by Eliza Lloyd
Shelene did not belong in this setting. She needed sunshine and wide-open plains.
Roman walked toward her, standing behind her but not touching. Never touching.
The scent of her hair, gardenias, reminded him of Spain. The garden at the Hightower home had been cultivated by their Berber servants and the exotic grounds were another reminder of the peaceful life he would never have. Gardenias, jasmine, roses, and in the center of it all, Shelene.
But he had made sure Shelene would keep the life to which she was accustomed.
“It’s tolerable,” he said, inhaling another lungful of scented air.
“I would leave tomorrow, if I could.” She turned suddenly and placed one hand on his chest, over his heart. “But I would stay for you.”
“I know. I’ve always known. But I can’t give you what you want.” Safety and protection, yes. He or his family would always be there, if she needed him. But he wasn’t going to break her heart again. There would be no promises he couldn’t fulfill. No words that she could use against him.
He’d chosen duty to country as his mistress. His lover. His partner.
She fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. “England won’t keep you warm at night. England will never offer you comfort. Or love.”
Shelene understood him completely, including his need to serve. That revelation had freed her from a lifetime of heartache. That revelation had eternally separated them. She’d been able to say no.
* * * * *
Shelene had just been thinking of him when, like a phantom, he’d appeared on his aged horse, riding like a dark knight into her most cherished dreams. No matter his attire, his trousers and jackets were the same color—today a somber black with military-style brass buttons. The rain droplets on his shoulders quickly disappeared into the fabric.
She’d brushed her fingers over her brooch, the last gift he’d given her. As he took the steps, she froze in anticipation—only the knock at the door brought her to awareness.
Roman Forrester. An heir of Sterling.
The owner of her heart.
And touching him after all this time was so painful; not touching him even more so.
She patted his chest again and forced herself away from him. It was simplistic to say he was an attractive man—broad-shouldered and tall, yes, and with a face that would silence a bevy of sirens. But he was also loyal, fierce and proud. A man who placed the greater good above his own needs.
There was so much good in him. So many absolutes and moral imperatives. Yet Roman made everything difficult.
“You will let me know if there is new information before you leave?”
“Of course.”
The news he had delivered seeped through her in slow, painful surges. First Mama and now Papa. Even seeing Roman again, after so many, many months, muted the emotional pain she would experience when he walked out the door.
When she saw him dismount from his horse, she hadn’t even smiled. He was a dream now. He was her first love, and she knew no other man would make her happy.
Was she wrong? Was she wrong to believe that she couldn’t share him with England?
Was being with him forty or fifty days a year better than none at all?
She sat again, her limbs quivering, her nerves jagged. A crack pierced through her being. Roman stood like a statue beside her. “How have you been, Roman? No new wounds? No spectacular escapes or daring rescues?”
“A few. None that I can talk about.”
She smiled, a quick painful thing, as his statement brought back memories of arguments and stubbornness. “But we are no longer at war. Surely you can tell me something without the threat of imprisonment.”
“Pax Britianica, yes. Only the world is still changing in unpredictable ways.”
“Dare I hope you’ll become redundant someday soon?”
“You’ll be the first to know.” His smile warmed her and gave her courage.
“He cannot be dead, can he?” She whispered the words again. She could only ask about Papa in small increments. Little doses of truth. One question at a time.
He dropped to one knee and cupped her hands. A lock of hair curled at his temple, one of the few reminders of the young man he’d been. If he hadn’t held her hands, she would have brushed the hair back and caressed the round of his ear.
“Let me do what I do best. If there is a grain of truth, I will discover it. Otherwise, it will only be a matter of tracking their movements. The Royal Navy has a certain vaunted reputation for organization. I will find out what happened.”
“Happened? Past tense?”
His telling silence concerned her. Omissions weren’t the same as lies and he was careful not to utter a single falsehood.
“So, you will be gone for many months?” she asked. She dared not hope for anything else. This was Roman, after all.
“I don’t know. I won’t know until I get to Brest.”
She leaned forward and gripped the armrest. “Let me go with you. There’s no reason for me to stay in London, other than the house. The land agent can take care of closing it up. I can’t sell it without Papa. Or without at least knowing…what has happened to him. And Brest is on the way to Spain. Then I wouldn’t sit around fretting over dreadful outcomes. I would know what you know.”
He stood again and turned his back. His jacket stretched taut across his shoulders. “No. Such things always have hidden dangers. I’d rather you stayed in London. As I said, my family is here for you.” He’d glanced over his shoulder, appearing so earnest but so determined. “No,” he said, his voice softened. “I need to know you are safe here while I do what I must do. Besides, you know how difficult I can be when duty calls.”
“Difficult? Impossible is more like it.”
“Shelene…I-I wanted to tell you why I haven’t been to see you.”
“No. Please don’t say anything. I’ve made peace with how my life has turned out.” No parents, nearly a spinster. Some peace it was.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to see you,” he said.
Love had been plucked from her heart by the roots, allowed to whither then laid to rest. To hear even the slightest remorse or encouragement in that regard would be like watering a long dormant seed in a presumed barren garden.
“Don’t.” She shook her head. The need to cry, about oh-so-many things, welled in her breast. “I’m sure you need to see Bathurst before you leave.” They must talk of something else. Not about Papa and Mama. Not about unrequited love. Or how once again, Roman would be off, gallivanting around the world, discovering treacherous plots and quelling dissent.
“Naturally. He is expecting me. I am going to send a note to my mother and my sister. You shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Please promise me you’ll stay with them for a time?”
“I’ll be fine. I have plenty to keep me busy.”
“Nevertheless, you can expect a visit from my family instead.” He plucked at his pocket watch. “Well then. I should be going.” With every word spoken, there were hundreds that should be said but they both knew better. He straightened then bowed. “You have my condolences for your mother’s passing. And I will pray every night that we find your father in perfect health. And Oliver, of course.”
“Then I must join you in such devotions. Thank you, Roman. For what you’ve done and what you will do.”
He stepped toward her, reaching and brushing lightly over her tightly drawn hair. He kissed her forehead.
You know I love you, Shelene.
He’d said those words when they’d parted in Spain, two years ago. He did not renew those sentiments, and she could not stop what surely was the same sorrowful expression. The only reason they were not married was because she’d made the firm decision to live a life without the grief of continual partings and the fear of the unknown.
And here she was again, feeling the grief of his imminent departure and so, so fearful of the unknown circumstance surrounding her father’s whereabouts and that of Oliver Forrester.
I don’t believe it. He can’t be dead.
But there was nobility in his desire to find his brother. Roman wasn’t a man to accept the news at face value. He would have to see it himself, talk to the last person to talk to Oliver, see the broken boards of the ship. Touch his brother’s brow, if possible.
Roman would do no less for her father.
She walked with Roman to the door, drawn to him as before. Nothing had changed between them, not really.
Two footmen still remained in the household. One of them opened the front door and hurried to collect Roman’s horse; the other handed over Roman’s hat and gloves.
His hands were so strong and powerful. She stared as he slipped on the leather gloves and flexed his fingers. She wanted to clutch his hand and kiss those blessed fingers.
This blessed man. So devoted and so daring.
And so alone.
Maybe he had reached out of his darkness and found her—and she’d rejected him. She’d rejected all his most commendable qualities. All that made him so faultless.
She glanced up to see that he stared at her, penetrating her cold façade to see the want and need inside her. His determined expression softened.
Shelene walked beside him toward his horse.
“Don’t worry. I will be back soon.”
“Please let me know what you learn. And don’t delay,” she said.
He mounted Bronte, the saddle creaking with his weight. She patted the horse’s neck. A chill breeze rushed down the street, and she shivered.
“Go inside, Shelene.”
She forced a quick smile. He tchicked his tongue to spur his horse, and Bronte moved away with a steady gait.
Folding her arms across her chest, she thought not of her mother or her father. She thought of Roman, and the words that so often followed: There he goes.
Chapter Two
A well-ordered mind had been Roman’s gift from birth and had revealed itself in his early childhood as he toddled about their large playroom. He’d been told by his nanny that he’d stacked his wooden toy blocks in perfect symmetry. Long, long. Short, short. Higher and higher.
Until one of his brothers knocked them away and he had to start over.
His nanny also said he never cried. Not that he was without emotion, but he could contain that too. Stack it, box it, keep it hidden from the world.
And so he stacked information for the Crown. A whisper here, a whisper there. Secrets hidden. Lies told. Conspiracies revealed. It all made sense to him. There was no such thing as coincidence when dealing with matters of security and state secrets. The political players he encountered, man or woman, were rarely completely loyal, which helped him make sense of their motives and machinations.
Maybe that’s why he was also proficient at playing cards. The small tells of honesty, deceit, trustworthiness and treachery were revealed in each twitch of the eye and every flick of the wrist.
And then there was Shelene. Even in her denial of him, she’d been loyal and was loyal still. No man had tempted her into an unseemly indiscretion or an honorable marriage.
She was steady, unyielding. Devoted in a way that defied explanation and appealing to his perception of orderliness.
And her word was iron. Until, if ever, he left service, she would not be his.
He was feeling anything but orderly at seeing her again. His heart tripped erratically, and the back of his neck burned like a hot coal.
Shelene was the only woman he’d ever met who disrupted his natural order, and she did it so thoroughly that he could not think clearly of his purpose as he entered Bathurst’s office, a domain he hadn’t entered for the past several months. And when the door shut behind him, he placed thoughts of Shelene aside, as he often had to do, to think of the unpleasant task before him.
Conflicts in Greece, Turkey and the Balkans kept him busy as the Empire negotiated peace. The Ottoman Empire was crumbling under the weight of revolt, and the Russia Empire was exerting its influence in the region. His job was to see Britain prevail.
Normally, he would have his sights on a clear goal, a defined mission. Not today. Shelene haunted him as he slept last night, walking through his dreams and tempting him with visions that no honorable man should have about a virtuous woman.
“I got your message,” Bathurst stated as he shook Roman’s hand. “If it is as you say, we are all aggrieved over your family’s tragedy.”
“Thank you. You understand this must be confidential for now, until we know the full truth for all the families involved. And if there was something nefarious afoot in the region.”
“Certainly, but you know how gossip tends to spread.”
“A bunch of old women,” Roman said, thinking of his mother and her group of confidants. And the ease with which supposed secrets seemed to slip out of the Home Office.
Bathurst strolled toward a sideboard and poured drinks. “Are you still drinking madeira?”
Roman nodded. Madeira had become a habit during his time in Spain and Portugal. And it was a melancholic reminder of those happy, lazy days of his youth.
“I obtained the travel itinerary from the War Office for the Victorious,” Roman said.
“You realize this is probably a futile effort? A naval vessel would not report such a tragedy if it weren’t certain of what it saw, even if the ship was French.”
“It’s something I must do.”
“I trust your judgment, but emotion can cloud a person’s decisions.”
“Henry, have I ever allowed emotion to interfere with anything I’ve done?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, but he was your brother. It is my duty to point out the obvious.” Bathurst lifted his glass in a quick toast.
Their conversation turned political, a relief since Roman needed to expunge the troubling feelings caused by seeing Shelene, along with the still distasteful and unacceptable news of his brother’s death. Roman supplied Bathurst with weekly written reports, all properly coded, and quickly rehashed.
Until they came back around to the Victorious. Roman shared the information he’d retrieved about his brother’s voyage and its route.
“Do you know why the Victorious was in South America?” Roman asked. “The War Office was rather vague when I asked the question.”
“We’ve taken a neutral position in most political matters there, so no.”
“Officially?”
“Spain still has her agents. Portugal still holds the throne in Brazil, but Pedro is losing money and men in a war against Uruguay.”
“In other words, do what I always do. Find out who knows the secrets, who has the money and who has the dangerous ambition to disrupt trade,” Roman said.
“There’s more. Spanish subversives are attempting to destroy any sort of unity on the continent. Help get rid of Napoleon then try to destroy your own government. And that will only lead to unnecessary death and suffering. I’ll never understand it.” Bathurst’s chin nearly rested on his chest as he slowly shook his head in disgust.
“We’ve seen it before. Why are we so concerned now with what the Spanish are doing in South America? Specifically?”
“La Vibora.”
The madeira had mellowed Roman; however, a frisson of fear shook him at the mention of the infamous name. “Francisco Belgrano? He’s escaped Spain? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
Roman leaned back in his chair and sipped at his drink, mulling the distressing news. There were fanatics, both strongly nationalistic and strongly religious. Belgrano was both, and in spades.
Worse, he was Shelene’s uncle.
Roman had assisted in capturing the murderous, poisonous mercenary a few years ago. It had all started when the once-lauded guerilla had captured a convoy of French wagons with a staggering value in arms, gold and prisoners of war. He’d killed every British, Spanish and Portuguese captive, along with the French soldiers escorting the caravan. He’d expected silence from his men, but word had spread amongst ally and enemy alike. After that, Belg
rano was no longer interested in fighting for Spain. He’d found a calling in warfare for profit.
Shelene’s family, both her mother and her aunt, had hidden behind their rosaries and veils, not because they supported their brother, but they believed in peace and had no idea what to do with him.
Fortunately, the War Office did.
“We have operatives in the Provinces, hunting him. You know, he will have no mercy when it comes to British subjects. Especially those who might be hunting him.”
“Your warning is unnecessary.” Belgrano held grudges but it was usually the innocent who suffered his homicidal rampages.
“Still, you should be cautious. You may be there in an unofficial capacity and Belgrano may be anywhere from Tierra Del Fuego to Venezuela, but the rumors are that he is in Buenos Aires.”
“So, in my unofficial capacity, I am to officially find Belgrano? He really is Spain’s problem, not mine. Not ours. The war is over.”
“You know his tactics best. The Spanish ambassador says that Belgrano is publicly hailed as a hero.”
“He burns their churches, kills their cattle then throws back a cuartillo to buy a loaf of bread. But privately, they all know he is a menace. Such is fear,” Roman finished. Such men were common and usually ended up dead, during times of war. Few cared when they died. The concern came when the tally of innocent victims mounted.
“We would not ask this of you if you were still involved in Balkan matters. And I hesitate to say this is an opportunity exactly, due to the other circumstances…”
“But the Crown never lets a crisis go to waste.”
“Not if we can help it. And we don’t want any more English deaths. One last battle between La Vibora and the Lion of England. He is still vicious, Forrester. The years have not made him any kinder.”
“I understand.” Roman nodded, then stood. “Oh, Bathurst, there is one other thing,” he said, before expounding on his last long-overdue request which he delivered with some relief.
