“I was ill.” A partial truth, though he couldn’t really describe the dark depression that had seized him after their return. Instead of the euphoric homecoming he’d anticipated, nothing had felt substantial to him. The memories were like demons holding him captive, and Galen had lost himself for a while.
“Now, I talk you back into Town, thinking it will cheer you, and yet here you are . . . driving away a perfectly luscious guest!”
“I wasn’t going to invite her to take up residence,” Galen said dryly. “But I’m sure you can still catch the dove if you think she’s to your taste.”
Josiah straightened from the doorframe and came into the room. “Another time,” he said without enthusiasm.
Galen held up the paper. “The Jaded?”
His friend shrugged and moved to occupy the newly vacated seat across from Galen with an eye on the breakfast tray. “I like the name. It suits us. Not that I’m going to emboss it on my calling cards, mind.”
“Talking to the press are we?” Galen wasn’t willing to drop the subject too lightly.
“No, we are not,” Josiah answered firmly, beginning to set into the plate of pastries and eggs. “And don’t start squealing and moaning to me about the impropriety of rumors, Galen. I’ve had enough lectures from Michael to satisfy a lifetime.”
“How did it happen?” Galen asked, his tone more level, as a natural sympathy arose for any man who had survived one of Michael Rutherford’s well-aimed speeches. Rutherford was another of the newly dubbed “Jaded” and largely responsible for their survival and escape from India. A fierce friend, Michael hadn’t yet entirely relinquished his role of protector of the remaining five men who had shared imprisonment with him.
“Hell, I think I was ambushed! Some informant must have overheard the conversation at Clives, and I can assure you, I said nothing of note. But”—he sighed—“perhaps it was a sin of omission. He who is silent is said to consent, Galen.”
Galen smiled. “You are a wiser man, today.”
Josiah shrugged. “It may not be such a terrible thing. One small mention, sixteen words, and I’ll bet ten sterling we’ll have young bucks applying for membership before the week is out.”
Galen’s smile drained away. “Not if they knew what the entry fee had been for its founders.”
“You underestimate the appeal of a good mystery, my friend.”
“Are we seeking to appeal?”
Josiah’s expression sobered, a dark storm in his eyes mirroring Galen’s. “We are seeking to get on with our lives—whatever it takes.” He made a dramatic cut of one of the pastries and took a hearty bite. “I don’t give a fig what anyone calls us. A rose by any other name smells as sweet, wasn’t that what dear William had to say?”
“I don’t think Shakespeare had us in mind, but perhaps you’re right. Still, we have good reason to keep as far downwind of attention as we can manage.” Galen’s gaze shifted down to the paper, wondering at the subtle turn of a dinner conversation and its power to nudge at the illusion that they were somehow separate from the world around them. But it underlined the unique position they were all in—souls marked and scarred from their hellish experiences in India, each man fragile in his own way but also inexplicably stronger. And none of them had returned to the society that they had remembered and longed for. It seemed that no matter how much the Jaded had changed, the world had temporarily out-paced them.
Or we’ve outgrown tea parties and insipid exchanges over cocktails about foreign policies and the price of cotton for— Galen’s breath caught in his throat and all thought halted as if he’d been struck by lightning.
A name leapt off the page in his hands, innocuous text suddenly yielding a pattern that made his surroundings shrink and then fall away from notice.
Miss Haley Moreland.
A hundred memories, none of them welcome, flooded through him, and it was as if he could hear John Everly at his elbow—his voice low so the guards wouldn’t hear, his stories of home hypnotic for all of them, but for Galen, he had always saved the sweetest bits, about the woman John had loved all his life, about the woman who was a shy angel, about the woman John was going to marry as soon as they escaped . . . about Miss Haley Moreland.
Miss Haley Moreland, newly engaged to . . .
Galen struggled to focus, disbelief and fury warring behind his eyes. It couldn’t be the same woman that John had spoken of! She would be in mourning! She would be some distraught, pale version of a girl bemoaning a life without her one true love, not—
Miss Haley Moreland, newly engaged to the Honorable Mr. Herbert Trumble, is enjoying her first Season and has already caught the eye of many notables for her surprising promise and potential as a leading beauty amidst London’s social circles. Mrs. Trumble-to-be is destined to make a respectable mark despite . . .
“—right, Hawke? Are you unwell?” Josiah’s firm hand on his shoulder finally registered.
“Forgive me.” Galen stood abruptly, stepping away from his friend’s reach. “I am . . .” He gripped the paper, as if he could squeeze away the revelations that hammered inside his chest.
“Galen?” Josiah’s voice was tight with concern.
“I’m fine.” He tightened the sash at his waist and turned back to face Hastings. “I recalled an appointment. I’m loath to be rude, but I need to dress and tend to some business. If you can show yourself back out, I would be grateful.”
The words sounded stilted and false in his ears, but he knew that Josiah, of all people, would respond to the urgency and not to the obviously fabricated details. They’d been through too much together to nitpick at the little lies a man needed to tell sometimes—and above all, he knew that they’d long ago sworn to support each other without question, no matter what the future might bring.
Josiah bowed in a gallant theatrical gesture, bending his tall frame but keeping his eyes on Galen. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your morning without notice, friend. I’ll take my leave and await word if you . . . need anything.”
The unspoken understanding held, and Galen nodded his head, dismissing his friend. At last, he was alone.
Miss Haley Moreland.
John’s angel had apparently fallen. They’d been back with the news of John’s fate for less than eight months. He’d made inquiries and located her family to send word of John’s loss, but hadn’t worked up the courage to face her in person—his own grief too raw. The agent he’d sent had confirmed from some of the locals that John and Haley had been sweethearts since childhood, but now it appeared that Miss Moreland was already reengaged and merrily celebrating her upcoming nuptials with a glorious social season in Town. Galen grimaced as he imagined this heartless creature laughing, carefree at parties, balls, and soirees.
Faithless witch! Galen began to dress himself, his hands shaking with quiet fury. He couldn’t recall ever experiencing a rage so white-hot and blinding. John Everly had been a friend unlike any other. He’d been the wit that had made them smile in the worst hours during their imprisonment. John’s stories had kept them all going, and the loss of his blithe humor had almost undone them.
Because they’d been so close to freedom when he’d died. Three more days of running, and they’d reached an outpost. Damn it, I’d have carried him all the way to Bombay if I could. . . .
And the memory overtook him again, like a fitful dream he couldn’t elude.
It was raining, so hard and cold that it was like nettles against his skin. They’d been trying to keep moving, but John couldn’t keep up. Carrying him was difficult, they were each so weak—but Galen had refused to give up.
Finally they’d stopped to catch their breath, hiding in the reeds along some filthy ditch. And when he’d looked into John’s eyes, he’d known John was dying. Dying, right there, in muck and mud and icy rain, and there was nothing to be done, except crouch over him to try to keep the rain out of his face—and pretend it wasn’t happening.
And John smiled up at him. That wry, devil-ma
y-care grin that defied even a monsoon. “Promise me, Galen.”
“We’re not doing this, John. You’re going to outrun all of us when you get a whiff of some mutton pasties and catch a glimpse of the Union Jack.”
But the heat in John’s eyes began to retreat, and he’d reached up to grip the rags at Galen’s throat to pull him closer. “Swear to me, you’ll see to her. You’ll tell Haley . . . how much I . . . wished for her happiness. That I love her. Swear it, Hawke.”
None of the others could hear the exchange. And Galen didn’t want them to. It was too intimate and heartbreaking. And the vow, so easy to make. “I’ll see to her, John. I swear it to my last . . .”
He was going to say “breath.” But John’s ragged exhale had silenced Galen, as he’d demonstrated just what a last breath meant and Galen was left staring down into an empty shell. And he’d stood up, numb and clumsy in the mud, and Rowan had steadied him as he was forced to step over the body. Not one of the six of them had dared a word of memorial or farewell.
Galen pulled on his morning jacket, marveling that he recognized his own reflection in the gilt mirror in the corner of the bedroom. Three years in India had altered his appearance, but not enough, he thought. A man should be more changed after . . . everything that had happened.
Miss Haley Moreland.
He hadn’t forgotten the promise. He’d meant to seek her out personally and ensure that she knew of John’s last words, knew that his last thoughts had been of her. But he’d put it off for too long, guilt and shame holding him prisoner.
I’ll see to her, John.
Oh, he would “see to her.” The words took on an ominous note that foretold of a world of pain for a certain English miss. Months of lethargy vanished, and Galen felt a new power and force of will take shape inside of him. All his instincts to be cautious vanished in the space of a single breath.
Oh, Miss Moreland. I believe you are going to get exactly the Season you deserve. I’ll see to you. I’ll see that you learn the cost of cruelty, firsthand. You think to trade one fiancé for another without regard? I’ll see that you end up without one. You think to play with a man’s affections and cast him off without a care? I’ll have your heart and return it to you in a thousand pieces. I’m going to laugh, Miss Haley Moreland, when you cry at my feet, for you owe John Everly a river of tears, and this is a debt I’m going to collect for him.
I’ll have you and then I’ll have you.
“You can at least let the man buy you a hat!” Aunt Alice protested, holding up the lovely bonnet again as if to show off its ribbons and win her arguments.
“I cannot!” Haley’s frustration gave way to her lively humor as she stepped forward to pat her aunt’s arm consolingly. “It’s not as if I need a new bonnet, and even if I did, it’s hardly proper to ask Mr. Trumble to pay for such a trifle. But if you’d like, I can ask him to buy you one.”
“Pish!” Aunt Alice pouted and set the beribboned creation back on the counter, before her own good nature asserted itself again. “I’d look like a gray carriage horse in that thing! And it’s my job to fuss about what propriety dictates, Haley. See that you leave your elderly relatives a few things to do, won’t you?”
Haley nodded obediently, making no effort to hide her smile. “I will endeavor to be as much trouble as I can.”
“Ah! Just what a chaperone longs to hear!” She took Haley’s arm as they left the milliner’s and made their way down the busy and fashionable shopping street back toward their hired carriage. “Truly, dearest, it’s nothing to see a man provide for his future wife’s trousseau—not that you aren’t lovely in the gowns you already have, mind! But if you play the frugal woman now, he may think to keep his wife with very little expenditure, and when you want to indulge yourself later, he’ll remind himself how well you did with nothing.”
“It’s not . . .” Haley let the argument fall away, unwilling to reveal just how unhappy she felt at the moment. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Aunt Alice had used the excuse of needing a new set of buttons for her favorite coat to lure Haley into something resembling a shopping trip. But her aunt knew far too well that Haley had spent too many years economizing and stretching any farthing she could harbor to open up her purse strings without good cause.
And Aunt Alice was right in that Mr. Trumble had continuously urged her to use his good credit to buy her heart’s desires.
But her heart desired nothing in London’s best stores and, secretly, nothing that Herbert possessed. And while she was in no position to ultimately refuse him, it gave her a small amount of comfort to retain the last illusions of independence she could. In a few months, she would be his to dress and dictate to, in all things. As Mrs. Herbert Trumble, the wife of a successful industrialist, she would be his property to manage and care for. And while the thought chilled her to the bone, her aunt had repeatedly assured her that true affection would follow as a natural result of this masculine care.
“You should enjoy this more, Haley. You’re young, and a London Season . . . it’s what I always wanted for you. And if only my brother, Alfred, had—”
Haley looked away, gently but effectively cutting off her aunt’s speech. Haley didn’t want to hear another round of wishful thinking or a hurtful and useless condemnation of her beloved father’s character flaws.
We are just as we are, and wishing for the moon doesn’t bring it any closer.
Her father, Lord Moreland, would have disagreed and then given her a dozen examples of how often he’d once had the world in his pockets (ignoring their current state of emptiness). She’d abandoned the painful pretense of daydreams, and where her father seemed to do little else, Haley had deliberately grounded herself in the practicalities of life.
Nothing about Lord Moreland spoke of restraint. He’d loved Haley’s mother beyond measure and wasted his fortune on frippery and foolishness to please her. From all accounts, her mother hadn’t had the heart to refuse any gift or extravagance since it gave her husband so much joy to buy her things—and they’d neither one of them seen beyond the moment to the possibility of a grim future when the money ran out.
So when Lady Moreland had died of a sudden illness, her father had plunged into mourning with a tenacity that made most of their country friends shake their heads in wonder. He didn’t wish to see a world without her, and so he’d drowned his sorrows with distilled spirits and escaped drab reality whenever possible.
As a child, she’d always known her father had been generous with her mother, but it was only after the funeral on Haley’s fifteenth birthday that the full impact of it had struck home. She’d sorted through a mountain of trunks full of dresses she’d never seen her mother wear, laces and notions, ribbons and buttons, bolts of sumptuous fabric all reverently set aside. There’d been countless boxes of stockings and gloves in every hue, enough to outfit an army of ladies. She’d found duplicate gowns in four different shades of red, as if her father had been unable to decide which one best suited his beloved Margaret and so he’d ordered them all.
The sheer audacious waste of it! She’d adored her mother, but once she was gone, Haley had discovered how precarious their existence had become, and the blind, selfish indulgences of her parents had staggered her. Where Lady Moreland had been unwilling or unable to take charge, it was Haley who was ultimately forced behind the scenes to maintain some semblance of sanity. Responsibilities beyond her years had crushed any remnants of her childhood, but Haley had squared her shoulders and taken charge.
She’d sold the carriages and cleared the stables first, learning quickly when her father was deep enough into his cups to cooperate but not so far gone that he couldn’t provide a signature on a bill of sale to keep them fed. With the housekeeper, Mrs. Copley, as her ally, she’d cut back on the household staff and released anyone not critical to their upkeep. She’d even gained their land manager’s blessings and ridden out to the tenants and the village regularly enough that their people had begun to call her
the “Little Mistress” out of affection and loyalty.
But affection and loyalty weren’t currency to keep the larders full and the servants paid.
There’d been no money for a debut and little hope for a rescue—at least until Mr. Trumble had rented nearby Frostbrook Manor for the hunting season. Haley hadn’t needed anyone to remind her of the practical miracle of a wealthy man in need of a wife who didn’t seem to mind a lack of dowry. When he’d asked her to marry him, it had felt like the worst kind of dream because of the suffocating weight of the inevitability of it all. She remembered trying to smile and then crying, and Mr. Trumble had assumed she’d been overcome with joy and he’d run to tell her father the happy news.
What other answer could she have given him? Was it conceivable to refuse him and see her father ousted from his ancestral home and end up begging for shelter and support from her mother’s indifferent and disapproving relatives? No daughter who cared a fraction less for her father would have done differently than accept the man even if he’d had three heads. Not that Mr. Trumble had more than the requisite number of limbs and appendages! He was ultimately the most ordinary of men, regular in all his habits and very courteous.
All she could do was pray that her Aunt Alice was right to believe that her heart would inevitably come around to agree with her desperate decision to marry a man prone to drifting off the instant the conversation abandoned breeding dogs and gun collections.
“There are worse fates than a courteous husband,” she intoned softly.
“What was that, dearest?”
“Nothing. A stray thought about how fortunate I am, indeed. And Mr. Trumble has been very generous. Surely you can understand my desire to respect that generosity and not overtax him? He has paid for our accommodations and provided carriages and servants for our stay. It seems petty to bother him for trifles when he’s already done so much for us.”
Revenge Wears Rubies Page 2
