"Stop that vulgar talk."
Philip frowned and retrieved the letter from Richard's hand with a firm tug.
"He's staying at a country estate held in high regard by Baron Stanford. He probably needs a suit for meetings with local landowners and influential families."
"Normally, yes. But do you remember the state Ryan was in when he left?" Richard leaned back in his chair. "He was probably drawing the curtains and sleeping until noon. Meetings with the local gentry? He most likely found someone to handle it for him and spent his days wandering wherever no one would bother him."
"..."
There was, Philip had to admit, some truth in that.
Ryan's condition before his departure had been deeply worrying. In public he'd maintained his composure—that hadn't changed—but both of them, who had spent years at his side, had noticed what no one else seemed to. He'd always been sparing with his expressions, but somewhere along the way he'd stopped having them at all. He'd grown quieter than usual, which was saying something, and had developed a habit of sitting motionless for long stretches, his gaze fixed on a point that didn't seem to be in the room with him.
And then there were the curtains.
When he wasn't at Headquarters and they came to his barracks, they'd find the windows sealed against the light and Ryan still in bed at noon. How many cups of terrible tea had they endured in that parlor, waiting? His butler was a man of many talents, but the preparation of tea was not among them.
Whatever the cause, Ryan had been quietly hollowing out from the inside.
He had never been a man who attached himself easily to things—but his friends, and the soldiers who'd fought beside him, had been among the few constants that gave his life its shape. When everything they'd done in defense of those men had been condemned after the war, the ground beneath him must have shifted entirely.
*And then Count Wallace joined the war council. And began his campaign.*
Many men of the Earl's standing quietly acknowledged their illegitimate children, in whatever limited way they could manage. Wallace had done the opposite—had made a performance of his contempt, had treated Ryan's existence as an inconvenience to be managed. It was Wallace, people said, who had spent good money ensuring that a young Ryan Wilgrave was assigned to the most dangerous postings—all to smooth the path for his legitimate heir, born the same year.
Every time the Count's name surfaced in conversation, Philip and Richard's exchanges on the subject tended to be brief, heated, and arrive at the same conclusion.
"In any case." Richard's tone shifted, something lighter entering it. "Whatever's happening out there, it seems the trip has done our Lieutenant Colonel some good. If things had gotten any worse, he'd have ignored the Baron's advice entirely and come back already—orders or no orders. But he's still there. And he's ordering a suit." The corners of his mouth curved. "That means something is improving."
Philip studied that expression with immediate suspicion.
"Richard. What are you planning?"
Richard didn't answer. He stood and began counting something off on his fingers, his lips moving slightly. Then he looked up.
"Philip—how much leave do you have remaining?"
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why?"
Richard located the envelope from Ryan's letter, still sitting on the table. He turned it over and examined the address written on the front. Then he looked up with the particular smile of a man who has already made his decision and is merely allowing the room to catch up.
"Let's go and get a little rest ourselves."