Page 93 of Dick Stone, Regency Stud
“Cold!” he exclaimed, scrambling away.
“Precisely,” she rejoined. “It’s cold outside of the blankets since you haven’t ordered coal yet. And that is why I must sleep here despite you sounding quite like Lady Millicent.”
Edward gasped. Lady Millicent Blatherwick — his great enemy — was an elderly busybody who had charged herself with enforcing the mores of the day in the most annoying way possible.
“Yes, exactly,” said Tabby, finally pulling her freezing feet back when it was clear he’d received the message. She pulled up the bedclothes to gaze at his midsection. “What are you wearing?”
Edward hiked the blankets to his collarbones. Why had he befriended an urchin who had once tried to pick his pocket several years ago? Was this divine punishment?
“Do you sleep nude?” she asked, most interested. “I’d heard some gentlemen do it, but it always seemed ridiculous.”
“I sleep in my smalls,” he huffed.
Tabitha lifted the blankets again and squinted to see them in the darkness. “I suppose you do.”
“And what about you?” he asked, his voice rising. “What are you wearing?”
Tabby looked down at the nightgown she’d obtained at great cost, feeling the burn hole regretfully. “Silly to make it rags already, but I guess I can sleep like you.”
She began to take the thing off when Edward stayed her with a powerful arm. “Leave it on,” he moaned. “This is a farce.”
His friend stopped her squirming and let the hem fall back into place. “That the Bible?” she asked, eyeing the book he had in his lap.
Edward laughed and tilted it to show her the cover and then the loose pages he’d tucked in the volume. Her head blocked the light of the candle burning nearby, so he gently directed her back to the pillow and held the book so she could see his father’s notes on the false treason claims that had altered the course of his life.
He recalled one potential problem. “Can you read?”
She squinted at the crabbed hand on those dark pages. “Enough to get by,” she said. “Who wrote this? Moses?”
Edward chuckled. “M’ father,” he said. “He must have taken the notes himself based on reports from his informants.”
“What does he write?”
“Lists four men connected to the gossip.”
“Did you do it?”
Edward turned to her, aghast. “Commit treason?”
“I wouldn’t turn ye in or blame you,” she reasoned.
“In which case, they could hang you, too!” he cried. “If I were a traitor, I’d expect you to report me and collect a fine reward. Nay, I’d demand it!”
Tabby scoffed and squinted at the spidery words. “Why four men?”
“These four were the only men with enough power in the region to fabricate the claim,” he said.
“What claim?”
Edward thought of those days in Portugal and suddenly felt tired. Only this morning, he’d been a resident at Mrs. Chaffinch’s, Tencendor’s fate unknown. The weight of the day was tugging at his eyelids.
“Well, it never amounted to actual charges. Just serious rumors. I’ll tell you some other time,” he said, leaning to place the book on the simple bedside table.
Tabby grabbed it, flipping past the notes from Edward’s father and studying the text.
“You’ve got a dirty book here, Dick Stone!” she exclaimed, taking in the illustrations of couples — and groups — engaged in coitus of varying types.
She bent her knees to cradle the volume and carefully turned the pages, all while Edward stared at the ceiling in horror. He should have known better than to use a positions manual to keep the notes safe.
