Page 72 of To Beguile a Banished Lord

“Human?”Rollo supplied.

Fitz’s smirk suggested he would pay for that impudence later.He could hardly wait.

“Father was wondering what you might do to punish that mail coach chap, the one who stole Rolly’s letters,” said Willoughby.“I think Rolly has a few ideas, but none suitable for drawing room discourse.”

“I’m going to find him work,” answered Fitz, surprisingly.“Especially as I intend to spend much more of my time in London and elsewhere than I have of late.”He threw Rollo a fond look.“Which means Will Elliot will need assistance and company.Ralph Hart is not an entirely stupid man.He has enough wit to keep Will amused and, furthermore, to drive him wherever he chooses to go.”

Fitz cast his gaze over to his old friend, currently engaged in a healthy discourse with Kit.“I’m determined that he gets out more.Whether it will be joining me occasionally in London or visiting his spurious relatives in Norwich.If indeed, they exist.”

“I think you’ve met your match,” whispered Willoughby after Fitz moved on to greet Will Elliot over by the bookshelves.They watched as he bent and kissed Will on each cheek as though it was the most natural thing in the world.“I think I shall enjoy your Fitz’s company very much.”

“I’m so pleased you like him,” declared Rollo.He assisted his brother back to the settee and arranged the pouffe to his liking.“He’s going to have so many allies in theton.People will be buying tickets to join our party.”

He took up the seat next to Willoughby.Will and Fitz were soon joined by the duke and their father.Ashington nodded at something the earl was saying, then laughed out loud and patted him on the shoulder.

“Our dear papa collects people,” commented Rollo.“Have you noticed?He gathers oddities.Outcasts.”

“Ashington is hardly an outcast,” Willoughby pointed out.“He’s the most powerful duke in the land.”

“No, maybe not Ashington.Though he regards Papa as a wise older brother.Together, they are a force to be reckoned with.But Kit, and Tommy.And before he’s had chance to object, Fitz will be drawn into the fold, you’ll see.Will Elliot is as good as a member already.All oddities.”

Willoughby nodded his agreement.“Yes, I suppose he is.And even Pritchard, in his way.”

Rollo laughed.“I didn’t say Father was perfect.”

Chapter Thiry-One

LYNDON RAN HIShand along the top of the mantel, his fingers coming to rest at the base of Major General William Ponsonby, of the 1st Dragoons.The hour was late.Will had been found a bed for the night, and Rollo had disappeared to assist his brother.Lyndon smiled to himself.Having Willoughby around would take some getting used to.The boys were peas in a pod.

Their father, the earl, still wasn’t quite Lyndon’s cup of tea, in the same manner that Lyndon himself and Tommy Squire would never quite be bosom chums either.They’d rub along though, for the sake of Benedict.Lyndon could manage that.

He yawned, ready for his own bed.It had been a day of two halves (the second by far more palatable than the first), the kind of day that would live inside him forever.

The smooth pewter soldier cooled his warm skin.Ponsonby had been a worthy adversary.In fact, during Lyndon’s long exile, every single soldier in the 1stRoyal Dragoons had kept him well occupied.He rather fancied he might not have made it through without them.

Rollo awaited him in his bedchamber.Soon, Lyndon would climb the stairs and join him, whereupon, despite his exhaustion, he intended to twist that supple, little body into the kind of knots keen fishermen only dreamed of.

For the last time, he hefted Major General Ponsonby in his palm.The toy had a nice, solid weight to it.It was a shame to say goodbye, really, but the battle was done.He’d have Greaves tidy them all away tomorrow.Settle them into a new home inside the old toy chest, nestled inside the warm folds of an unfashionable red dress.A dream come true for most serving soldiers.His bow and quiver of arrows could be stowed in there, too, though he’d still enjoy a snifter or two of brandy of an evening.Even his dear boy couldn’t rid him ofallof his bad traits.Pissing in the fireplace, though, he probably shouldn’t push his luck with that one.Young Rollo Duchamps-Avery’s tongue might be mostly laced with honey, but his eyes could kill without ever drawing blood.And right now, they’d be demanding a gallon of his if he didn’t get up those damned stairs.

On that note, Lyndon pressed his lips to the proud general.Then, after carefully placing him back on the mantelpiece at the head of his men, he headed for the door.