That was exactly what he’d done, of course. Asked. Not done it himself, not taken charge or responsibility, just waved a hand and given the order and not considered what it might mean, or cost. A wave of guilt drenched him. ‘We can’t go through with it. This isn’t fair to you. I will explain—’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ Daizell said. ‘You look fit to drop. Let’s discuss it in the morning.’
Cassian didn’t have the mental acuity to argue. Hemanaged to get his breeches off, and piled his clothes on a chair, since he’d learned that leaving them on the floor meant picking them up off it again. He blew out the lamp, and groped his way to the bed.
It wasn’t uncomfortable, really, and the sheets were not damp, but on the other hand, Daizell’s body was a foot from his, if that, weighting the mattress. Cassian could feel his solid warmth without touching. He tried to balance as far over as possible, because he knew an accidental touch would be bad even if he found it hard to think why.
And he wished he wasn’t so sleepy, because here in the dark with Daizell next to him, he didn’t want to fall asleep. He felt they could talk long into the night, if only he could stay awake. But consciousness was passing from his control, and his eyes fluttered shut to the sound of Daizell’s quiet breath.
He woke with an arm across him.
The awareness was slow and confusing – a weight, a warmth – and then his mind sprang to life, and it was all he could do not to react. Daizell’s arm, around his waist. The thought thudded through him, pulsing in his groin. Was he . . . could he . . .
He didn’t move, careful to keep his breathing level and regular. A second later, he realised that Daizell’s breathing was as regular as his own. It was deep, and a little resonant. Actually, he was snoring.
He was asleep. Of course he was.
Cassian breathed out, slow and careful. Daizell was asleep. They’d shared a bed in a perfectly respectable sort of way – which, he reminded himself, was the only possible outcome of their association. Daizell liked laughing young ladies, or atleast he was happy to elope with them, and even if he should happen to like gentlemen as well, he was Daizell Charnage, a gentleman of uncertain fortune and dubious reputation. The Duke had already made a mistake with a man like that. One should learn from experience.
Then again, the nominal purpose of this month as Mr Cassian was to have experiences from which he could learn.
He allowed himself to dwell on that traitorous thought for a self-indulgent moment, then turned his mind firmly away. He should consider the day’s duties. They’d lost a full day thanks to the accident; they had to get to Stratford—
Oh Lord. He’d promised to help the eloping couple and tangled both himself and Daizell in what, under daylight and a clear mind, now seemed a quite ludicrous course of action. He had a feeling he might have run briefly mad, through tiredness and strong ale, and a powerful dislike of Sir James Vier.
And, also, a clear injustice. It was not right that a vicious rake should have guardianship over a young woman, and Miss Beaumont’s position was intolerable. His information was admittedly from the lady herself, who might be unreliable, and Daizell, who was certainly erratic, but on the other hand, he’d met Vier.
And come off worse, as Daizell had reminded him. That casual gossip about the Duke of Severn’s humiliation had stung viciously, not just because it was proof the story had done the rounds, but also because Daizell knew it and, Cassian discovered, he didn’t care to have Daizell regard him as a weakling or a figure of fun.
‘Umph.’ A grunt from beside him. ‘Urgh. Eh? Who did I – Cass?’
Cassian made a display of yawning, and gave Daizell’s arma shrug. He withdrew it, leaving Cassian bereft of warmth. ‘I beg your pardon. I’m all limbs at night, or so people tell me.’
‘Not at all,’ Cassian said meaninglessly. ‘Good morning.’
‘Morning. Oh God, that woman. Did we really agree to—’
‘Yes.’
‘Curse it. The ale here creeps up on a fellow.’
‘I had the same thought,’ Cassian said. ‘You said something last night about your reputation. Not wanting to be accused of eloping with another lady.’
‘More precisely, the same one twice.’
‘Even so. I think we should find an alternative plan, one that doesn’t involve your name.’
‘Like what?’
Cassian hadn’t got that far. ‘Um, I’ll try to think of one—’
Daizell yawned jaw-breakingly. ‘Ah, don’t worry about it. It makes no odds: I’m not going to be admitted to White’s anyway, so I might as well help a damsel in distress. And if she actually marries Marston that will deal with any scandal attaching to me. I’m more concerned about Sir James. The horsewhipping, obviously, but are there legal consequences for aiding an elopement?’
Cassian hadn’t thought of that. ‘If she’d agreed to marry him, he might have a case for breach of promise against her, if he wanted to be a laughing-stock. But against people who helped her? I suppose he could mount a civil suit for damages, but I don’t think it’s likely.’ He would engage lawyers if he had to. ‘I don’t think you should worry about it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Daizell stretched. His foot brushed Cassian’s leg, just the lightest careless touch, and Cassian couldn’t help a twitch. ‘Sorry. Actually, this might even be entertaining, and I’m always ready to put a spoke in Vier’swheel. But it strikes me we risk losing our trail while we muddy Miss Beaumont’s.’
‘That can’t be helped,’ Cassian said. ‘Perhaps I can start asking questions while you go and . . . buy a marriage licence under false pretences, and deceive a parson . . . oh God.’ He couldn’t help it; he started laughing, and felt Daizell join him a second later, shaking so hard he could feel the mattress shift under them. ‘Oh no. What’s happened to me?’
