‘Well, then,’ Daizell said, trying not to let his weariness show, and reached forPaterson’s British Itineraryagain.
Chapter Twelve
It was a long way to Coventry. That would help throw any possible pursuer off, which was good. On the other hand, it gave Daizell too much time to think about things.
He was beginning to fear Cassian was richer than he’d thought – the pack of concerned relatives, the fact that he’d barely taken the public stage before, the absurd wager, the heirloom ring. That was disheartening. A quiet country gentleman possessed of a competence might live very happily with a companion out of the public eye. Rich men had responsibilities, and people around them who guarded their wealth, and perhaps pressures to marry.
Not that Daizell had any right or reason to dream of that imagined quiet existence. He knew perfectly well it was too much to ask of life. Unfortunately, that knowledge didn’t stop him hoping. He always hoped. He wished he could stop.
Cassian had called him the best companion he could have asked for, and Daizell felt so much the same that it hurt a little. Cassian was delightful in his unobtrusive way – a good friend, a fascinating lover, a competent ally, an entertaining partner in absurdity – and Daizell didn’t want to think about parting. About Cassian going back to his established life where people poked at him to be louder and thought he was a nonentity, and nobody listened to what he wanted. About Daizell being alone again, but far more alone now because he’d feel Cassian’s absence. About the fact that if Cassian waswealthy they’d unquestionably have to part, because nobody would be pleased to see a well-off young man turn up with George Charnage’s son in tow. Cassian would know that as well as anyone.
And yet he had said he wanted to keep on being together.
Daizell couldn’t let himself draw too much significance from that, or he’d destroy himself with hoping. Almost certainly Cassian had just meant until his month was up. But still he had said ‘keep on’, not ‘keep on for the rest of the month’, and Daizell’s idiot heart couldn’t be persuaded to let that go.
He ought to do something sensible, such as talk to Cassian about what he really meant. He didn’t dare. For one, they’d only known each other a handful of days, for all it felt like a lifetime. For another, he didn’t want to press Cassian to anything. He was the one with a life and a family and things to lose. Daizell had lost those things, and he couldn’t bear to think of Cassian going through that, especially not with himself as the cause. For a third, the reason he was trying to hide behind the rest, he remembered very clearly the disgust in Martin’s voice.Christ, stopwantingthings of me, it’s revolting.
Martin had not been at his best then, and he’d apologised since, but the words still hurt. Daizell liked people, and liked to be liked, and ‘revolting’ had sat under his skin for a long time now. So no, he was not going to make demands of Cassian, who was a grown man perfectly capable of saying what he wanted when, or if, he wanted it.
God, Daizell wished he would.
Brooding at least distracted him through the tedious journey to Coventry. It was well past four when they arrived.
‘It’s this way for the Green Lion,’ Daizell said. ‘I vote we head there first, see if Martin’s there, or if anyone knowswhere to find him. And, indeed, take lodgings while we’re at it.’
Cassian nodded. ‘It seems ridiculous to say I’m tired when I’ve done nothing but sit all day, but I’m exhausted. I am sorry for inflicting this on you.’
‘Can’t be helped. Nevertheless, unless we have a very firm lead, may I suggest we don’t spend tomorrow in a coach? Coventry has a wonderful cathedral. It would be a shame for you to miss it.’
That was shameless manipulation, and Cassian duly perked up. ‘Yes, of course. Would you care to come? I suppose you’ve been a dozen times already.’
‘Never set foot there in my life. You can tell me all about it.’
The Green Lion was much as ever. Forster, the landlord, gave Daizell a warm welcome and Cassian an interested once-over. ‘Room, is it?’
‘For a couple of nights,’ Daizell agreed.
‘One bed or two?’
‘One will do very well. How have you been, old fellow?’
They caught up with news, talking of this and that for a few moments, before Daizell went for the question. ‘By the way, has Martin, Martin Nichols, passed through recently?’
‘No, not for a couple of months.’
Cassian didn’t curse, or sag, or anything dramatic, but Daizell heard just the faintest resigned sigh. ‘Blast.’
Forster cocked his head. ‘You want to see him? Thought you weren’t on terms.’
‘I’ve a bone to pick with him.’
‘You’ll have your chance if you can hang about for a few days. Which you usually can,’ Forster added unkindly.‘Martin’s always here for my Gracie’s birthday. She turns ten on Friday, so I dessay he’ll pitch up.’
‘Will he,’ Daizell said. ‘Excellent. Then we’ll be staying till Friday.’
Forster showed them up to the room, where Cassian dropped his bag on the floor and put his hands on his hips. ‘I have at least fifteen things to say at once. Have we truly found him?’
‘With a bit of luck.’
