Chapter Forty-two

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“Cavendish, I thought I might find you here.”

Rafe looked up from his glass of brandy. He was sitting in a tavern, not by the docks, but still far enough outside of Mayfair that he hadn’t expected to see Garrett Upton, the future Earl of Upbridge, striding toward him. Upton was dressed to the nines as usual. Black trousers, emerald-green waistcoat, expensively tailored black overcoat, and shining black top boots.

Rafe glanced down at his own rumpled attire. The same white shirt he’d been wearing for days, dark brown breeches, and scuffed boots. He’d never be as fine as the blue bloods. He glanced at the grim scene. A few barmaids, a few rough patrons. Dirty floor, chipped wooden chairs, mismatching glasses. His usual haunt, but certainly not a place for a swank like Upton. It was exactly where Rafe belonged, however. He fit right in here as if he were born to the place.

He squinted up at the future earl. “How did you know I was here, Upton?”

Upton pulled the chair over from the table next to him and straddled it. “Lucky guess, really. Claringdon told me you sometimes come here when you’re not at Brooks’s with him.”

Rafe smiled a humorless smile. “Claringdon knows me too well.” Rafe liked Claringdon. Claringdon was a duke now, it was true. But he hadn’t been born to it. No, Claringdon had earned his title in the war. Claringdon was the type of man who made sense to Rafe. Though, he had to admit, he liked Upton as well. As the nephew of an earl, Upton had been born to the ton, but he was the only son of a second son, not meant for a title. It had been mere fate that had taken the life of his male cousin, Lucy Hunt’s brother, in childhood. Upton stood to inherit an earldom one day but no, he hadn’t been born for it. Upton had been a soldier, actually. He’d been shot in Spain. He’d nearly died. Rafe could respect a man like Upton. Hell, he did.

A barmaid brought a glass of brandy for Upton. He took it from her and tossed her a coin. Then he turned his attention back to Rafe. “I hear you’re about to go back to France.”

Rafe nodded. “I am.”

Upton inclined his head and took a drink. “Not much work for a spy during times of peace. Is this your last mission?”

Rafe contemplated the amber liquid in his glass. “You know why I’m going.”

Upton turned the glass around and around in his hand. “To find the men who killed Donald Swift?”

Rafe took a sip. “That’s right.”

Upton narrowed his eyes on Rafe. “You told me once I should take my own advice.”

Rafe furrowed his brow. “I said that? When?”

Upton continued to turn the glass in his hand. “Last spring. When I told you how guilty I was over Harold Langford’s death. You said you knew how I felt.”

Rafe managed a half shrug. “I don’t recall.”

“I do.” Upton’s voice held an edge to it that hadn’t been there before.

Rafe tipped back his head and took another drink. “And what was my brilliant advice?”

“I told you that you shouldn’t blame yourself about Donald’s death and you told me that perhaps I should take my own advice.”

“I said that?” Rafe shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

“Funny. I thought it was quite wise.” Upton finally took a sip of his own drink.

Rafe scrubbed his free hand through his hair. “I’m not wise. There’s nothing wise about me.”

Upton set down the glass and braced his forearms against the back of the chair. “Yes. I assure you, there is. I know you have your score to settle but I want you to remember something.”

Rafe barely glanced up. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Don’t allow guilt over Swifdon’s death to haunt you.”

Rafe gave the future earl a half-smile. “Ah, so you’ve come to return the favor, have you? Give me my own advice? Remind me of my wise words?”

Upton stood and bowed. “That’s precisely why I’ve come. Well, that and another reason.”

Rafe looked at him quizzically. “Which is?”

“I know when I see a man trying to drown his sorrows over a lady by drinking too much.”

Rafe snorted. “You do, do you?”

“Yes, I do, and I thought I’d also give you a bit of advice I learned the hard way.”

Rafe raised his brows and looked up at the man who stood next to him. “Which is?”

“Don’t let the woman you love slip through your fingers because you’re being too damned stubborn to admit you love her.”