Major Nicholas Reynolds, late of the Ninety-Fifth Rifles, looked across the expanse of his desk, with its tidy piles of paper and the sturdy inkpot and the sharp-nibbed quills and the letter knife he’d picked up in Spain, and said, “No.”
“But, sir—”
Nicholas sighed. He laid down his quill and pushed aside the letter he’d been writing. “What did I say last time?”
“That you wouldn’t pay off any more of my debts,” his nephew said sulkily, not meeting his eyes.
“Precisely. And I always keep my word, Harry.”
He spoke quietly, but his nephew flushed, his cheeks reddening above the high points of his collar.
Nicholas sighed again. He rubbed his forehead. “Did your father refuse to advance your allowance?”
“I haven’t asked him,” Harry said gruffly. “You know how he is, sir. He’ll scold me l
