bill floating through Parliament to raise the excise taxes again?” Taxes were a fact of life, unless a man chose to do business with the gangs running the coastal trade, in which case extortionate schemes took the place of the crown’s levies.
Alasdhair rose to refresh his drink. “We’re hearing rumors.”
“London is perennially full of rumors.”
“Worse than usual,” Dylan said, eyes still closed. “About you. Mutterings that you were promoted because your incompetence in the field was getting good men killed.”
“I went out of my way to keep my men as safe as they could be under the circumstances. I followed orders, and you two know it.” Rye had always followed orders.
Alasdhair resumed his seat. “The gossip also bends in that direction—you dodged orders to avoid engaging the enemy.”
“Who didn’t? Every commanding officer was criticized for every order he gave, failed to give, followed, failed to follow, failed to follow quickly enough, or didn’t follow carefully enough. The men talked more than they marched.” Though these rumors were doubtless circulating in the officers’ ranks, if Dylan and Alasdhair had heard them. “Where are you coming across this gossip?”
Dylan yawned. “Here and there.”
“Over cards,” Alasdhair added. “Over a pint, along a bridle path, while indulging in my usual penchant for lechery.”
Since mustering out, Alasdhair had been a veritable monk. “If you are hearing the talk in all those places, and it’s reaching both of you, then somebody wants me to know I’m being slandered.”
And that, apparently, was the warning Rye’s friends were trying to convey. Fournier might resent Rye’s contract with the Coventry, but Fournier would also respect that Rye had a family connection to the Dornings. Fournier had gambled with the Coventry and lost—this round.
“I haven’t stepped on any particular toes lately,” Rye murmured, “so I am left to wonder why the rumors are gathering force again now, as well as who is behind them. What has changed?” If anything, banishing Jeanette’s in-laws from London in spring should have quieted the talk, not given it fresh life.
The silence that spread was broken by a burst of laughter from the dining room down the corridor. Elsewhere, life was rollicking along, nary a care in the world beyond whether to keep tomorrow’s appointment with the tailor or nip down to Brighton before winter descended in earnest.
“Might be time for you to check on your vineyards,” Dylan said quietly.
“I already checked on my vineyards.” Had escorted a pair of Jeanette’s younger family connections to France to learn the art of making champagne. Lord Tavistock and his cousin reported to Rye regularly by letter.
“Then check on your farms in Provence,” Alasdhair said. “The talk circulating now is the kind that can provoke a man to call out the fools spreading the gossip.”
“Move to France for a while.” Dylan opened his eyes and sat up. “Leave your horses and your pickpockets with us, and let the talk die down.”
Rye had tried letting the talk die down. Years after the cannon had ceased their volleys on the battlefields, he was still skirmishing with an unseen enemy. One who apparently wanted him either dead on the dueling green or permanently disgraced.
“I am done with killing,” he said. “If I know nothing else about myself, I know that.” Rye also knew he would not willingly abandon his boys, not as they were embarking upon the difficult years of adolescence.
They each needed to find a place in the world, and that journey was much easier when a lad had a home to navigate from. Then too, Benny might need a place to come back to, and a half-dozen émigré households relied on Rye’s support.
“Killing might not be done with you,” Alasdhair said, downing his drink and getting to his feet. “Powell and I will walk you home.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“They are children,” Dylan spat, rising. “Those little thieves and rogues you employ as your eyes and ears. They could summon the watch or land a few blows, but against a pair of toughs with knives, those boys would be powerless or, worse, distract you in a fight. We’ll walk you home, and we will take the streets, not the alleys you favor.”
Alasdhair rose as well, and while Rye could have held his own against either man in a fair fight, he could not best them both at the same time.
“I accept your friendly offer of an escort,” Rye said, standing. “This once.” They couldn’t nanny him at every hour, but that was not the point. The point was that a pair