Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Tom watched her leave the room, tall and thin and elegant. What’s this about?

  Chapter Twelve

  November 13th, 1808

  Whiteoaks, Wiltshire

  Tish met him in the stableyard, austere and angular in a navy blue riding habit. They mounted, and trotted from the yard. Tom tried to tease her into smiling. “This may be the most exciting morning of my life. Trysting with an heiress! Is it to be a special license, Tish, or do you want the banns to be read?”

  Tish’s mouth tucked in at the corners. “Tom, do be serious.”

  Not until you smile properly. “But I feel it’s only fair to tell you that my heart belongs to another!”

  “I want to talk about Lucas.”

  The levity drained from him. “What about him?”

  “How is he? Truly?”

  Tom had a flash of memory: Lucas crying so hard it seemed that he would turn himself inside out.

  He looked away, swallowed, found enough of his voice to say, “Let’s canter.”

  By the time they were up on the downs, he had control of his vocal cords. He halted at a viewpoint and stared down at Whiteoaks. How much should I tell her?

  He glanced at Tish, silent alongside him. “Have you seen much of Lucas this past year?”

  Tish shook her head. “He’s been dealing with his godfather’s estate. He only came back to town last month. He seemed . . . I thought he seemed happier. He wasn’t wearing blacks.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “The beginning of October. I asked him to dine with me on his birthday, but he’d already accepted an invitation elsewhere.”

  “Had he?” Tom grimaced, and looked away. “He didn’t go. I arrived in London the evening of his birthday, went round to his rooms, found him sitting in the dark with the fire gone out, so drunk he couldn’t even stand up.” He paused—and then decided to tell her it all. “He’d been crying.”

  Tish stared at him, aghast. “But he seemed almost his old self!”

  “He’s not,” Tom said flatly. “He puts on a good act, but he has days where I don’t think he’d even get out of bed—let alone shave or dress—if not for that man of his.”

  Tish said nothing; she just stared at him, her mouth half-open, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find any words.

  “You know how wounded animals hide themselves away? That’s what he did after Julia died—and I understand he needed to be alone afterwards—you don’t have to tell me how close they were—but he needs to crawl out of his cave and learn how to be happy without her.”

  “I thought he had.”

  “No.” Tom shook his head. “I asked for an extended leave of absence. Wellesley gave me until the end of the year.”

  “For Lucas?’

  “Of course, for Lucas!”

  “Can I help?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know that I can help.” He was giving Lucas everything he had, giving him his body, his heart, his soul—but he didn’t know whether it was enough—or whether Lucas truly wanted it. “I don’t know that coming here was a good idea. This place is full of Julia.” He shook his head again. “Come on, let’s ride.”

  * * *

  When they were back in the long avenue again, the bare oak branches meeting overhead in a complicated pattern, Tish asked, “How are you enjoying soldiering?”

  Tom shrugged. “Oh, I like it well enough.”

  Tish looked at him with those astute eyes of hers. “You’d rather sell out and be an artist?”

  He gave an uncomfortable laugh. “You know me too well.”

  “Could you sell out?”

  “Only if I marry an heiress.” Tom leered at her cheerfully. “What do you say, Tish? Want to marry a youngest son with not a penny to his name?”

  “Your heart belongs to someone else,” Tish reminded him.

  He lost his smile. “So it does.”

  The horses’ hooves clomped somberly on the dead leaves. Tish took a deep breath. “Tom? If you had twenty thousand pounds, would you sell out?”

  “Yes.” Hell, he’d sell out if he had two thousand pounds. “But I don’t.” He turned the subject “There’s to be a ball this week. Did Almeria tell you?”

  “Tom . . . I can give you twenty thousand pounds.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous. Let me give you twenty thousand. Then you can sell out!”

  For half a second he let himself imagine it: He could stay in England. His life would be pencils and charcoal and paint, line and form, light and shade, color—and Lucas. Lucas morning, afternoon, and night. And then he said, firmly, “Thank you, but no.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I have some pride. Tom reached over and caught her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. “Tish, I love you dearly, but I won’t take your money.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He released her hand. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Tish. Soldiering suits me well enough. I’m better off than a lot of younger sons!” And then he thought of Daniel. “And heirs, for that matter. I’m a thousand times better off than m’ brother, saddled with Father’s debts. Or Henry Wright. Poor devils.”

  “Yes, but if I give you—”

  “Lord, Tish, you’re like a terrier at a rabbit hole! I don’t want your money.”

  Tish gave an exasperated sigh.

  They reached the end of the avenue. The gleaming marble frontage of Whiteoaks came into sight and Tom thought—not for the first time—that the nabob might have had a head for business, but he hadn’t had an eye for architecture. Lord, what a monstrosity of a home he’d built, all sharp, unforgiving angles and perfect, unflinching symmetry, everything so white and glittering that it made one’s eyes wince.

  “Tom . . . will you tell me about the Battle of Vimeiro?”

  “Vimeiro?” Tom turned his head and stared at her. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Tom shrugged. “The battle was straightforward. We outnumbered the French. Not many casualties.”

  “Did you fight?”

  “Me? I carried orders, mostly.”

  “Carried orders?”

  “The general can’t be in more than one place, so his aides-de-camp relay his orders. Vimeiro was pretty busy—we were down a couple of officers—one drunk, the other missing—I went back and forth a score of times. Quite wore out my horse!”

  They dismounted in the stableyard—and on their heels came another horse, ridden by a liveried servant. The man didn’t dismount, but leaned low and passed something to one of the grooms.

  “Lieutenant Matlock, sir?” the groom said. “A message for you.”

  “For me?” Tom took the letter and broke open the seal. His eyes skipped down to the signature at the bottom. Reid.

  Memory of Vimeiro came flooding back. The things he’d not told Tish: the dead scouts, Major Reid.

  Tom shook his head, banishing the memory, and read the message swiftly. “Tell him yes,” he told the mounted servant. “Two o’clock.”

  “Yes, what?” Tish asked.

  “Major Reid’s in Marlborough. He’s coming to visit this afternoon.” He shoved the letter into his pocket. “Hurry up, Tish. We’ll be late for church!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Major Reid arrived astride a great Roman-nosed gray. Tom almost didn’t recognize him. That’s Reid? That skeleton dressed in riding clothes?

  He swallowed his shock. “Major Reid!” he called out, and strode across the stableyard to greet him.

  Reid dismounted. “Matlock. How do you do?”

  “Lord, Major, you look like death warmed over! Fever take you again, sir?”

  Reid shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  Tom nodded. He’d seen soldiers worn to the bone by fever before. “Let me introduce you to m’ host, Major, and then we’ll have a chat about old times.” But ten minutes of watching Reid make small talk with Robert and Almeria in
the green and gold salon filled him with the conviction that something more than mere illness was wrong with Reid. The painful gauntness, the weariness etched into the man’s face—those were the result of the fever—but underlying those things was something else, something that was brittle and hollow and bleak and altogether unlike the Reid he’d known.

  If Reid had changed, he knew why: Because of what had happened at Vimeiro.

  He slid Reid from the salon and took him round to the shrubbery, where Lucas and Tish waited. “I don’t need to introduce you to Miss Trentham, do I?”

  “No.”

  The four of them strolled in the shrubbery and Reid seemed to relax, to become more the man Tom knew—good-humored, easy-going—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Reid was indelibly altered, that he’d been damaged in some deep and terrible way.

  After the shrubbery, they went inside and ate cake and macaroons, and after that they all rode out, parting company with Reid at the gatehouse. “Come again,” Tom said. “Tomorrow afternoon? We can ride up on the downs.”

  Reid hesitated, and then agreed.

  Tom watched him ride away, a large man grown far too thin. He needs help.

  “So that’s the famous major,” Lucas said. “Not what I expected.”

  “Not what I expected either,” Tom admitted. “He’s altered almost past recognition.”

  * * *

  That evening, after dinner, Tish asked to see Tom’s sketches of Portugal. Tom went up to his room and sorted through his sketchbooks, and hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether to show her the one with the musket ball in it or not—and then he remembered Lucas’s reaction to it and put it firmly to one side.

  The three of them settled in the library and Tish went through the first sketchbook, turning the pages slowly, studying each drawing, asking questions.

  Halfway through the second sketchbook, she stopped. “My goodness.” Her tone was incredulous. “That’s Mr. Reid!”

  Lucas craned closer. “So it is. Lord, I’d scarcely recognize him.”

  “I nearly didn’t this afternoon,” Tom said. “Got a deuce of a shock. Looks ten years older. Thin as a damned skeleton.”

  Tish went carefully through the sketchbooks. When she’d finished, she said, “Your landscapes are beautiful, but the people . . .” She looked down at the open sketchbook on her lap, lightly touched the portrait there. “How on earth do you do it, Tom?”

  “Good, isn’t he?” Lucas said, and Tom felt himself blush.

  Tish closed the sketchbook and gave it back. “Tom . . . when I first met him, Reid told me a little about Vimeiro. He said he and his scouts were captured, and the scouts were killed.”

  Tom blinked. “Reid told you that?”

  Tish nodded. “Do you know anything about it? Do you know what happened?”

  “Know?” Tom grimaced. “I was the one who found him.”

  “Found him?”

  Tom looked away from her. He stacked the sketchbooks. What had happened to Reid was not something he particularly wished to discuss.

  “Was it very bad?” Tish asked hesitantly.

  “Bad? Not really. Not like battle.” Tom put the sketchbooks aside, got up, stirred the fire with the poker, added another log.

  Behind him, Tish and Lucas were silent.

  Finally, reluctantly, unwillingly, Tom returned to his armchair. “What did Reid tell you?”

  “That he was caught close to dusk, when he met up with his scouts, and that the scouts were summarily executed as spies, but he wasn’t, because he was in uniform.”

  Tom grunted. “The liaison officer was killed, too, and he was in uniform.”

  “Liaison officer?”

  “Portuguese lieutenant. Pereira. Acted as translator. Reid can’t speak Portuguese, y’ know.”

  Tish raised her eyebrows. “They executed him, too?”

  “No.” Tom shifted uncomfortably in his armchair, shifted again, blew out a breath. Oh, for God’s sake, just tell them. “The battle was over by midday. Reid still hadn’t returned, been missing all night, so Wellesley sent me to look for him. Took half a dozen men with me.”

  It hadn’t taken long to find Reid. Tom remembered that moment: the futile rage when he saw the bodies—and the utter relief when he realized Reid was still alive.

  “And you found him?” Lucas said.

  “Found them all, in a gully. Reid’s rendezvous point. The scouts had been shot. The liaison officer . . .” He kicked one heel against the armchair. “Don’t know what killed him, but I can guess.”

  Thock, thock, thock went his heel against the chair. With effort, he stilled the movement.

  “What?” Lucas asked.

  “They drowned him.”

  Tish put up her eyebrows. “Drowned him?”

  “There was a creek.” He saw it in his mind’s eye: a rocky, narrow gully, a sluggish little creek, the water so shallow it wouldn’t have come over the top of his riding boots. But deep enough to drown a man if he can’t fight back. He discovered he was kicking the armchair again—and stopped himself.

  “And . . . ?” Lucas prompted.

  Fuck, just tell them. “Reid and Pereira were on the ground, bound hand and foot. Pereira was dead, Reid was alive. Both soaked to the bone. It hadn’t rained. They’d been in the creek for sure.”

  Tish looked slightly ill. “What did Reid say?”

  “Nothing, far as I know.” Thock, thock, thock. He forced himself to stop kicking the armchair. “He was out cold when I found him, not breathing that well. Portugal in August, it’s hot, but he was shivering like it was the middle of winter. He came down with a fever and inflammation of the lungs, was out of his mind for weeks, nearly died three or four times.”

  Tish looked down at her lap and twisted a fold of silk between her fingers. “Had he been injured at all?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think . . . the French were torturing him?”

  “What? No. Of course not!”

  “What, then?”

  Tom grimaced, and looked at the fire. “I think they were having some sport and it went too far.” His boot began to swing again: thock, thock.

  “Nasty,” Lucas said quietly.

  Tom shrugged. “Battle’s far nastier. Wait till you’ve seen a man get disemboweled. Or a horse—” He stopped kicking the chair and sat upright. “I beg your pardon, Tish. Not a topic for your ears.”

  Tish surveyed him soberly. “You don’t draw those things.”

  “Who would want to?”

  Behind him, the library door opened. “There you are, Letitia! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Tom’s back was to the door, but he recognized the voice. He pulled a face.

  “Oh, Lord,” Lucas muttered under his breath.

  “What are you doing in here?” Bernard asked, in his fussy, disapproving fifty-year-old’s voice.

  “Looking through some of Tom’s sketches,” Lucas said mildly.

  Bernard sniffed. “I should have thought daylight was better for that. Lucas, Thomas, if I may please have a private word with my stepsister?”

  Tom climbed to his feet. He gathered up the sketchbooks. Together, he and Lucas left the library. “I don’t know how Tish bears him,” he muttered, once they were in the corridor.

  “Got no choice, has she?”

  Tom grunted. He didn’t feel like returning to the drawing room and the tea tray and polite conversation. “Want to play billiards?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Why not?”

  Tom turned towards the great double staircase. “I’ll take these upstairs. Be down in two minutes.”

  “Tom . . .”

  He halted, and turned back. “What?”

  Lucas’s expression was serious. No, more than serious; frowning.

  “What?” Tom said again.

  “I always thought you liked it—soldiering—but you don’t, do you?”

  Tom opened his mouth, and closed it again.

  “Whenever
anyone asks you about it, you make it sound interesting and . . . and fun. I’ve never heard you talk about it the way you did tonight.”

  Tom shrugged, and looked away. “I like parts of it.” And parts of it I hate. “It suits me a lot better than the church would have.” He found a laugh. “Can you imagine me preaching morality?”

  Lucas didn’t return the laugh. “Can you sell out?”

  Tom looked at him. The nabob’s grandson who’d come into a small fortune when his father died, and inherited even more on his twenty-first birthday, whose godfather had left him a whole estate down in Cornwall, who’d never in his life—not once—had to worry about how much things cost, never had to decide between new boots or a new tailcoat, never had to travel by mail coach because it was all he could afford, never had to count his coins before ordering a meal.

  You have no idea, do you?

  “No,” he said shortly, turning away. “I can’t sell out.”

  “Tom, wait.”

  He turned back, and found himself almost hating Lucas for his wealth. “And before you offer it, I don’t want your damned charity.”

  Lucas’s face tightened, as if the words had been a slap.

  Tom sighed. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. Not now. Not ever. “I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about this, Lu. All right?”

  Lucas looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. A stiff little nod.

  I’ve offended him. “I’m sorry,” Tom said again.

  Lucas stopped looking so stiff. This time he shook his head. He gave a wry smile, a wry shrug.

  Tom’s guilt intensified. Lucas had come into the world not only shod and hosed, but clutching a golden rattle. He should be arrogant and conceited. The miracle was that he wasn’t. He never flaunted his money, never puffed himself off. He was quiet and steady and dependable and unpretentious.

  And he’s trying to help me.

  “I’m sorry, Lu,” he said quietly, and held out his hand. “I didn’t mean to fly up into the boughs.”

  Lucas hesitated, and then reached out and touched his fingertips lightly, briefly.

  Tom’s chest tightened. He wanted to step close to Lucas and put his arms around him, right there in the corridor with a chandelier blazing overhead, where anyone could see them. I love you. He swallowed, and tried to find a smile. “I’ll just take these sketchbooks upstairs. Be down in a couple of minutes.”