Page 79 of Seductive Reprise
Rickard squinted at him, as if he wasn’t quite sure of his words. “It? You mean the boot blacking?”
Yusef raised his eyebrows expectantly, rather than clarify.
Rickard rolled a shoulder as he thought. “It’s fine.”
“High praise, coming from you.” Truth be told, Yusef hadn’t expected his former partner to adapt to life as a mercantile princeling, keeping business hours and upping his dress.
“Boring as shit, sometimes,” Rickard said in a jocular tone. “But there’s something to be said for not having to watch your back all the time. Of course, with friends like these…” He trailed off, leaving the implication for Yusef to infer.
Which he did, saying with a sigh, “I already told you why I had Bartle and Collins on you.”
Rickard’s brow lowered.
“I hadn’t heard from you in months! I thought you’d snapped, to be perfectly honest. Taken to drink or something.” He waved his hand in a circle, deciding not to voice his other worries. He didn’t need to inflame the man.
“Snapped?” Rickard’s growl was born not of insult, but confusion.
“You might not mark it, Rickard, but you’ve an awful temper. I should well know. What made you an excellent partner inSmyrna can easily be a liability here, especially when one becomes…” Yusef tried to shove away memories of Rose lazing about on his bed, drying her hair with a relaxed smile as she hummed to herself. “Domesticated,” he finished, feeling a bit queasy.
Rickard clenched his jaw, fixing Yusef with that cold stare that could set one’s hair on end if not accustomed to it. Yusef, however, had been on the receiving end of it for years, and took it simply as a matter of course. But today he found himself feeling mawkish, of all things, and he didn’t quite fancy a verbal spar. Not when Rose had slipped through his fingers for the moment, back to that damned coaching inn. His patience was wearing thin.
He looked down at his walking stick, spinning it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. There was no point in beating around the bush any longer; Rickard was perhaps the only person in this country whom he trusted, aside from his acolytes Bartle and Collins, who were paid for their fealty. So Yusef spoke to what was truly on his mind.
“I only mention it, you see, because I’ve a mind to settle on a similar sort of situation.”
“Domestication?”
“Precisely.” He glanced up at Rickard, his gaze deathly serious.
“I…” Rickard cleared his throat and sat up straighter, reaching to adjust his collar. “I suppose you don’t mean boot blacking.”
“No. Art, in fact. Galleries and the like.”
“Shit,” Rickard breathed out. “What would I know about that?”
“Probably as much as I do, for now,” Yusef said bluntly. “But more importantly, you’ve managed a wife rather well. As well as her…” It pained him, having to ask this, but he summoned every ounce of control he possessed and managed to keep his faceexpressionless. “Well. You seem to get on with her family. And she, I assume, gets on with yours?”
Rickard squinted at him, his mouth pursed, waiting to see what Yusef was getting at.
His former partner didn’t quite grasp it yet, but in this pathetic moment, Yusef was prostrating himself before him, desperate for aid. For he’d come quite undone after one night with the woman he loved. The same woman who seemed determined to make him crack, removing herself to Worcestershire and forbidding him from writing. His herculean efforts in damming up his emotions and desires had collapsed, the first crack appearing when he’d prematurely begged Rose to marry him, and the wave of destruction following when she’d sent that damned note and he’d immediately gone off in pursuit of her. And then some wretched woman had taken off with the fruits of her labor. He blamed himself, castigating himself for not protecting her. After all, that had been his aim in tearing about London on horseback, hadn’t it? To offer her his protection? And in that he’d failed. Spectacularly.
Just as he’d failed with her so many times before. Every apology, every gesture, wrong. He hated this feeling, failure. It felt positively low-class.
Once Yusef could’ve waited for ages. Now he couldn’t bear the thought of suffering her absence for another hour.
“Is this about being godfather?” Rickard finally mumbled, obviously uncertain he’d hit on the correct answer. “Damn it, you know I’m good for my word.”
“No, it’s not about that!” Yusef snarled, fed up with himself and these… emotions ruling his head. He quickly rebounded back to his usual aloof manner, adding, “Though that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the honor. I am humbled and overjoyed and expect an invite to the christening in due course—with Mrs. Rickard’s blessing, that is.”
That said, he gripped his walking stick fiercely, and allowed his frustration to break free once more.
“Only yesterday I proposed. She wanted to think on it, wasn’t able to respond in the moment. Fine. And then… damn it, she’s left the city. Just took off for her family. Barely sent me two lines to tell me. Barred me from writing. I can’t bear it, not knowing.” Yusef decided to leave out the part that painted him in a poor light, realizing suddenly that he did not want Rickard to know that he’d failed to capture, or even attempt to capture, the portrait thief. For Rickard most certainly would’ve pursued that haggard woman to the ends of the earth. Yusef had merely cut his losses and maintained his composure as propriety demanded. He clenched his fists, then choked out, “She has no… love for my kind.”
Surprise, then confusion passed over Rickard’s face, followed immediately by a dark, murderous glower. “Yourkind? As in—”
“No, not that kind,” Yusef interrupted, suppressing a groan. “Thiskind,” he said, tapping his finger atop the gold mount of his walking stick. “Perhaps I’ve failed to mention that my father, my illegitimate father, is the damnedDuke of Marbury.” With that, he thrust the walking stick in Rickard’s face so he might see the engraving of the letterPtopped by a duke’s coronet.Pfor Palgrave. Deaton-Palgrave.
Comprehension dawned on Rickard’s face, and he crossed his arms thoughtfully, reclining back into the plushly upholstered seat. “Huh.” He reached up to scratch at his beard.
