Hunter picked up his glass and tossed back the last inch of brandy and hissed. His smile was sour. “Take a guess.”
Neil’s jaw sagged. “Seymour?” He shook his head. “Impossible.”
Cookson, a lieutenant sitting at the table beside Neil’s, tapped him on the shoulder. “I heard your cousin was one of the best a few years ago, Williams. Is it true?”
Neil laughed. “Before Ben became one of the most respectable solicitors in all of London, yes.”
The circle of men at the other end of the room cheered and exclaimed loudly.
Tom Penny sat forward, his interest perked. “Your family are boxers, Williams? Are you any good?”
Before Neil could answer, Edmund Hunter said, “He’s Black Irish, Penny. They’re all fighters at heart.” His eye fluttered closed in a wink to Neil.
Neil shook his head ruefully. “My father was the scrapper,” he admitted. “We Williams boys have moved on.”
“You never tried to take Myers down, when you were here before?” Penny asked.
Neil raised his brow. “Clearly, you’ve never met Myers.”
“He’s in India,” Phillip Long said.
Penny pursed his lips. “You’re tall, Williams,” he persisted.
“And smarter than every officer who ever thought they could defeat Myers,” Long finished.
Cookson, on the other table, tapped Neil’s shoulder. “Challenge Seymour,” he begged. “I’d love to see the blighter drop.”
Faint alarm touched Neil. “No, thank you,” he said firmly.
“Afraid you’ll lose?”
Long gave a loud shout of laughter. “You’re accusing Williams of cowardice, Cookson?”
Cookson’s cheeks tinged pink. “Of course not,” he said hastily.
Neil recalled Seymour’s thunderous expression when Blanche had hugged him, before dinner. “Seymour is married to my cousin, Cookson. I would spare her the embarrassment of showing up her husband.” It was close enough to the truth to serve.
Penny drew air through his teeth. “Your confidence isn’t cowardly, at least.”
Another great shout went up around the boxing circle, as a body hit the floorboards.
Cookson got to his feet and picked up his glass. “There goes Spalding.” He hurried over to the circle and pushed his way into it.
Neil turned back to the card game. “Where were we?”
“Defeating Seymour,” Long replied. “In theory,” he added, with a smile.
Neil laughed. “Let me defeat you with this hand and give you something better to think about.”
The game continued, while the shouting and merriment at the other end of the room grew louder, punctuated by the sounds of fists against flesh. Occasionally, there was a groan, followed by a heavy thud upon the floor.
The noise, the smoke, the tomfoolery of men who spent their days being upright and proper, the ebb and flow of luck around the table, were old companions. Tonight, Neil could appreciate their familiarity, although he was more than ready to leave them behind forever.
What laid ahead, though, remained a question without an answer.
He was frowning over a pair of jacks when Hunter said in a soft voice, “Seymour approaches.”
Neil shrugged. “Penny, play your cards, man.”
“Williams!” Seymour spoke loudly and breathlessly, behind him.
Neil sighed and put his cards face down. He turned.
Seymour had stripped to his undershirt and rolled up the sleeves. He had strong shoulders. The wrists were weak, though. He would be a one-strike fighter, looking for the single powerful blow which would take out his opposition. Other fighters had endurance and would hammer relentlessly at a man, until he buckled. Seymour was not one of them.
Neil cataloged Seymour in one glance and raised his brow. “Seymour?”
Seymour wiped his damp brow with the sleeve of his undershirt. “You think you can beat me, then?”
Neil saw Cookson standing three paces behind Seymour, his arms crossed. He looked mildly guilty and also pleased with himself.
The rest of the room grew silent. Everyone watched. From the eager expressions on their faces, Neil judged more than a few of the officers wanted Seymour beaten.
Or perhaps they wanted to see Neil fall. When their blood was up, any match would do.
Neil shook his head. “You have been misinformed, Seymour.” He turned back to the table. It amused him when a soft groan of disappointment lifted into the air.
Seymour didn’t tap him on the shoulder. Instead, he gripped Neil’s arm and wrenched him back around.
Irritation fluttered in Neil’s chest.
“Did you, or did you not say you would not fight me because you won’t embarrass my wife?” Seymour demanded.
Neil sighed. “I did.”
Seymour’s face abruptly flushed. He was of the type who remained placid until he exploded in anger, all good sense vanishing in that instant. He was a brooder.
Seymour prodded Neil’s shoulder again. “Get up and fight, coward. Defend your words.”
Neil shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He turned back to the table.
Hunter raised his brow. Silently, he picked up the cards, as he was the dealer for this round.
“Damn it, I gave you an order!” Seymour shouted.
The room grew still. Silent.
Neil’s belly cramped. He got to his feet and faced Seymour. “You’re ordering me to fight?” Belatedly, he tacked on, “Sir?”
“Oh, I say, Seymour, that’s a bit much,” someone muttered. “We’re all at ease in here.”
Seymour ignored them. The only officer he must obey was Colonel Hill, and commanding officers rarely came to the mess. “Move to the other side of the room, officer,” he told Neil. “Prepare to defend yourself.”
Neil glanced at the other men. They were troubled, yet still eager to see the fight.
He sighed and unbuttoned the last closed buttons on his jacket and moved over to the space which had been cleared.
A cheer rose around the room. The men gathered in a tight circle around Neil and Seymour, while Seymour flexed and stretched his arms, and tightened his fists. His face was still red with anger.
Corresponding anger stirred in Neil’s chest as he removed the jacket. Why was he being pulled into this against his will? He just wanted to be left alone. A small house, a peaceful sunrise and silence. It wasn’t too much to ask for, surely?
“Remove your shirt, officer,” Seymour said. “I will not have your blood stain your garment on my account.”
A chuckle rose around him.
Neil shook his head. “Let’s finish this.” He lifted his fists. He’d been back less than a day and already trouble drew around him, as it always seemed to do.
Seymour circled him. Neil turned to keep him in sight, his anger building.
Seymour jumped toward him and jabbed, with no real intention behind it. He was measuring Neil’s reactions.
Neil ducked the fist, hot irritation flaring.
A tight crow of excitement sounded around them. The noise was the last straw. Neil dropped his fists and straightened. “Enough.”
“Get your fists up, Williams!” Seymour shouted and came at him, his arm drawing back, his fist turning. He signaled the upper cut far too clearly.
Only one suitable response existed for such a stupid attempt. Neil stepped forward and drove his fist underneath Seymour’s swinging elbow. He buried it deep in his middle. As Seymour predictably sagged, Neil swung his left fist in a round-house blow, up against the man’s temple.
Seymour dropped, the floorboards shaking under the impact, his breath blowing out like bellows. His eyes closed.
Neil lowered his fists for the second time. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.
For a moment, complete silence held the room, as everyone stared at Seymour’s still figure. Then everyone shouted at once, their astonishment raising their voices.
Hunter held Neil’s jacket ou
t to him. “You’d best be getting along,” he said in an undertone. “We’ll all be busy playing cards when he comes around, and if he doesn’t have to see your face…”
Neil nodded. It was a sound strategy. He shoved his arms into the jacket and fumbled with the buttons.
Hunter leaned closer, his clear, high brow creasing. “You know he won’t care that he gave you a direct order, don’t you?”
Neil knew. “You’re the Provost Marshall,” he pointed out. Hunter could intervene, placate Seymour in some fashion.
Hunter grimaced. “Not in here. You know how it goes.”
Neil nodded. Trouble had found him.
Again.
Chapter Four
Edmund Hunter had only been on duty for ten minutes the next morning when Seymour strode into the building, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Hunter waved his junior officers and adjutant away. There was no need for them to stand within range of the man.
“Lieutenant Colonel. Sir.” Hunter saluted.
Seymour scowled and waved off the salute with an impatient flick of his fingers. “I want the man arrested, Major.” A bruise shadowed the corner of his cheek, high up by the temple. His eye on that side was a fiery red, with little white still showing. It looked painful.
Hunter didn’t have to check around him to know everyone in the room had paused, their eyes wide at Seymour’s dramatic announcement. Seymour came into the Marshall’s office at least three times a week, demanding docked pay or registering Field Punishments by the dozens. He had never before insisted upon an arrest.
Hunter hid his surprise. “Arrest who, sir?”
“Damn it, you know of whom I speak. Williams.”
Caution flooded him. Hunter chose his words with care. “On what charges, sir?” Surely the man was not attempting to form criminal charges out of last night’s defeat?
Seymour glanced around the room, suddenly aware of who was listening. He lowered his voice, although his tone was still fury-filled and harsh. “You know why! Striking an officer is a capital offense.”
Hunter looked beyond Seymour’s shoulders. “Everyone is excused. Now.”
His assistants and men filed out of the room without protest, their expressions concerned. Any talk of capital offenses sobered them in a great hurry.
Hunter waited until the last of them shut the door with a soft click, then turned back to the high table where his daily papers and reports were laid out for his inspection. He faced Seymour. “Sir, may I speak frankly?”
“Will you arrest the man?” Seymour shot back.
Carefully, Hunter said, “That is my responsibility, in cases where it is justified.”
“You saw him strike me. You are a witness.”
The easy, obvious answer hovered at the edge of his lips. A strike delivered by direct order from you.
Hunter didn’t speak the words. Any other man might have heard them and ruefully acknowledged his error and perhaps even his rashness. Seymour was not one of those men.
Instead, Hunter kept his voice even and pleasant as he said, “Sir, arresting the man would be a waste of time and might perhaps reflect badly upon you.”
Seymour drew back. “Explain yourself,” he said coldly.
He was listening. Hunter had reached through the shield of his embarrassment-driven anger. “I only met Williams last night.” He spoke with a candid air. “The man is half Irish, with a wild streak. You know the type, I am sure.”
Seymour’s jaw flexed. Then he nodded. “Go on.”
“He is well liked by those who served with him before he was reassigned to the colonies. Colonel Hill likes the man.” Hunter paused, to let it sink in.
Seymour’s throat worked. He understood the implication.
“He only arrived yesterday,” Hunter added. “Colonel Hill would find it difficult to accept the man would stoop to striking an officer, when his record to date has been exemplary.”
In fact, Hunter had no idea what Neil Williams’ record had on it. He’d never looked, even though he could gain access to such information if he requested it. His instincts said Williams was a man who could wriggle out of trouble, that he’d had much practice at it and was adept at keeping a good face turned to his superiors. It was why Hunter dangled him before Seymour now. Williams would survive the exposure. “Such a serious accusation, coming like a bolt from the blue, would be hard to swallow,” he told Seymour. “However, if the man had a number of stains upon his reputation, a steadily increasing variety of petty charges, a serious charge would be more readily accepted, when it arrives. It would, in fact, seem inevitable.”
Seymour’s eyes widened. Eagerness filled them. Admiration flooded his face. “I can see why you are the Provost Marshall, Hunter. You have a devious mind.” Then caution touched him. “Why are you assisting me in this way?”
Hunter moved a step closer, to establish the degree of regard which would let Seymour think they were of one mind. “With so many men leaving the regiment now, we must hold on to quality officers…and encourage the dregs to go.”
Seymour’s shoulders shifted, straightening, in response to the implied compliment. His eyes grew warmer as he considered Hunter. “You are a brother officer,” he said. “I can see that now.” He squeezed Hunter’s upper arm in silent thanks. For a moment, his gaze met Hunter’s.
Then he turned and strode out of the room as swiftly as he had arrived, his back straight.
Hunter blew out his breath and relaxed.
He gave Seymour five minutes to return to his battalion office, then left to find Williams and warn him of the depth of his new enemy’s hatred.
The Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, London. July 1872. (At the same time.)
PETER RAISED A BROW AT the number of people milling upon the cobbled square outside Burlington House. Were they really all here for Lisa Grace’s exhibition?
He paused for a moment as the cab pulled away and looked up at the imposing edifice of the Royal Academy building. It was an over-wrought affair, with columns and Gothic fripperies…even Lisa Grace disapproved of the excess.
Yet it was the home of the Royal Academy and now, Lisa Grace’s very first solo exhibition.
“It is a tiny exhibition,” Lisa Grace had told him breathlessly, as she sorted and chose the pictures to be displayed there. “In a tiny room off the main hall. Only, it is the Royal Academy, Peter! You will come, won’t you? On the opening day? Please say you will.”
He had promised. It was an easy promise to keep, for he was happy for Lisa Grace’s success. He was one of the few people who knew exactly how hard she had worked to achieve it…and not all the work involved laying brush against canvas. “The world of art is as riddled with relationships as society is,” Lisa Grace had said, more than once. “Only, with art, it doesn’t matter who you were when you were born. It only matters who you are associated with now. Tobias is teaching me so much. It is because of who he is friends with that I was granted the exhibition.”
Peter made his way into the building, which murmured with the sound of soft conversations, the tread of shoes and swish of hems. He removed his hat and stepped around groups of people paused in front of the prestigious paintings on display in the main hall. Lisa Grace had asked him to accompany her to the Academy on dozens of occasions. He knew his way around the building, including the route to the room where Lisa Grace’s exhibition was located.
At the foot of the stairs to the next floor, propped upon a gold-painted easel, was a small placard announcing the proud display of Arrangement in Gray and Black: The Artist’s Mother by James McNeill Whistler, in the primary gallery.
It explained why there were so many people here, Peter realized, his spirits sinking. They were here to see the painting by the famous American, not Lisa Grace’s pictures.
As he moved through the lingering crowd, Peter nodded acknowledgement as men raised their hands in greeting and women smiled at him. A great many members of society were also interested in art and we
re consistent patrons. He recognized many of the people here.
When Peter stepped into the exhibition room, he paused just inside the wide doorway to adjust to the size of the long, narrow room. It was far larger than Lisa Grace had implied. True, it was not the main gallery, although it was still a significantly large room. Tall windows let in plenty of light, which fell upon the paintings hanging on every wall, including the narrow spaces between the windows themselves.
The crowd was not as thick here, yet there were still dozens of people moving along the walls, examining the pictures and murmuring to themselves. Peter scanned the small crowd, relief touching him. The room was not even close to empty.
“Peter!” Lisa Grace cried, telling him where she was. He turned toward her voice, as Lisa Grace picked up the hem of her pretty dress and hurried toward him.
The dress was one of the new ones in the deep purple which was so popular these days. Lisa Grace had been wearing the color for years, though. It was her favorite, but until recently, had been hard to acquire.
Peter couldn’t help smiling, for Lisa Grace’s face glowed. Her smile was bright and verging on happy laughter.
“You came! Oh, Peter, thank you!” She threw her arms around his neck and held on tightly.
He was not accustomed to the casualness and demonstrativeness of Lisa Grace and her friends. It was far different from the stiff formality of the ton. Here, no one gasped at her forwardness or even glanced sideways at them. A man standing nearby even smiled in appreciation.
Lisa Grace stepped back. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she breathed. Her blue eyes shone. Her golden hair gleamed, too. She was radiant. “Look!” She gripped his arm and made Peter turn. “Everywhere you turn, every frame…they’re all mine!”
Peter rested his hand on her fingers, where they laid against his arm. “Congratulations, Lisa Grace. You have worked so hard…you deserve every moment of this glory.”
Her smile was beautiful. Warm softness filled her eyes. “Thank you, Peter,” she breathed. Then she drew in a breath and the radiance surged once more. She picked up his hand. “Oh! You must come and meet Tobias, Peter. You must! Come along!” She tugged on his hand, drawing Peter through the room, toward the far end.
Ashes of Pride Page 4
