Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Matlock shrugged. “It was a love match. He wasn’t interested in her money. He even helped her set up several charities. A lying-in hospital, some foundling homes, a school. Don’t get Bernard started on those.”

  “Huh,” Icarus said, and found Miss Trentham on the dance floor. Was that what she was searching for? A man like her stepfather, who cared nothing for her fortune?

  “Bernard and Caroline were pretty beastly to Tish—Caroline was an absolute cat—Tish’s birth is respectable, her father was a gentleman, but from the way Caroline carries on he may as well have been a shopkeeper—and to make matters worse, the will was extremely odd. Tish wasn’t allowed to make her début until she was twenty-one. Her mother died when she was, oh, sixteen I think, and her stepfather cocked up his toes a couple of years later, so it fell to Bernard and his wife to bring her out. Bernard was not pleased.”

  “Huh,” Icarus said again.

  “Robert and Almeria helped, of course. The Kemps have always treated Tish well.”

  “She seems very close to Lucas.”

  “Lord, yes! Lu and Ju and Tish practically lived in each other’s pockets when they were growing up. And me,” he added reflectively. “The four of us were inseparable. Did everything together.”

  The Scottish reel came to its end. There was a surge of movement from the dance floor. Icarus lost sight of Miss Trentham. He sipped his punch, savoring the flavors on his tongue. When the next dance was called—a contredanse—his gaze wandered down the lines of dancers until he found her again. He knew instantly that her partner was a suitor. Her manner was more aloof, her face plainer. “Who’s Miss Trentham dancing with now?”

  Matlock shrugged. “Don’t know him. Another hopeful.” He glanced at Icarus, a gleam in his eyes. “Why, sir? You interested?”

  “No,” Icarus said, in a quelling tone. “I have no need for a wife. Or a fortune.”

  The gleam in Matlock’s eyes faded. “Shame. Tish could do with a good husband, and she’s not the sort men fall in love with. She’s not pretty, and she’s got all that money—and no one sees past those two things.” His gaze returned to the dance floor, where the dancers were now bowing to one another. “Got a style of her own, Tish has.”

  “Tom, darling.” Almeria Kemp bustled up in a waft of French perfume. “Miss Ulverton needs a partner. Would you mind?”

  Matlock met Icarus’s eyes ruefully, and allowed himself to be towed off.

  Icarus stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, sipping his punch. He watched the dancers. Matlock was correct: Miss Trentham had a style of her own. Austere wasn’t the correct word for it, although it came close. Her gown was unembellished by frills or flounces or knots of ribbon. Her hair was dressed in an upswept coronet of braids, with not one single curl. She wore no jewelry other than a solitary strand of pearls at her throat and matching pearl eardrops—no brooches or bracelets, no diadem or jeweled combs. The girl next to her in the set was pretty, extremely pretty, but alongside Miss Trentham she looked overdressed, too many glittering trinkets, too many ruffles on her gown, too much lace, and far too many curls clustering around her face.

  Icarus emptied his glass. Elegant. That was the word he’d been searching for. Miss Trentham looked austerely, coolly, and understatedly elegant. And, given her height and her angular, boyish figure, surprisingly graceful as well. A good dancer.

  A footman with a tray halted in front of him. “Champagne, sir? Punch?”

  Icarus chose more punch, and ran his gaze over the dancers again. Matlock was dancing with a pretty little blonde, and Lucas Kemp was partnered with a striking brunette. Overdressed, Icarus thought, taking in the profusion of lace decorating the blonde’s ball gown. Overdressed, glancing at the diamond tiara in the brunette’s hair.

  His gaze drifted back to Letitia Trentham.

  She wasn’t pretty or beautiful, but he’d been harsh to think her plain. Icarus turned words over in his head, rejected homely and ordinary, and decided on interesting. Miss Trentham had an interesting face. The face of an intelligent, strong-minded woman.

  “Major Reid.” Almeria Kemp reappeared in a wave of perfume.

  Icarus straightened away from the wall. “Mrs. Kemp.”

  “Would you like to dance? I can introduce you to a charming young lady.”

  “Ah . . . I might look into the card room.” He smiled and made his escape, glass in hand. But the card room was populated mainly by dowagers and elderly men, and he was no more in the mood for whist or loo than he was in the mood for dancing. Icarus drifted out to the ballroom again.

  The next dance was called. Miss Trentham was partnered by her cousin, Lucas Kemp. In his company, there was nothing remotely aloof or standoffish about her. She smiled in a way that made her look quite eye-catching.

  After that dance came supper. Miss Trentham and Matlock bore Icarus off to the supper room. “You must try the lobster patties!” Miss Trentham said.

  Icarus ate a lobster patty.

  “And one of these cherry tartlets.”

  Icarus ate that, too. Slowly. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably full.

  “I saved a cotillion for you,” Miss Trentham told him. “If you would like to dance? But don’t feel that you have to. Tom will partner me otherwise.”

  Did she want to talk with him privately, or was it the disinterested offer it sounded like? Icarus studied her expression. It was extremely neutral. She didn’t seem to be trying to convey any message at all.

  He chewed his last mouthful of cherry tartlet while he considered Miss Trentham’s suggestion. It did seem foolish to attend a ball and not dance at least once. “I should like that,” he said, and wondered how it had sounded to her ears. Truth, or lie? He wasn’t certain himself.

  Miss Trentham nodded. “Another tartlet?”

  “I can’t.”

  That was definitely the truth, and Miss Trentham heard it. She didn’t press him to eat any more.

  The cotillion came two dances later. To his surprise, Icarus found himself enjoying it. He and Miss Trentham were well-matched as dancers. Miss Trentham seemed to enjoy it, too. She wasn’t wearing her standoffish face, or even her polite face. She looked like she had when she’d danced with Lucas Kemp: friendly and approachable. This surprised Icarus so much that he almost missed his cue. Does she consider me her friend?

  He recovered his concentration and danced the main figure with Miss Trentham. When they’d circled back to their places, standing side by side, he glanced obliquely at her. Not standoffish at all, or even aloof. And then Icarus realized why. It wasn’t that she thought of him as a friend; it was because she knew he didn’t want to marry her.

  Miss Trentham caught his glance before he could look away. Her eyes were almost the same muted sea-green as her ball gown. “Come riding tomorrow, Mr. Reid. Two o’clock. We may be able to discuss Bristol.”

  Icarus nodded.

  “And even if we can’t talk privately, there’ll be macaroons afterwards.”

  Despite himself, Icarus smiled.

  Miss Trentham smiled back. When she smiled like that, with her whole face, a glint of humor in her eyes, she was actually very attractive.

  Icarus almost missed his cue again.

  Chapter Twenty

  November 17th, 1808

  Whiteoaks, Wiltshire

  The following afternoon, Letty rode out with Lucas, Tom, Sir Henry, Reid, Selina, Emma, and her cousin, Arnold. There was no galloping; Tom had an easel strapped to his saddle. They cantered leisurely, taking a path through the woods that led to the folly. Here, Lucas and Tom dismounted.

  “Let’s go up on the downs,” Selina said. “I should like a good gallop!”

  They jumped the stream, trotted through the bluebell dell, and came upon the path leading to the downs. Here, Letty declared that she felt a trifle peaked and would prefer to go back. “You go on. I’ll be perfectly happy by myself! Enjoy the downs.”

  “I’ll accompany you,” Reid offered. “I’m feeling
rather tired myself.”

  No one argued with him. He did look tired. Tired and heavy-eyed.

  They waited until the others had gone, then turned their mounts towards the stream. “Bristol,” Letty said.

  “Bristol.” The big Roman-nosed gray tried to unseat him. Reid brought the horse sternly under control. “A post-chaise will pick you up at ten. I’ve hired an outrider, and Eliza will be in the chaise. I’ve written ahead to book rooms in Bristol. Four nights at the Swan. I’m told it’s a quiet place, away from the main thoroughfares.”

  Letty nodded. “And after that, Exeter.”

  “If necessary. I hope it’s not.”

  “You think it’s Houghton?”

  Reid shook his head.

  Letty frowned. “Then why did you say you hope we don’t have to go to Exeter?”

  “Because the longer we’re absent, the greater the risk you’ll be discovered missing.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “Well, you should be!”

  Letty nudged her horse into a canter. Reid was correct; she should be worried—the scandal would be ferocious, her reputation in smithereens—and in a small way, she was worried—but her concern for her reputation was eclipsed by her concern for Reid. If he was going to Bristol, so was she. If he went to Exeter, so would she. Her reputation was important, but not as important as making sure Reid ate enough and that he slept again after his nightmares. She and Reid were embarked on different quests now. His was to find a traitor; hers was to restore him to the man he’d been before Vimeiro.

  The stream came into sight. Letty picked up her pace. Alongside her, the big gray stretched his legs. Letty glanced at Reid. I’m beyond help, he’d said at the folly. Well, she was going to prove him wrong.

  She shifted her weight as her horse took the jump. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the gray stop dead on the bank.

  Reid plunged over its head.

  A huge splash sounded.

  Letty landed badly, hauled on her reins, and scrambled from the saddle before her horse had halted. “Reid!” She tripped over her long skirts, caught her balance, and plowed into the water. “Reid!”

  Reid hadn’t broken his neck. He was flailing to his feet in thigh-deep water, coughing, spluttering, gasping for breath. Letty ran to him, stumbling on rocks, her wet skirts twisting around her ankles. “Are you all right?” She grasped his arm.

  Reid wrenched free and struck out, a wild blow that caught her on the shoulder.

  Letty sat down hard in the icy water.

  Reid swung towards her, the blind, berserker look on his face, teeth bared, fists raised.

  “Icarus!” Letty cried sharply, pushing to her knees. “Stop.”

  Reid stopped. Water streamed down his face, streamed from his hair, streamed from his coat.

  Letty stared into his silver eyes, almost afraid to breathe. Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest.

  Reid blinked. The wild, blind look faded. He lowered his fists.

  Letty scrambled to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

  Reid didn’t appear to hear her. He turned away and blundered to the bank, moving with frantic haste, lurching and stumbling. Once on dry ground, he bent over and vomited.

  Letty followed him from the water, slowly, soberly. Tom’s description of Vimeiro echoed in her head. The creek. The dead, drowned Portuguese officer. And Reid, bound hand and foot, barely alive. I think they were having some sport and it went too far.

  Reid stopped retching. He was shaking convulsively, hands braced on his knees. His breathing was hoarse and irregular. Letty halted a prudent distance away. Would he recognize her? Strike out at her? “Icarus?” she said quietly.

  Reid turned his head and looked at her blankly, then recognition came into his eyes. He straightened, and turned from her and walked back to the stream, moving as stiffly and haltingly as an old man. He stripped off his gloves and scooped up a handful of water, rinsed his mouth and spat, rinsed again, spat again.

  From the opposite bank, the Roman-nosed gray watched, its ears set belligerently.

  Reid turned back to her, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. His face was gray beneath the tan.

  Letty reached out and gently took his elbow. “Come over here. Sit down for a moment. Catch your breath.”

  Reid let her draw him away from the stream to a patch of grass. He was shivering. His breath wheezed in his throat.

  “Sit.”

  Silently, he obeyed, bowing his head into his hands.

  Letty knelt in front of him. “Are you hurt at all?”

  He shook his head.

  Letty peeled off her wet gloves—hesitated—and then damned propriety to perdition. She put her arms around Reid’s shoulders and gathered him close, cupping the back of his head with one hand.

  Reid didn’t tense. He was as passive as he’d been that final night in Basingstoke, shivering hard, a faint hitch to every breath. I’m not real to him right now; Vimeiro is.

  Letty rested her cheek on his wet hair and felt a fierce mixture of tenderness and grief and protectiveness, and an overwhelming need to make everything right for him.

  But she didn’t know how to do that. How did one fix something like this?

  Gradually Reid’s breathing steadied, gradually his shudders eased. He didn’t draw away from her. His forehead rested against her shoulder. He smelled of river weed and wet wool.

  Letty stroked his damp hair. Icarus Reid, what am I going to do about you?

  He hadn’t been physically wounded at Vimeiro, hadn’t had his flesh hacked by sabers or his bones shattered by musket balls, but he had sustained an injury, even if no one could see it—and pretending it hadn’t happened, trying to bury it, wasn’t helping him at all. “Icarus, I know what happened at Vimeiro—Tom told me—and you need to talk to someone about it. A military chaplain, or another soldier, or someone in your family.”

  Reid stiffened. He lifted his head from her shoulder and pulled away from her.

  “They almost drowned you, didn’t they?”

  His face tightened. He averted his head and made to stand.

  Letty grabbed his sleeve, digging her fingers into the wet superfine, hauling him back to his knees. “Icarus, you have to talk to someone about it!”

  He turned his head to look at her. His eyes were hard and bright, his face so taut it seemed hewn of wood. “They didn’t almost drown me,” he said flatly. “They drowned me until I died. Over and over and over.”

  Letty stared at him. He was telling the truth. Horror stopped her breath. She released her grip on his sleeve. “Why?”

  “To make me tell them what they wanted to know.”

  Letty swallowed. “Icarus . . .” She touched the back of his hand.

  Reid’s eyes became even brighter. “I told them,” he said, and then—shockingly—he began to cry.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Letty reacted instinctively, putting her arms around Reid, gathering him close again, holding him tightly. His words echoed inside her head, sharp-edged and terrible. She pressed her face into his damp hair, and rocked him. “Hush,” she whispered mechanically. “It’s all right. Hush.” But she knew it wasn’t all right.

  Reid inhaled a huge, shuddering breath, and stopped crying. He tried to pull away from her.

  Letty didn’t release him; she tightened her embrace. “Whatever you told them didn’t matter, Icarus,” she said fiercely in his ear. “Wellesley won that battle! The French pulled out of Portugal. Whatever you told them—it didn’t matter.”

  She felt him tense, felt him repudiate the words.

  Maybe it had mattered. Had men died because of what he’d told the French? Letty hesitated, uncertain what to do, what to say. I need to know the whole truth. “What did you tell them, Icarus?”

  Reid pulled away again. This time she let him. “Icarus . . . what did you tell them?”

  He scrubbed his face with his hands. His cheeks weren’t flushed from crying. He loo
ked bloodless beneath his tan.

  Letty reached out and touched his arm. “What did you tell them?”

  Reid shook her hand off and looked away, to where her horse stood cropping grass.

  “What, Icarus?”

  He looked back at her. His lips compressed. “They wanted to know if it was true we had no troops on the northeast ridge.”

  “Was it true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you told them that?”

  His lips thinned even further. He nodded.

  “How did that affect the battle?”

  Reid looked at the horse again. “They tried to take the ridge, but Wellesley saw the advance. He countered it.”

  “So it didn’t matter?”

  Reid didn’t answer.

  Letty tried to read his profile. Bleak, bitter. “It did matter?”

  Reid shook his head, still not looking at her. “No.”

  He spoke the truth, but he was also lying, even if there was no clang in her ears. It might not have mattered to the outcome of the battle, but it had mattered to Reid. It had mattered terribly. The expression on his face, the tone of his voice . . . Reid was somewhere far beyond guilt or shame. He hates himself.

  Letty felt helpless. What should she say? What should she do? Reid had been brutalized by the French until he’d betrayed his own side. Did he think himself a coward and a traitor?

  Of course he does.

  “Icarus . . .” She rose on her knees and caught his chin, brought his head round to look at her, held those silver, despairing eyes in a fierce stare. “You are not a coward. You are not a traitor.”

  She saw denial on his face, in his eyes. He tried to jerk his chin free.

  “You’re not,” Letty said vehemently, and then—prompted by instinct—she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  She felt Reid stiffen in surprise.

  Letty kissed him again, softly, gently. However much you revile yourself, Icarus Reid, I don’t.

  For a fleeting second Reid’s lips clung to hers, cool and salty with tears, and then he pulled away, twisting his chin free. He stared at her. His expression was wholly shocked.