“Well, no one has told me as much, and to be quite frank, I don’t know that anyone here has the entire story, but putting together the bits and pieces… it seems to fit.” Arbuthnot popped a kipper in his mouth and chewed. “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d say that your brother had been sent afield to get the lay of the land. There hasn’t been much action in Connecticut, not since that thing with Whatshisname Arnold in Ridgefield back in seventy-seven.”
George was not familiar with Whatshisname Arnold, nor did he have a clue where Ridgefield was.
There are some damned good ports on that coast,” Arbuthnot continued, getting back to the serious business of cutting his meat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the rebels were putting them to use. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Captain Rokesby had been sent out to investigate.” He looked up, his bushy brows dipping toward his eyes as his forehead wrinkled. “Does your brother have any mapmaking skills?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Arbuthnot shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t, I suppose. They might not be looking for anything so precise.”
“But then what happened?” George pressed.
The old general shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, m’dear boy. And I’d be lying if I said I’d found anyone who did.”
George hadn’t expected answers, not really, but still, it was disappointing.
“It’s a damned long way to the Colonies, son,” Lord Arbuthnot said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “News is never as swift as we’d like.”
George accepted this with a slow nod. He was going to have to pursue some other avenue of investigation, although for the life of him, he did not know what that might be.
“By the way,” Arbuthnot added, almost too casually, “you wouldn’t happen to be planning to attend Lady Wintour’s ball tomorrow night, would you?”
“I am,” George confirmed. He didn’t want to, but his mother had spun some convoluted story that had ended in his absolutely having to attend. And frankly, he hadn’t the heart to disappoint her. Not while she was so worried about Edward.
And then there was Billie. She’d been roped into attending as well. He’d seen the look of panic on her face when his mother had dragged her from her breakfast to visit the modiste. A London ball was quite possibly Billie Bridgerton’s personal hell, and there was no way he could abandon her when she needed him most.
“Are you acquainted with Robert Tallywhite?” Lord Arbuthnot inquired.
“A bit.” Tallywhite was a couple of years ahead of him at Eton. Quiet fellow, George recalled. Sandy hair and a high forehead. Bookish.
“He is Lady Wintour’s nephew and will most certainly be in attendance. You would be doing a great service to this office if you would pass along a message.”
George raised his eyebrows in question.
“Is that a yes?” Lord Arbuthnot said in a dry voice.
George tipped his head in affirmation.
“Tell him… pease porridge pudding.”
“Pease porridge pudding,” George repeated dubiously.
Arbuthnot broke off a piece of his toast and dipped it into his egg yolk. “He’ll understand.”
“What does it mean?”
“Do you need to know?” Arbuthnot countered.
George sat back, regarding Arbuthnot with a level stare. “I do, rather.”
Lord Arbuthnot let out a bark of laughter. “And that, my dear boy, is why you would make a terrible soldier. You’ve got to follow orders without question.”
“Not if one is in command.”
“Too true,” Arbuthnot said with a smile. But he still did not explain the message. Instead he regarded George with a level stare and asked, “Can we rely on you?”
It was the War Office, George thought. If he was passing along messages, at least he’d know he was doing it for the right people.
At least he’d know he was doing something.
He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, “You may.”
Chapter 19
Manston House was quiet when George returned later that evening. The hall was lit with two candelabras, but the rest of the rooms seemed to have been shut down for the night. He frowned. It wasn’t that late; surely someone ought to be about.
“Ah, Temperley,” George said when the butler stepped forward to take his hat and coat, “has my mother gone out for the evening?”
“Lady Manston had her dinner sent up to her room on a tray, my lord,” Temperley said.
“And Miss Bridgerton?”
“I believe she did the same.”
“Oh.” George shouldn’t have been disappointed. After all, he’d spent the better part of the past few days avoiding both of the aforementioned ladies. Now they seem to have done his work for him.
“Shall I have your dinner sent up as well, my lord?”
George thought for a moment, then said, “Why not?” It seemed he wasn’t to have company that night regardless, and he hadn’t eaten much of Lord Arbuthnot’s repast.
It had to have been the kippers. Honestly, the smell had put him off the entire meal.
“Will you have a brandy in the drawing room first?” Temperley inquired.
“No, I’ll go straight up, I think. It’s been a long day.”
Temperley nodded in that butlerish way of his. “For us all, my lord.”
George regarded him with a wry expression. “Has my mother been working you to the bone, Temperley?”