by Emily Larkin
“I was in uniform; they weren’t.”
She nodded.
“The French were waiting for us. It was an ambush. And I had chosen our meeting place. Other than the general, only two men knew of it. They both claim not to have told a soul—and yet one of them must have.”
“Who are these men?”
“Wellesley’s aides-de-camp.”
Letty frowned. “Surely such men would be trustworthy?”
“Someone told the French,” Reid said flatly. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t the general, it wasn’t my scouts.”
Letty gazed at him uneasily. Do I want to go further with this? Reid’s tension was disturbing. He seemed balanced on a knife-edge. What if he kills a man based on my say-so?
She opened her mouth to tell him that her rumored ability to distinguish truth from lies was merely a trick, that she’d only guessed he was lying earlier—and then closed it again.
What if she didn’t help Reid, and he killed the wrong man?
Letty chewed on this thought for a moment, and then said, “Tell me about the two men, Mr. Reid.”
“They were new. I didn’t know them well. Didn’t like them much. Playing at soldiering.” His upper lip curled. “Wellesley didn’t like them either. They’d been foisted on him.”
Letty raised her brows. “You didn’t know these men well, and yet you told them where you and your scouts would be?”
“Wellesley had asked me to keep him informed of my movements. He was in a meeting when I left, so I told his aides.”
“And both these men are currently in London?”
Reid nodded.
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“One sold out, the other was cashiered.” His lip curled again.
“Cashiered? You mean dismissed? Whatever for?”
“Dereliction of duty. He spent the Battle of Vimeiro in his billet, too drunk to stand up.”
Letty nodded, and looked down at her hands. She plucked at the tip of one finger, pulling the glove. Do I want to be involved in this?
“The man who sold out is Reginald Grantham.”
Letty’s head jerked up. “Grantham?”
“A suitor of yours, I’m given to understand.”
She nodded, mute.
“When you next see Grantham, could you ask him for me?” Reid’s voice was neutral, almost diffident. “Please?”
His voice might be neutral, but nothing else was—the sharp-knuckled hands, the intensity of his gaze, the way he sat—stiff, leaning forward slightly. This means a great deal to him.
“Please?” Reid said again, and emotion leaked into his voice: a faint edge of desperation.
For some reason, that edge of desperation made her ribcage tighten. He’s begging. Letty looked down at her own hands. “Were the scouts close friends of yours, Mr. Reid?”
Reid didn’t speak for several seconds. “No. I barely knew them.”
Letty glanced up. He was no longer leaning tensely forward. The intensity was gone from his face. He looked tired and ill and defeated. He expects me to refuse.
“What sort of men were they?”
“Good men. Brave men.” His mouth tightened. “Peasants.”
Did he think that that admission would make her less likely to help him? Yes, he did; he was pushing to his feet.
“Sit down, Mr. Reid.”
Reid cast her a sharp glance, hesitated, and then sat again.
Letty looked back down at her hands, rather than his hopeful eyes. “How did you hear of my . . . knack?”
“A friend. He told me Grantham was at your feet, and that you’d be certain to kick him away because you always knew when your suitors were untruthful. He said you had an uncanny talent for distinguishing truth from lies.”
“Which friend?”
“Colonel Winton.”
Letty saw the colonel in her mind’s eye—stocky, graying, eagle-eyed—and nodded. “Tell me about yourself.”
There was a pause. She glanced up to see Reid’s brow wrinkle. “Me?”
“Who are you, Mr. Reid?”
Another pause, and then Reid said, “My father was Sir Hector Reid of Yorkshire. I’m the youngest of five sons. I joined the Thirty-third Foot as an ensign. Flanders first, then India.” His delivery was flat and unemotional. “After the Battle of Mallavelly, Wellesley took me for one of his aides. I was on his staff for five years, then Gore’s. Wellesley requested me back for Copenhagen. After Copenhagen, we were to sail to South America, but we were sent to Portugal instead.”
“What’s your rank?”
Another pause. “I was a major.”
“You’ve been invalided out?”
“I resigned my commission.”
“Because of what happened in Portugal?”
“Yes.”
Letty studied his face. A career soldier didn’t resign his commission because of the deaths of three peasants he barely knew. “Something else happened, didn’t it?”
Reid’s face tightened. “Yes.”
“What?”
Reid’s face became even tighter. He didn’t speak.
“Major Reid, if you’re not truthful with me—”
“It’s not fit for your ears,” he said flatly.
Letty closed her mouth, hearing the bell-like chime of truth in his words. Something terrible had happened in Portugal. Something terrible enough to make this man resign his commission.
She studied Major Reid’s face—the skin stretched taut over his bones, the tension, the exhaustion. She’d been right to think there was something seriously wrong with him. He was brittle, ready to break.
Up in the ballroom, the musicians stopped playing. The contredanse was over. It was time for her to leave the conservatory and find her next partner.
Letty stayed seated. “Who is the second man?”
“George Dunlop.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He’s in Marshalsea.”
Letty jerked slightly. “Prison?”
“He’s a debtor.”
“Major Reid, I can’t . . .” Letty shook her head silently. I can’t enter a prison!
Reid leaned forward on his chair. The tension and the fierce hope were gone. He looked drained. More exhausted than anyone she’d ever seen. “Miss Trentham, I’ll be dead before the end of the year and I need to make this right before I die. Please, will you help me?”
Letty stared at him, hearing the truth in his words. Muscles constricted in her throat, but she wasn’t entirely certain why. Because Reid was dying? Because he was begging? Both? “Of course I’ll help,” she heard herself say.
Reid closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you.” He exhaled a low breath and straightened in the chair, but his exhaustion didn’t ease. Everything about him was weary—his long limbs, his gaunt face, his silver eyes. Even his hands were weary, no longer clenched.
“But you must promise not to kill the traitor.”
Reid’s eyebrows came sharply together. The weariness evaporated. He was suddenly taut, tense, dangerous.
“I will not be responsible for deciding whether a man lives or dies,” Letty said firmly. “A military court is the place for that.”
Reid stared at her for a long moment, his eyes boring into her—and then he gave a stiff nod. “Very well.”
“You must promise me you won’t kill him. On your word of honor.”
“You have my word of honor I won’t kill him.” The words came from his mouth reluctantly, but they were the truth.
Letty almost wished he had refused. Did she really want to be involved in this? “I ride in Hyde Park most afternoons. Meet me there tomorrow. I’ll ask Grantham to join me.”
“Will he come?”
“I’m the heiress he’s angling to marry,” she said tartly. “Of course he’ll come.”
Reid’s eyebrows lifted slightly at her tone, but he made no comment.
“You may ask Grantham your questions; I’ll tell you whether he’s lying or not.”
Letty nodded.
“How?”
“I hear it.”
“This knack of yours, is it . . .” His brow creased as he searched for a word. “Infallible?”
“I hear every single lie, Major Reid.”
He frowned. “How?”
A gift from my Faerie godmother. Letty shrugged lightly. “A quirk of my birth. You may test me tomorrow, if you disbelieve me.” She stood. “Now, you must excuse me; I’m engaged for this dance.”
Reid stood, too.
“Three o’clock at the Grosvenor Gate.”
“Thank you.”
Letty could think of no suitable reply. You’re welcome, and It’s my pleasure, were both lies. She settled for a nod.
She climbed the shallow steps and emerged into the ballroom with a sense of having woken from a disturbing dream. This was normalcy—the rustle of expensive fabric and glitter of jewels, the scents of dozens of different perfumes, the babble of voices, the gaiety. The fortune hunters.
Letty glanced back, almost expecting Major Reid to have disappeared. But no, he stood in the conservatory, tall and gaunt, watching her. With a black cloak and scythe, he’d be the Grim Reaper.
And I have agreed to help him. Not smart, Letitia. Not smart at all.
Letty shivered, and set out across the dance floor in search of Lord Stapleton.
Chapter Two
November 1st, 1808
London
Icarus Reid arrived at the Grosvenor Gate ten minutes before the hour, riding a hired hack. Miss Trentham arrived three minutes later. Her mount was definitely not hired, a dapple-gray mare with an excellent gait.
Behind her, on horseback, was a hulking man in livery. Groom, or guard? Both, Icarus decided.
He watched Miss Trentham approach, and reviewed what Colonel Winton had told him about her. Intelligent. Reserved. Not a lady to indulge in flirtations. Enormously wealthy, but not extravagant. Not tight-fisted, either; her dead mother had established a lying-in hospital for poor women, and foundling homes and a charity school, and Miss Trentham spent a small fortune supporting these enterprises.
Miss Trentham halted. “Good afternoon, Major Reid.”
Icarus bowed in the saddle. “Miss Trentham.”
Miss Trentham’s riding habit was severely plain. She had no knots of ribbon, no braiding, no frogging. No curling ostrich feathers in her hat, no ringlets in her hair. She didn’t look like an heiress. Nor did she look like a woman who gave thousands of pounds to the destitute.
“Do you care to ride with me?” Miss Trentham’s tone was faintly aloof.
“It would be my pleasure,” Icarus said, for the groom’s benefit.
“Shall we canter, then?” Miss Trentham’s voice might be aloof, but her gaze was wary.
She’s not comfortable with this.
A gentleman would have begged her pardon and taken his leave, but Icarus was no longer a gentleman. Honor, integrity, pride, decency, courage—everything that had made him who he was had been stripped from him in Portugal. What remained was this person he was now, a sack of skin filled with blood and bones and single-minded purpose. He would beg if he had to. Hold this woman to her unwilling promise if he had to.
They cantered for several minutes, then slowed to a walk. “Grantham promised to meet me at three thirty,” Miss Trentham said. “Until then, you may test my knack, if you wish.”
Icarus glanced over his shoulder. The groom was a discreet distance behind, out of earshot. “I do wish.” He turned his gaze to her.
Miss Trentham was no beauty—she was too tall, too thin, her nose too long, her mouth too wide, her hair an undistinguished shade between brown and blonde—but she had poise, and a disconcertingly direct gaze. “Tell me twenty things, Major Reid,” she said, “and I’ll tell you whether they’re lies or not.”
“Mister,” Icarus said.
A wrinkle creased her brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“I prefer to be called Mister.” Major Reid had died at Vimeiro.
Miss Trentham examined him for a moment, her eyebrows slightly raised, and then gave a short nod. “Twenty things, Mr. Reid.”
Icarus frowned, and tried to think of something besides Grantham and Dunlop. It was a struggle. “Uh . . . I had a dog when I was a boy.”
“True.”
“His name was Cerberus.”
“False.”
“His name was Ulysses.”
“True.”
“He had three black paws.”
“True.”
“He died when I was sixteen.”
“True.”
“I buried him in the Home Wood.”
“True.”
Icarus racked his brain. “My father wanted me to join the army.”
“False.”
“He wanted me to join the navy.”
“True.”
“One of my uncles was an admiral of the fleet.”
“True.”
“One of my brothers is a commodore.”
“False.”
“He’s an admiral.”
“True.”
I have died many times. “Uh . . . two of my brothers died at Trafalgar.”
“False.”
“One of my brothers died at Trafalgar.”
“True.”
That wasn’t twenty things, but it was enough. Icarus stared at her through narrowed eyes. “How do you do it?”
Miss Trentham returned his stare coolly. “I told you last night: I hear lies.”
“But how?”
She gave an elegant shrug, and then a wry half-smile. “I inherited it from my mother.”
Some inheritance.
Miss Trentham glanced ahead, and then back at him. “I have a lot of suitors, Mr. Reid. It’s something of a nuisance. So much of a nuisance that my stepbrother keeps a man on retainer to make inquiries about them.”
Icarus blinked. “He does?”
“Strangely, all my suitors prove to have financial problems.” Miss Trentham’s smile wasn’t wry this time, it was more of a grimace. “Grantham was investigated last month. He’s a younger son. Spends beyond his means, gambles too much, drinks too much. He sticks at nothing—the law, politics, soldiering. He left the army under something of a cloud—apparently Wellesley dislikes laziness in his officers.”
Icarus grunted. “Sounds like Grantham.” And Wellesley.
“There was no hint of treason.”
“It happened,” Icarus said. “Grantham or Dunlop, one of them passed information to the French.”
Miss Trentham surveyed him coolly, and then glanced ahead again. “Here’s Grantham.”
* * *
The Honorable Reginald Grantham had the type of good looks that Letty most disliked: blond, florid, and with a tendency to stoutness. His manner annoyed her, too—the I’m a viscount’s son self-importance, as if he’d be doing her a favor if he married her.
Letty gritted her teeth and smiled at Grantham politely. “Mr. Grantham. How nice of you to join us. I believe you know Mr. Reid?”
Grantham gave a stiff nod. “Major.”
“Grantham.”
“Shall we ride together?” Her suggestion made Grantham bristle slightly, like a dog guarding a bone. Does he see Reid as a rival? Letty almost snorted. There was nothing of the lover about Mr. Reid. He saw her as an instrument, not a woman.
They trotted along the bridle path, Reid to her left, Grantham to her right, the groom two horse-lengths behind. After several minutes, Letty slowed to a walk. Grantham maneuvered himself between her and Reid, as if trying to cut Reid out. The way he sat on his showy chestnut made Letty think of a cockerel strutting in a hen yard, chest puffed, tail feathers on display.
“Nice mare you’ve got there, Miss Trentham,” Grantham said. “My father, the viscount, has a similar one in his stables.”
Letty almost rolled her eyes. My father, the viscount, was one of Grantham’s favorite uttera
nces. She’d heard it times past counting, the last fortnight. “Does he?” she said, and then, before Grantham could elaborate on this subject: “Mr. Reid has been telling me about Portugal.”
“Portugal? Nasty, squalid little place. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Actually, I find myself quite interested in Portugal,” Letty said, an edge creeping into her voice. What do you know of my interests, you patronizing idiot? “Mr. Reid has posed some questions, and I find myself curious to hear the answers.”
“Questions?”
“About what happened the day before the Battle of Vimeiro.”
Color flushed Grantham’s face. “Lord, Reid, you’re not still going on about that? You’re dicked in the nob, is what you are! I told no one!”
Clang.
Letty’s eyebrows rose slightly. She glanced past Grantham. Reid’s silver eyes were fixed on her with hawk-like intensity. He looked tense, taut, unbreathing.
Letty looked back at Grantham. “But you did tell someone, Mr. Grantham.”
“What?” Grantham seemed to swell with indignation. “I did not!”
Letty smiled at him without warmth. “Mr. Grantham, I have a knack for knowing truth from lies, and this knack tells me that you did tell someone.”
“I didn’t!”
Letty reined her horse to a halt. “You did.”
Grantham halted, too, blocked by Reid’s mount. “What’s this about?” he blustered. “My father’s a viscount!”
“We can continue this conversation here,” Reid said, in an iron-hard voice. “Or at a court-martial. Which do you prefer?”
Grantham’s gaze darted right and left. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on his cheeks. “I told Wellesley!”
Clang. Letty caught Reid’s eye and shook her head.
“Dunlop told Wellesley,” Reid said. “Who did you tell?” His hand was on Grantham’s reins, holding the horse in check. The animal’s head was up, its ears back.
Grantham glared at Reid. Reid stared implacably back. The threat in his silver eyes made Letty’s scalp prickle. She found herself holding her breath. This silent staring match was a duel. She had no doubt who’d win.
Grantham looked away. “I told Cuthbertson.”
