Ross smiled. "Brandy will do nicely. I've never been that fond of port myself."
Peregrine had moved into his rented town house the day before, and having Ross to dine was a quiet celebration of being out of the hotel. As he poured brandy into two stemmed glasses, he reflected on the irony of the fact that in the last few weeks, he had seen almost nothing of Ross and Sara, whom he liked, but had spent large quantities of time with the man he loathed.
It was time well spent, for Sir Charles Weldon was coming to look on Peregrine as a friend and trusted business associate. Under cover of "friendship," the Kafir had stalked the Englishman, learning details of Weldon's business and personal life, and what his enemy valued.
Peregrine found perverse, decadent pleasure in the fact that he could laugh at Weldon's jokes, while under the surface hatred simmered and hissed like hell's own fires. While making light, witty comments, he visualized Weldon writhing under slow, infinitely painful oriental tortures. He bought Weldon dinner at the hotel, and poured wine as he prayed that his enemy would know the ultimate bitterness of betrayal. It was all profoundly satisfying, and perhaps a little mad, but Peregrine found dark satisfaction in every moment.
Oblivious to his host's thoughts, Ross accepted his glass of brandy. "Except for not liking port, you have adjusted to English society very thoroughly." He gestured at the ornate dining room. "You seem to have been born to this."
Peregrine's mouth quirked up. "You know better than that."
"It certainly is different from your house in Kafiristan," his friend agreed. "All those people and animals coming and going as they pleased. I never did understand exactly who most of them were, or how they were related to you."
"I didn't always understand, either. Kafir households are both hospitable and complicated, and most of those people were in no way related to me." The prince took a sip of his brandy. "Is your book going well? I haven't seen much of you lately."
Ross made a wry face. "I doubt if writing a book ever goes well, but progress is being made. Sorry I've neglected you, but after the first fortnight, you didn't seem to need assistance."
"No need to apologize, you're not my nursemaid. And you're correct, I have had no problems. Many hostesses enjoy having a tame barbarian in their drawing rooms," Peregrine said with sardonic humor. "Besides, I would not want to separate you from your work when the Muse is cooperating."
"It would be more accurate to say that the Muse and I are engaged in a tavern brawl, with the Muse striking mostly illegal blows. If my publisher wasn't demanding the manuscript weekly, I'd have given up by now," Ross said feelingly. "And there are distractions ahead because my mother persuaded me that it's my duty to give a ball in honor of Sara and Sir Charles. It will be held at my country place, three weeks before their marriage. The invitations haven't been sent yet, but I hope you will be able to come and stay a few days. The house will be full for the first time in..." He paused to consider. Then his eyes went opaque. "For the first time in a number of years."
With difficulty, Peregrine masked the elation that raced through his blood. Fate had just given him the last thread for the web. "Will the guests of honor be staying with you?"
"Yes, along with my parents and some others." Ross chuckled. "My mother is doing most of the work, so I really have no right to complain of the nuisance."
"I'll be delighted to come and meet your parents. They live mostly in the country, don't they?"
His friend nodded. "Yes, my father is near eighty now. His health is good for a man of his years, but he prefers to avoid traveling. However, he's prepared to make the effort for Sara's sake. She's a great favorite of his."
"Lady Sara is a remarkable young woman." Peregrine's tone was carefully neutral. "I understand why she is so dear to you."
Ross's expression became serious. "Obviously you have had no success in persuading my cousin to end her betrothal."
"I have not yet given up hope of changing her mind." Idly Peregrine swirled the brandy in his glass. He had seen Sara several times at social affairs, had danced with her twice. It had been surprisingly hard to treat her as a mere acquaintance when there had been so much more between them. He had wanted to make her laugh, he had wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to finish what they had begun at Sulgrave.
If Sara wanted the same, she had shown no sign of it. She had been perfectly, sweetly polite, and as remote as if he were a complete stranger. Every inch a lady, to his regret.
With irritation, he swallowed the rest of his brandy, then poured more. She was a distraction and a means to an end, no more. He should waste no more time thinking about bedding her. "I doubt that Lady Sara is deeply attached to Weldon, but I think she feels honor bound to marry him."