by Allison Lane
Revealing her own excitement would only make matters worse, for Laura might dig in her heels simply to punish her companion. And Chloe had no reason to anticipate the gathering, she reminded herself. She wasn’t attending as a guest and could no longer expect deference as a baronet’s daughter. Companions remained on the fringes.
But anything was better than weeks and months of Laura’s megrims.
* * * *
Sir Nigel bolted upright in bed, staring in horror at the figure cloaked in black. Light from a single candle glinted from a pistol.
“Return the letters. Now!” snapped the man, teeth flashing white in the gloom.
“What? Who are you?” But he knew. Sir Nigel’s heart lurched into a full gallop. How had they identified him?
His third request for a small payment had been a mistake. In the two months since finding the letters, he had amassed enough evidence to convict these men several times over. He should have been content. But he had forgotten the third mortgage when making his original calculations. Then Peter had again—
“Now!” His caller cocked the pistol.
Mind racing, Sir Nigel slid from the bed. Producing the letters would cost him his life. So would refusing. Thus he must stall and pray for escape. The first step was to dress. He would feel less vulnerable when properly clad. Removing his nightshirt, he headed for his dressing room.
He’d hidden the letters where no one would ever find them and kept the other evidence in the priest’s hole so he could study it in private. If he failed to escape, Peter would find it. Pray God the boy would turn it over to the authorities.
Don’t think about that. Stepping into breeches, he pulled on a shirt, then reached for a fresh cravat.
“We aren’t making morning calls,” snapped his visitor. “Stop dawdling and return the letters.”
“They are in the library.” His voice shook so badly that he clamped his jaw shut. The library offered his best hope. It was a logical hiding place and contained at least one weapon.
Heart in his throat, he paced the length of the hall, exuding a confidence he did not feel.
In the library, he moved to the fireplace and tugged on the loose brick he’d noticed last week. It stuck. Cursing, he wiggled it until his fingers were raw, then used the poker to pry at it. Curiosity lured his visitor a step closer.
Sir Nigel whirled to strike.
* * * *
Captain Andrew Seabrook grimaced at the voices emanating from the billiard room. His brothers were arguing again. With Oxford’s fall term due to start, it was becoming a daily ritual.
“Absolutely not!” swore William, slamming balls together hard enough to be heard through the heavy door. “You will return to school and forget about the navy. Only a madman wants to be flogged every day of his life.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“You would. You are too stubborn to follow orders and too rigid to accept advice.”
“I’m not!” insisted eighteen-year-old Thomas. “Just because you enjoy herding sheep and grubbing about in fields doesn’t mean everyone does. I love the sea. I need to travel. I can’t tolerate another quarter of Greek and idiotic tutors.”
“You are too old,” snapped William. “The navy starts their officers as midshipmen – fourteen at most.”
“Not always.” Thomas’s voice grew eager. “I spoke with Captain Marshal in Exeter last week. Piracy has grown so bold in every sea that they need more ships than ever. He would welcome me as—”
“No.” William remained implacable. “It’s bad enough that Andrew nearly died serving the Crown. I won’t put another Seabrook in jeo—”
Andrew ducked into the library, closed the door against the noise, and poured himself a drink. Why did William keep dragging his name into the fight? This wasn’t his battle.
William was right to insist that Thomas finish school, for the boy needed a career that would support him. He couldn’t rely on the navy. One injury could disable him forever. Few could survive long on half-pay.
Yet William’s edicts were heavy-handed at best and might prod Thomas down a path he would regret. William was a simple man with a limited sense of humor, puritanical views, and no imagination. His goals were to build Seabrook Manor into a prosperous estate and produce an heir who would care as deeply for the land as he did. He wanted Thomas to complete a gentleman’s education, then come home to help with the estate.
What William refused to acknowledge was that Thomas hated farming. He wanted to travel and seek adventure. Yet Thomas’s dreams could never be achieved in the navy. Shipboard life was hard and battle painful. Death was easy. Survival wasn’t – especially if one lost a limb or an eye. Even emerging physically whole left inner scars that Andrew would wish on no one, especially a brother. And once Thomas joined the navy, he would never escape.
Like him. Eleven years of war dragged at his spirits. Deep inside, he wanted nothing more than to sell his army commission, but that was impossible. His only skill was fighting. His only income was his military pay. Without it, he would starve to death.
He wouldn’t be the first to face that fate. For years London had been littered with soldiers who could no longer fight. Their condition deteriorated steadily. Now it was worse, for Napoleon’s defeat meant that the military no longer needed as many men. Thousands were being released. Few could find jobs. Many had no families. Competition for employment was keen, so those without skills could only beg – or worse. The newspapers already decried an increase in thievery.
He shuddered, forcing despair back into its hole. Succumbing to fear would make the next battle harder and could cost him his life – assuming his regiment took him back. It would leave for India soon. If his leg was not recovered, he would lose his commission. Only the fit would survive the regimental purge.
Draining his glass, he poured another.
All he knew was warfare. Estate management held no interest. Farmers seemed as alien as those black Africans he’d seen or the Chinese he’d heard about. Nor did he know anything about sheep. He’d known since birth that his life lay with the army – duty demanded that second sons serve the king – so he’d paid little attention to alternatives. Buying colors at sixteen meant he lacked the schooling to serve the church. Eleven years of following orders and castigating subordinates had destroyed any potential diplomatic skills. And he doubted anyone would hire a cynical warrior as a secretary.
So he had to recover from these damnable wounds. The military was the only life he knew.
He stared at the empty fireplace wishing for heat to loosen his thigh, but no one built fires in August – September now, he corrected himself. The coal scuttle was empty, and the servants long abed.
That was where he ought to be, but he couldn’t sleep. The worst part of recuperation was the restlessness caused by inactivity.
In the two weeks since he’d removed the splints, he’d worked the leg as much as possible. The limp was fading, but he couldn’t walk above a mile, and riding was worse. He’d barely managed an hour in the saddle that morning.
The pain was so bad he feared he would never be whole again. Fear raised anxiety for the future. Anxiety kept him awake. Sleeplessness left too many hours in which to fall into despair. The resulting lack of energy made the next day’s exercise even more painful. It was a never-ending cycle that might cost him his commission.
“Stop complaining,” he muttered, reaching for the decanter. “At least the damned thing is still there. And it’s healing. Harvey will have to eat his words.”
Only his vehement protests, backed by Major Barnfield’s pleas, had saved the leg from amputation. Harvey had sworn that even if Andrew survived the inevitable infection, he would never walk again. Andrew had remained adamant. And Harvey had been wrong. The wound had not turned putrid, and the bone had healed. But unless he recovered his strength, it would do no good.
Stop thinking about it!
He shoved the decanter aside. Wine made him maudlin, and he was already
blue-deviled enough. It was better to think about Harvey’s misjudgment.
To be fair, Harvey had worked for thirty hours without rest before reaching Andrew. Amputation was faster than the lengthy process of removing debris deeply embedded in flesh. With the battlefield’s perpetual lack of remedies and shortage of surgeons, damaged limbs usually developed gangrene anyway, so removing them saved lives. But Andrew could still feel the shock of that initial pronouncement. It had blocked his pain, muffled the screams of his fellow victims, and banished lingering images of the battlefield.
Don’t think about that day!
But how could he not? Waterloo had been the worst battle he’d fought in eleven years with the 95th. Worse than Albuera. Worse than Badajoz. Worse than the bloody defeat at New Orleans. Mud. Smoke. Screams as the French cavalry drove again and again against his ever-diminishing square. Piles of dead and wounded. Rivers of blood.
Think about the future, not the past.
Right. The future. His leg was improving. Though it remained stiff, with a tendency to buckle without warning, time and exercise would restore its vigor. The flesh wasn’t pretty, but appearance didn’t matter. He would be in India soon.
You don’t want—
Of course he wanted to see India. It was full of strange animals and new customs. Lester, one of the army engineers, had served there for several years and described exotic buildings with amazingly intricate towers and carved spires. Wellington had also served there, as had others he knew. Many men had amassed fortunes.
India was also hot – far worse than Spain. And it harbored bad air, causing fatal fevers in many visitors. Strife was common, and he wasn’t sure he could stomach another war, especially under a brainless general instead of Wellington. Returning could lead to a court-martial for insubordination.
Which was why he couldn’t sleep. Desire was gaining ground on duty. The cynicism that had lurked since the Buenos Aires campaign had burst into bloom in North America. Now it rose up to proclaim loud and clear that he was sick of war, sick of deprivation, horror, pain, and death. He wanted to build, to heal, to live in peace to a ripe old age.
Impossible, of course. Without skills or funds, he was helpless. So duty must carry the day. Maybe Lady Luck would see him through another campaign. But if she was to help him, he needed to set his unproductive maunderings aside and strengthen his leg.
His fingers dug into the muscle, kneading and smoothing to release the tension. It was too late to change course. All he could do was persevere.
“Still up?” asked William, poking his head into the library.
Andrew shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Then come with me. I can use your sharp eyes. You see details I don’t even notice.”
“What happened?” It was nearly three.
“A fatal accident at Fields House. Or so their groom claims. His tale sounds odd.”
* * *
Chapter 2
It was half past three by the time William’s carriage reached the Fields House gates. It felt odd to be back after so many years, mused Andrew. He and William had once run tame here – just as Kevin and Chloe Fields had run tame at Seabrook Manor. The four had been inseparable in childhood.
But those days were long gone. School had caused the first rift, giving the boys a venue for adventure that didn’t include Chloe. She rejoined them during term breaks, but it hadn’t been the same.
He should have accepted the inevitable and left her to prepare for her come-out instead of encouraging her to play hoyden with the boys, he admitted now. Yet she had always been the most adventurous of the group. In his selfish quest to prolong childhood, he’d tried to keep summers the same. But they’d no longer been children, especially that last year.
He cursed as he’d done for eleven years. Chloe had blossomed into womanhood during his last school term. Lust had ripped through him the moment he’d spotted her soft curves. He’d tried to suppress it. God knew he’d tried. But he’d failed, ruining one friendship and damaging another.
Memories slipped out of hiding, bursting with warmth and laughter – and guilt. How could he have been so stupid?
He’d suppressed his infatuation, knowing it seemed bright and shiny and real only because the army would claim him any day and he was scared out of his wits that he’d fail or turn coward or die.
Then he’d spotted her while riding one morning – had looked for her, he admitted later. Why else had he ridden across Fields House land? She was beautiful, with sunlight glistening on her hair, her gown stretched enticingly across breasts he knew would fit perfectly in his palm. His mouth had dried as every drop of moisture sank to swell his shaft.
They’d talked and laughed, walking through the orchard. Up close, her cheeks glowed like ripe apricots and her eyes gleamed bright as new leaves. Blood pulsed through his veins, driving away coherent thought – and setting aside honor. So he’d touched her and drawn her close, kissing her wildly, deeply. The next thing he knew, he had her bodice open and was suckling those perfect breasts, drawing moans and cries of passion.
He blinked away his lingering shame – and not just because he’d abused a friend. Only three days later he’d joined his regiment. They had always known that he would leave on his sixteenth birthday and might never return. He’d had no business dallying with an innocent, especially one whose birth was every bit as good as his own.
Yet despite friendship, and in the face of honor, he’d nearly taken her in the open, where anyone might have seen.
So they’d parted in anger – which had strained his friendship with Kevin as well.
For months Chloe’s voice had echoed in his mind – swearing her love; naïvely assuming he would wed her; weeping over his callous reminder that he faced a nomadic life in foreign lands, for his regiment served entirely abroad. Her father would never let her marry at the tender age of fifteen. And he would never wed at all. He had no way to support a wife.
He could have revealed those truths less brutally, but he’d been so angry at his own dishonor that he’d lashed out, choosing words he knew would slice deep. That, even more than his advances, had blanketed him in shame. His guilt had grown until hardship and injury had seemed well-deserved punishments for his crimes.
But not the only ones. He’d not seen her since that day, so she remained in memory with tear-streaked face and pain-stricken eyes. And there was no way to forget. Kevin and William mentioned her in every letter. Thus Andrew knew about her failed Season, knew about her quarrels with Sir Nigel, knew she’d never told a soul about his attack. As the years passed and her situation worsened, his guilt grew. He’d ruined her life, for her failure to wed had to be his fault. Somehow he’d marked her, sullying her enough that other men avoided her. Thus he had condemned her to Laura.
He stifled a shudder. Kevin’s death had stripped her of her last champion. His fault. His responsibility. He would take the pain to his grave.
Andrew forced his mind back to business. It was too late to atone for an eleven-year-old insult or a seven-year-old death. All he could do was protect her from new pain. He had successfully avoided her for eleven years and would continue to do so. Seeing him at William’s house party would remind her of his crimes, so he must leave for London on Monday and pray that Major Barnfield would believe him well enough to resume his command. William knew he’d been recalled, so he would accept an early departure. Duty always came first. Only Andrew would know that he was hiding behind duty to avoid Chloe. He couldn’t reopen those old wounds for either of them.
The grounds around Fields House had fared badly since he’d left. Light from the coachman’s lantern glinted from crumbling gateposts and overgrown shrubbery as the carriage bucked along a rutted drive.
The house wasn’t much better. Crumbling mortar and cracks in the hall paneling denoted poor maintenance. The portrait of Kevin’s great-grandfather was gone, as was the gate-leg table that had always stood near the drawing room. It looked as though rumor had not exagg
erated Sir Nigel’s financial woes.
Three night candles and the night lamp burned atop a stand near the stairs, their feeble light emphasizing the stygian gloom of the hall. Five servants huddled in a corner as the butler welcomed William.
Gramling seemed ancient, though he couldn’t be much past sixty. Since Andrew’s last visit, his hair had gone completely gray, and grooves now broke his face into a poor-fitting mosaic.
“Thank God you’re here, my lord,” Gramling told William, voice quavering with shock. He had never mastered the impassive demeanor expected of butlers, and tonight he wasn’t even trying. Tremors rattled his hands. “We didn’t know what to do.”
“So you summoned the magistrate. That was exactly right.”
Andrew glanced at the mortal remains of Sir Nigel Fields. Arms crossed and legs straight, the corpse lay several feet from a dark spot at the foot of the stairs. The sharp scent of blood permeated the air, nearly blocking the odor of death.
“What happened?” asked William.
“We don’t rightly know,” admitted Gramling. “A shout awakened me in time to hear a bumping sound. When I reached the hallway, Sir Nigel was crumpled at the foot of the stairs. But I’ve no idea why. He retired at ten, as usual. I’ve never known him to leave his room at night. Nor has he ever dressed himself – not even the night the stable caught fire. He always rings for Simms.” He nodded toward the valet, who stood beside the housekeeper, cook, and two maids. They apparently comprised the entire indoor staff – which explained the derelict appearance of the house.
“You heard nothing?” William addressed Simms.
Andrew ignored the ensuing discussion of Sir Nigel’s habits. The man had always been as fussy as an old maid, passing his days in a series of petty rituals. He’d believed that an ordered mind guaranteed success. Failure had made him even more fastidious.
