by Karen Ranney
He couldn’t fault her insight.
“Rebecca needed to be married. It was suggested that I should marry as well. She was killed at Manipora.”
The words were spoken with infinite calm, almost as if they carried little import. Still, they lingered in the air between them.
He never spoke about Rebecca. Until that night in the nursery, he hadn’t said her name aloud for a good year, maybe more.
“India,” she said. “George told the story often. It was an example, he said, of the treachery of the people.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t talk about the Duke of Marsley without wanting to add a few profanities and she didn’t deserve that.
“Did you know my husband?”
“I knew him. I served under him.”
“You never said.”
“The topic did not come up, Your Grace.”
“I much prefer it when you call me Suzanne.”
He looked away, unwilling to let her see his confusion. Ever since the night on the roof she’d befuddled him. She was unlike any of the peerage he’d met. She didn’t hold herself above others. She didn’t consider herself better than her servants. If she had been perceived as distant, he suspected it had been because of her grief. Now, tucked up in bed, with her pink cheeks and her troubled eyes, she wanted him to call her Suzanne.
It would be so much better if he remembered his place, his role, and his mission. Everything else was ancillary and unimportant.
The confusion he felt was his problem, not hers.
“Did you wear a kilt in the army?”
He shook his head, grateful that she had changed the subject.
“I don’t even own one anymore,” he said. But he didn’t tell her what he thought, that it wasn’t the clothes that made the Scot. Nor was it the accent. Instead, it was his heart, his mind, and his soul. He was a creature of independence, someone who had willingly yoked himself to the British Army first and now to the Silent Service. Neither organization should ever take his loyalty for granted and so far neither had.
“You didn’t like my husband, did you, Adam?”
He looked at her, wondering if he should tell her the truth. In the end, he didn’t have a choice. The truth donned wings and flew from his mouth.
“I despised him, Suzanne.”
“Why?”
“Because he was responsible for the death of my wife.”
She looked stricken. The moment he’d spoken the words he wanted to call them back. Not because they were untrue. He believed the Duke of Marsley was guilty of treason.
Yet Suzanne was innocent of her husband’s sins. At this exact moment, however, she looked as if he’d accused her.
Reaching out, he poured her some of the tea Mrs. Thigpen had brewed. The smell of it, something strong and spicy, reminded him of India. That’s probably why the floodgates had opened up on his memory, and emotions spilled out.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“Why?” she asked again. “For saying what you felt?”
“Yes. Some things should not be given voice.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, merely took the cup and saucer from him, careful not to let her hand touch his.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “Tell me about Manipora.”
That was the very last thing he wanted to do. He glanced at her and then away. How could anyone refuse to grant Suzanne whatever she wished when her eyes were filled with such compassion?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“We lived at Manipora,” he said, then cleared his throat.
She should have interrupted and told him it wasn’t necessary that he tell her the story, but the truth was that she very much wanted to know. Everything about him incited her curiosity.
“By June the rebellion had spread, getting closer to Manipora. General Wheeler, however, thought the locals would remain loyal. After all, he’d married an Indian woman and he’d learned the local language. He was so convinced of that fact that he sent most of the soldiers assigned to Manipora to help Lucknow.”
“Leaving Manipora without defenses?” she asked.
“Not entirely,” he said. “Some military men were left as well as a significant number of businessmen.” He stared at the far wall for a moment, almost as if he was viewing Manipora seven years ago.
“The rebels attacked the entrenchment. Their forces numbered over twelve thousand men, but we held on for three weeks.”
She asked the next question softly, wondering if she should. “Your wife was at Manipora. Were you there, too?”
He nodded, leaving Suzanne to wonder if she should stop him now. There was an expression on his face that wasn’t hard to interpret. The tale of Manipora wouldn’t be easy for him to relate.
“On June twenty-six,” Adam continued, “we were overrun. Somehow, the rebels learned of our defenses and entered the entrenchment. Wheeler surrendered and accepted the offer of safe passage to Allahabad. The next day we headed for the Ganges and the forty boats arranged to take us there. Safe passage evidently didn’t mean the same to the rebels as it did to Wheeler because we were shot at after we boarded the boats and left the dock. Two boats got away. I was in one of them. The boats holding the women and children were brought by the Indians back to Manipora.”
Her meal forgotten, she was caught up in Adam’s story, relayed in such a calm tone that it might seem, to a casual listener, that he felt nothing about the circumstances. Yet emotion was there in the timbre of his voice, in the way he kept having to stop as if to guard his words, and the deep breaths he took. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was the first time he’d ever discussed Manipora with anyone.
“The women and children were moved from the entrenchment to another house in the city,” he said. “The plan was to use them for bargaining with the East India Company. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.” He took another deep breath.
“Where were you?”
“I’d been assigned to General Wheeler’s boat. We led a charge against the rebel soldiers and were able to get away. We decided to take refuge in a shrine, but we were overrun by a crowd of villagers with clubs. We finally reached the river again and began swimming downstream. I didn’t realize, until much later, that the women had been taken prisoner.”
“How much later?”
“Several weeks,” he said in that same dull voice. “I’d been shot. We were rescued by men who worked for Raja Singh, who was still loyal to the British, but by the time I was able to make it back to Manipora, word had already come of what had happened.”
George had told her about Manipora and she’d read the horrible details in the newspaper. The rebels had been alerted that British troops were headed for Manipora to rescue the women and children. In those last days, one hundred twenty-four children and seventy-three women had been killed, their bodies thrown down a well. Soldiers had reached Manipora the day after the killings. Incensed by what they saw, they’d retaliated with violence against the population of the city.
She didn’t know what to say or what kind of comfort to offer Adam. Words were just noise that echoed against the wall you’d built around yourself.
What people said sometimes didn’t make any sense. Time heals all wounds. God never gives us anything we can’t handle. One intrepid soul had the temerity to tell her, “God evidently wanted Georgie to be one of his angels.” Someone—and she couldn’t remember who—had stepped between her and that woman as if afraid that Suzanne would say something cutting. They needn’t have worried. She’d been so shocked by that announcement that she’d been unable to speak.
Now she had nothing to say to Adam. All she had to offer him was her empathy, compassion, and tears. None of those things, however, were worthwhile in the face of his loss.
She stretched out her hand, kept it in the air until he clasped it and brought their joined hands down to the mattress.
Her other hand wiped her tears away from her cheeks.
“I’ve made
you cry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s a daily occurrence. I’ve gotten quite used to it.”
She smiled at him and he surprised her by returning the expression.
They didn’t have the opportunity to speak further because the door to the sitting room opened. Adam dropped her hand and stood as Emily rushed into the room, breathless.
“I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I apologize. We couldn’t find the camphor so I had to go to the stables and get some from the stable master.”
“That was very responsible of you, Emily. Thank you. And thank you, Drummond,” she said. “For bringing me my tray.”
He only bowed slightly, his faint smile still in evidence.
When he was gone, she explained to Emily that her tears were due to the pain in her head, no doubt leaving the young maid thinking that she was weak and infirm. Better that than what she was truly feeling, anguish for Adam. For the first time in a very long time she was not immersed in her own pain. She was not the only one to have suffered a loss. At least she’d not had to fight for her life on top of everything else.
In the newspaper accounts of Manipora she’d learned that only four men had survived the attack. Evidently, Adam was one of the four.
Her majordomo was a hero. A survivor who’d managed to escape being killed not once but countless times under monumental odds. Upon his return to England he’d avoided the attention the press would have lavished on him. Now here he was, at Marsley House.
George thankfully rarely spoke about India because his command there had happened before their marriage. On one occasion, however, he’d talked about General Wheeler and his idiocy in not guarding his magazine.
She’d listened attentively, said something supportive when George hesitated, and tried to be a good wife. All in all, her husband’s account of Manipora had been remarkably different from Adam’s.
The more she knew of Adam, the more she admired him. Yet in addition to that admiration was another emotion, one that startled her. She liked him. She liked the way he looked at the world.
She’d become frozen in time while Adam had kept moving through his life. She’d never heard him say anything that would make her think he was mired in sadness. Instead, he struck her as a man who had his eyes focused on the future, not the past.
She liked him and even more. He attracted her, intrigued her, and charmed her down to her toes.
He hadn’t asked her why she had been in the library. Would she have told him the truth?
I wanted a kiss, Adam.
No, perhaps that wouldn’t have been the wisest course.
Chapter Thirty
For the next week, Adam stayed close to Suzanne. He didn’t care if the maids gave him quick glances as he prowled the corridor outside the duchess’s suite. Or if the footmen looked as if they wanted to ask questions when he assigned two of them to guard her door.
Every morning he checked on her without a single coherent reason for doing so. He didn’t even bother coming up with a pretense.
His greeting to the duchess was the same in case anyone was within earshot.
“Everything was calm last night, Your Grace. How are you feeling?”
She would answer in the same manner, her voice holding that tone he’d come to expect of the peerage: haughty, almost cold. However, she always had a twinkle in her eyes.
“I’m feeling well, Drummond. Thank you for asking.”
Each morning he would simply nod and leave, relieved.
Every afternoon he would bring her tea. Emily would join him in setting up the tray for the duchess, offering her a selection of tarts or biscuits Grace had made. Conscious of the maid’s presence, he would tell Suzanne what was happening in the house, including any repairs that were ongoing. He found himself discussing matters pertaining to the staff, none of which he’d ever communicated to her.
She, in turn, asked questions about Scotland. He found himself telling her stories of his childhood and she reciprocated, making him think that the two children they’d been weren’t that far apart in their dreams and wishes.
She even asked about Wals, which made Emily’s cheeks turn a bright red. Evidently the footman had made inroads there. Adam was torn between wanting to warn Emily that the young footman had no sense of decorum and wasn’t loyal to one female and simply allowing nature to take its course.
Suzanne was the one who cautioned her maid, surprising him again.
“Wals is a reprobate.” She glanced at Adam and said, “I’ve met him once. He was exceedingly charming. Too much so for my peace of mind.” Her attention turned to Emily again. “I do hope that you don’t allow your heart to be involved. If he isn’t yet, he’s well on his way to becoming a lecher, a despoiler of innocents. I’d be truly concerned if you were involved with him.”
Emily only curtsied, mumbled something in agreement, and left the room.
He and Suzanne looked at each other. Unspoken was the certainty that Emily had already been wooed by Wals.
In the evening, after Emily was dismissed for the night, he visited the duchess again. Their conversations were always more personal at that hour. He found himself anticipating their nightly talks, learning a great deal about Suzanne Hackney and her life as a wealthy man’s daughter.
It was an upbringing that, strangely enough, mirrored his in some ways. She didn’t have to worry about where her next meal was coming from, but with her father so often in India, she was essentially an orphan for most of the time. Without any siblings, Suzanne had learned to be comfortable with being alone, just as he had.
The drawback with that kind of attitude was that he didn’t make friends easily. Neither did she. When he came to see her on Wednesday afternoon, she was entertaining Mrs. Armbruster. The older woman was telling a tale that made Suzanne laugh. He’d left the room annoyed and it wasn’t difficult for him to figure out why.
He had made her smile, but he’d never made the duchess laugh. Mrs. Armbruster had. In addition, she’d stolen his time with Suzanne.
Thursday morning was the same familiar regimen, but by the afternoon Suzanne had been given permission to leave her bed for the sitting room. Sunday she was pronounced healthy enough to go anywhere in the house, which meant that it would have looked odd for him to call on her in her suite.
He’d spent a great many hours in the past week trying to figure out who the other operative was at Marsley House. The minute Suzanne had said something, he’d known that the second man had also been given the task of finding the duke’s journal. There was no other reason for him to be on the third floor of the library.
With the help of two footmen, Adam had checked the locks on all the windows. Three of them were found to be broken, with the entrance point being the laundry.
He added lookouts, stationing two stable boys at the rear, between the kitchen garden and the stables. Two footmen were added to the front, assigned to the gate area. Any of the men were to report to him if they saw something amiss. For a week nothing had happened which, paired with Suzanne’s recuperation, allowed him to concentrate on other matters: namely, confronting Roger Mount.
On Monday Adam decided it was time to pay a call on Roger. He wasn’t going to send advance notice of his arrival. If the other man was busy, then Roger would need to rearrange his schedule. If he was gone, Adam would wait for Roger to return. They were going to talk and this time the conversation was going to provide Adam the information he needed.
Traffic through London was congested as it always was. He tapped impatiently on the fabric below the window, grateful that it was only an overcast day and not raining.
He’d rarely allowed himself the luxury of rage, but he felt it now. He wanted to throttle Roger.
It was one thing to put a man in danger if he knew the odds and the risk. Suzanne didn’t deserve to be treated that way. She’d done nothing other than bow to her father’s pressure and marry the Duke of Marsley.
He wished he’d known her back then, but she probably wo
uld have had nothing to do with him. He hadn’t smoothed all his rough edges. Not that he lacked his share of them now. Put him in a fancy dinner party—and thankfully he’d only one experience with all those forks and knives and spoons—and he was out of his element. He’d much rather be given a sword and be in hand-to-hand combat with an enraged Sepoy.
What the hell had Roger been thinking? What would make him pit two operatives against each other? It wasn’t as if Adam hadn’t proven his worth to the Crown. He’d received commendations on more than one assignment.
Whoever had been installed at Marsley House had made a tactical error. The man should not have endangered Suzanne. Roger had been an idiot not to make that perfectly clear. He had to pull Adam’s shadow out of Marsley House. Today.
When the carriage finally reached the War Office, Adam told the driver that he wouldn’t be long. He bounded up the steps two at a time and made his way to Roger’s office.
He’d forgotten Oliver’s aversion to loud noises, and the man reacted to the slamming of the outer door by jumping nearly a foot. Adam waved Oliver back into his chair.
“Is he here?”
“He is, but he can’t be disturbed.”
He strode across the room, surprised when Oliver sprang up from his chair, rounded the desk, and put out an arm. As if that would stop him.
In India, Oliver had been pale and sweating almost continually. It wasn’t just the heat and the humidity that had affected him. Oliver had spent the majority of his time in India genuinely frightened.
The man looked the same now.
“Step away,” Adam told him. “I don’t care how busy he is. I’m going to see him now.”
“He has someone with him, Drummond. You can’t interrupt. It’s a very important meeting.”
“Then he’s just going to have to reschedule it,” he said. He didn’t care if the Queen was in Roger’s office.
Oliver was no match for him and he pushed the secretary out of the way and opened the door, only to stand there speechless.
Edward Hackney sat in the comfortable chair in front of Roger’s desk, his feet up on a needlepoint stool, a cup of tea in his right hand, the saucer in his left. Roger’s pose was as indolent, slumped back in his chair, an affable smile on his face.
