A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(9)

“Flintridge? What about Eton? We told his mother we’d give him the best.”

“The best for Finn. Flintridge offers an excellent education, closer to home. Besides, the Brights own a dry-goods shop, and you want to send him to Eton? You know he’d feel out of place.”

Colin knew all about Eton and feeling out of place. He’d arrived there a young tragedy at the age of eight. Freshly orphaned, still reeling from the loss of his parents. At that time, small for his age. He would have been a favorite target even without the nightmares. The nightmares just added verbal taunts to the bullies’ arsenal. He could still hear their mocking falsetto.

“Mother!” they’d squawk down the corridors. “Mother, wake!”

The first year had been torture. But he’d done well in the end.

“I know the adjustment won’t be easy,” Colin said. “But I can teach Finn how to hold his own. He needs to see a bit more of the world, lose that wide-eyed country wonder. He should have a tutor, so he’s not lagging behind in his studies. And if I outfit him with a fine pair of Hobys and take him round to the boxing club, he can dazzle the impressionable boys and kick the obstinate ones in the arse.”

Colin stared through the window of the Bull and Blossom, to where Finn Bright leaned against the wall, grazing elbows with his twin brother, Rufus. From their shocks of white-blond hair to their gangly arms and mischievous smiles, the Bright twins were identical. Or at least they had been, until last summer—when an artillery blast had taken Finn’s left foot.

“It was an accident,” Bram said, reading his thoughts.

“One I might have prevented.”

“I could have prevented it, too.”

Colin tapped a finger against the window. “Look at him. He’s healed, but he’s restless. The weather’s growing warm. He sees the rest of the youths his age all running off to play cricket, work the fields, chase the girls . . . It’s sinking in, for the first time, what this means. What it will mean, for the rest of his life. I know you have to understand.”

Bram had taken a shot to the knee in Spain, over a year ago now. He’d kept the leg, but he still walked with a limp, and the injury had ended his career in field command. One would think his resistance to the idea should soften.

One would be wrong. Bram’s expression looked every bit as soft as granite.

“Colin, you shouldn’t have made the boy such promises. You’re always doing this. I’ve no doubt you meant well, but your good intentions land like mortar shells. Again and again, you fire off that mouth of yours, and the innocents around you get hurt.”

Colin winced, thinking of Minerva Highwood last night. That single tear streaking down her face.

“This is precisely why I can’t release you any funds,” Bram went on. “You’ll spin a fine tale about wholesome days spent mentoring Finn, and by night I know you’ll end right back in the clubs and hells.”

“Damn it, how I spend my nights is my own concern. I can’t stay in this place, Bram. You have no idea.”

“Oh, but I do. I have a very good idea.” Bram stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve commanded regiments in battle. Do you think I don’t know what witnessing death and bloodshed does to a man? The nightmares, the restlessness. The drinking. The shadow that lingers years, even decades later. I’ve known many a battle-shocked soldier.”

As he absorbed his cousin’s meaning, Colin’s pulse pounded. Naturally, Bram knew about the accident. Almost everyone in his social circle knew about the accident. But the rest were well-mannered enough to understand—Colin didn’t discuss it. Ever.

He said, “I’m not one of your battle-shocked soldiers.”

“No. You’re my family. Can’t you understand? I want to see you move past this.”

“Move past it?” Colin laughed bitterly. “Why hadn’t I ever thought of that?” He slapped his forehead. “I’ll simply move past it. What a bloody brilliant idea. Here’s one for you, Bram. Just straighten up and stop limping. And Finn . . . well, Finn can just grow a new foot.”

Bram sighed. “I won’t pretend to know exactly what it is you need,” he said, “but I know you won’t find it in the gaming hells and opera houses. These next months are my last chance to turn you around. After your birthday, the accounts, properties, Riverchase . . . they’ll all be yours for the keeping. Or for the losing.”

Colin sobered, instantly. “I would never risk Riverchase. Never.”

“You haven’t even been there in years.”

“I’ve no wish to go.” He shrugged. “Too quiet. Too remote.”

Too many memories.

“You’ll need to manage the place,” Bram said.

Colin countered, “The land stewards have managed it well enough for years. They don’t need me there. And I’m happy living in Town.”

“That debauched, aimless existence you had in Town . . . You call that ‘happy’?” Bram frowned. “Christ, man. You can’t even be honest with yourself.”

Colin made a fist and checked the urge to use it.

He lowered his voice as Finn emerged from the tavern. “The boy has his things all packed, Bram. You can’t disappoint him.”

“Oh, I won’t disappoint him. I’ll leave that to you.”