though he’d just taken a punch to the gut. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain.” Bram gestured mildly. “This is the normal way with birthdays, see? Amazingly enough, they arrive on the same day, every year. And yours is still two months away. Until then, I’m trustee of your fortune. I control your every last ha’penny, and you’ll stay here.”

Colin shook his head. “This makes no sense. He’s surrendered. You just announced it to the whole village. The war is over.”

They stood in front of the Bull and Blossom, Spindle Cove’s one and only tavern. After overseeing the afternoon militia drill, Bram had invited all the volunteers to gather for a pint. There he’d announced the latest word from France, sure to blaze across every broadsheet in England tomorrow morning. Napoleon Bonaparte had renounced the throne, and now it was merely a matter of paperwork.

Victory was theirs.

Jubilation shook the tavern to its timber frame. Children ran to St. Ursula’s to ring the church bell. The first pint quickly became two, then three. As afternoon faded to twilight, wives and sweethearts filtered in from the village lanes, carrying with them dishes of food. Someone brought out a fiddle. Before long, the dancing would begin. All Spindle Cove—all England—had reason to celebrate.

By all rights, Colin ought to be rejoicing, too.

Instead, he felt dead inside. It was an all-too-familiar sensation.

“Bram, you needed me to oversee the militia in your absence, and I’ve done that duty.” At no small cost to my sanity. “I’ve even looked out for your damn pet sheep. But if the war is over, there’s no further need.”

“Whether there’s a need or not, the militia remains embodied until the Crown decrees otherwise. I can’t just disband it when the whim strikes.”

“Then Thorne can oversee it.”

“Where is Thorne, anyway?” Bram scanned the environs for his corporal.

Colin gestured vaguely. “Off doing whatever it is he does. Shaving with a rusted field scythe. Skinning eels with his bare hands, perhaps. He actually likes this place.”

“Ah,” said Bram. “But you need this place.”

Colin scrubbed his face with both hands. He knew Bram meant well. His cousin truly believed stranding Colin penniless in the Sussex countryside to oversee a local militia was his best chance at redeeming a dissolute existence. What Bram didn’t understand was that they were different kinds of men. Military discipline and rural life may have tamed Bram’s demons, but they were only feeding Colin’s.

There was no way to explain that in terms Bram could understand. And what was Colin supposed to say, anyhow? Thank you very much for giving a damn, but I’d rather you didn’t? Bram was his only family now. Over the past year, they’d forged a tenuous bond of brotherly affection, and Colin didn’t want to muck that up.

“Colin, if you want to leave Spindle Cove, you have options. You know the trust ends if you marry. The right wife could be good for you.”

He quietly groaned. Again and again, he’d witnessed this phenomenon with his friends. They got married. They were happy in that sated, grateful way of infrequently pleasured men with a now-steady source of coitus. Then they went about crowing as if they’d invented the institution of matrimony and stood to earn a profit for every bachelor they could convert.

“Bram, I’m happy that you’re happy with Susanna and the babe on the way. But that doesn’t mean marriage is a good thing for me. In fact, I think it would be a very bad thing for the woman I happened to marry.” He tapped his fist against the building. “Listen, I need to go to Town. I made a promise to Finn.”

“You promised Finn what, precisely?” Bram looked through the window, scanning the assembled militiamen for the fifteen-year-old drummer boy.

“I lost a bet to him, see. At stake was a pair of boots. I’d hand over my own Hobys, but they’re several sizes too large yet. So I said I’d take him to London for a new custom pair. And then I figured we’d make some trips to schools, so we can have that sorted out before autumn term begins.”

Bram shook his head. “I’ve already found Finn a school here in Sussex. Flintridge School for Boys.”