Page 8 of Snapdragons
“Perhaps they did send word, but the letter went astray.”
“Or,” Niles countered as he began to pace, “they are so angry with me that they cannot put it into words and are simply waiting for me to return so they can murder me.”
“Murder? The Greenberrys?” Digby clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You certainly have the numbers to kill swaths of people, but I don’t know that your vast family has enough of a violent streak.”
“They might not be violent, but they will be disappointed. That is worse.”
“Worse than being murdered?” Digby’s theatrical scoff returned and, as it always did, helped a little.
“Somehow, you’ve managed to avoid being roped into a match of your family’s choosing.”
“A person’s family must care at least a little about him to bother making such arrangements. Since what family I do have doesn’t care if I live or die, I suspect there will be very little familial interference in my life.” Digby almost never spoke of his family. The Gents knew just enough from what Society whispered and the hints he let slip now and then to be fully aware that the Layton family was in the midst of a decades-long internal war, with Digby being too often used as cannon fodder.
“The Gents consider you family,” Niles reminded him. “And we absolutely care if you live or die.”
“Do you intend to arrange a marriage for me?” Digby eyed himsidelong.
“Heavens no.”
“And I don’t intend to simply give up and let your family force this one on you.” Digby’s tendency toward the dramatic meant a lot of people underestimated him. But he was one of the cleverest people Niles had ever known.
“Miss Seymour is probably a perfectly lovely person, and I’ve just caused her no end of embarrassment,” Niles said. “And for the record, I do not begrudge any lady her wish to retain possession of a property she has inherited.”
Digby rose and crossed to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re entitled to hold fast to your ambitions and hopes for the future as well. What you need and what she needs are in conflict. That would make a terribly shaky foundation on which to build a life together.”
It was a logical argument, yet it didn’t entirely assuage Niles’s guilt. “A gentleman is not meant to break an engagement.”
Digby’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly. “You said the arrangement hadn’t been finalized.”
“Miss Seymour and her brother were traveling to Cornwall so the marriage contracts could be signed and so she and I could meet. Grandfather was at least considerate enough to allow that before requiring that the match go forward. He left open the possibility of us not proceeding if we discovered we despised each other.”
“See there? You are simply taking the exit he allowed for.”
“But I still feel badly.”
Digby tugged at his lace cuffs. “That is because you, Niles Greenberry, have a conscience. I do not recommend it, as it causes such inconvenience.”
Niles laughed. Digby had a knack for dredging up humor even in the most difficult of situations. “Perhaps I could try selling my conscience. If I received enough blunt for it, I could simply buythe land I want. Then Grandfather could marry me off to any lady he chose.”
But he inwardly winced at that. Giving up his hopes for his life’s work was a harrowing prospect, but marrying someone he didn’t love would be a far more difficult pill to swallow.
“I stand by the first plan I suggested,” Digby said. “Don your yellows, resurrect The Cornish Duke, and win the rest of the money you need.”
“I don’t fight anymore.” Niles was firm about that.
“But, Niles, you were so blasted good.”
He couldn’t help a satisfied smile. “I know.”
His fists, after all, were what had gained him entry into the Gents. And those fists had won him enough purses to be achingly close to having land of his own. But there were risks in pugilism that he could no longer justify.
The butler entered a few minutes later. “A visitor has arrived, Mr. Layton.”
Digby offered Niles an explanation. “I wrote to the Gents to tell them you were in a bit of a bind. No doubt they’ve jumped at the opportunity to scheme with us a little.”
No doubt.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the butler said, “but it is not one of your friends.”
