The Soldier's Dark Secret

by Marguerite Kaye

  * * *

  The food was very good, and very much to Jack’s taste, with roasted squab, game pie and a dish of celery. He made a better fist of it than Finlay, he was surprised to notice. His friend was distinctly out of sorts. Were they all, Wellington’s men, changed utterly?

  ‘So, to business.’ Finlay pushed his half-empty plate aside. ‘This ring that you asked me to investigate. I have to tell you, the ownership of it caused quite a stramash.’ He placed Celeste’s signet ring on the table. ‘As you suspected, it’s a regimental crest, though the dragon is misleading. Not Welsh, but the Buffs, from Kent.’

  ‘The Third Foot.’ Jack frowned. ‘Do you happen to know where they were while the French were slaughtering each other in the Terror?’

  Finlay pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Here you are,’ he said, ‘the official deployment records, though you won’t be needing them.’

  ‘You’ve found something of interest,’ Jack said, recognising the familiar gleam in his friend’s eye.

  ‘Ach, did you expect any less of me?’ Finlay picked up the signet ring. ‘You see here, what looks like part of the marking of the dragon’s wing? Take a closer look.’

  Jack went over to the window, but the light had faded. ‘No, I can’t make it out.’

  Finlay shook his head, grinning. ‘Tut tut, Wellington’s favourite code-breaker, and you’ve overlooked something vital. You should be ashamed of yourself, laddie.’

  ‘Haud your wheesht, as my own Scots mother would say, and don’t talk to your superior officer like that or I’ll have you up on a charge.’

  ‘Aye, you would an’ all, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re not actually wearing the colours any more. Give it here.’ Finlay lit a candle and held the ring close to the flame. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing to the tip of the dragon’s wing. ‘You have to know what to look for, but once you do, it’s obvious. It looks a wee bit like that Egyptian writing we saw on the pharaoh’s tombs, remember?’

  Jack frowned, screwing up his eyes to examine the ring more closely. ‘You’re right. I see it now. What does it signify?’

  ‘Aye, well, here’s the thing.’ Finlay put the candle down and took a sip of wine. ‘I had to do quite a bit of digging on that one, and pull in a good few favours. Your man here,’ he said, tapping the ring, ‘was assigned to the Buffs as a cover. He wasn’t your run-of-the-mill infantry man at all. He was a spy. A real spy, not your kind, that works out what to do with the secrets that are uncovered, but the kind that uncovers the secrets. An infiltrator, if you like.’

  ‘Hell and damnation!’ Jack stared at his friend in disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’

  Finlay nodded. ‘Certain. If I wasn’t a persistent bugger, I’d have hit a brick wall. Honestly, it’s a whole other world that these boys inhabit. Makes yours look like an open book.’

  ‘I had a bad feeling about this,’ Jack said, picking up the ring and turning it over in his hand. ‘How the devil did it end up hidden away at the back of a painting in the south of France?’

  Finlay whistled. ‘Is that where she found it, this wee painter lassie of yours?’

  ‘She’s not my wee painter lassie, she’s my brother’s landscape artist.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm. You’re going to an awful lot of bother for her.’

  It was Jack’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘You know me. I can’t resist a mystery.’

  ‘I do know you, a mite too well for your own comfort, I reckon.’

  Jack snorted. ‘I could say the exact same thing to you, Finlay Urquhart.’

  Finlay lifted his glass. ‘Well, here’s to the bonds of friendship keeping both our traps shut.’

  ‘I’ll gladly drink to that.’ Jack sipped his wine, then picked up the signet ring once again. ‘Another dead end. I’m almost relieved. I’ll just have to hope that Rundell and Bridge turn up something on the locket.’

  ‘It’s not quite a dead end, actually, though if you would rather...’

  ‘Finlay, you devil, what else...?’

  His friend grinned. ‘Did I not say I’m a persistent bugger, and are you not the oldest friend I have in the world! Each ring issued to this elite squad was unique. The hieroglyph denotes a serial number assigned to each man. I’ve established that this ring belonged to one Arthur Derwent. Born 1773 to Lord and Lady Derwent, youngest of four sons. Commissioned aged sixteen. Served two years with the Buffs. And then, in 1791, his military record becomes a complete blank. Other than to record his death.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘That, I can’t tell you, Jack. There’s nothing. Well, no, that’s not true, the full story will be there, but I couldn’t get at it. That’s the strangest thing. Any time I tried to find out more, the door was slammed in my face. It’s as if this chap never existed and the army wants to make sure it stays that way. All I know is that he died on active service. Don’t know where, but I take it the date means something.’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly, but without proof I’d be loath to speculate. Celeste—Mademoiselle Marmion—she’s had enough unpleasant truths to deal with as it is without adding this to the mix. I can’t talk about it, she only confided in me out of desperation—and to be honest, because I pushed her just a bit. She would be mortified if—’

  ‘No, there’s no need,’ Finlay interrupted. ‘I’ve enough on my plate myself without— Never mind. I just wish I could have been of more help.’

  ‘You have been an enormous help and I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Nothing you couldn’t have done yourself, if you’d wanted. You know that, Jack, this is much more up your street than mine. I know you feel you’re not one of us any more, but that feeling, I promise you, is entirely one-sided. The powers that be would welcome you back with open arms.’

  ‘No,’ Jack said firmly. ‘Those days really are behind me.’

  Finlay picked up the claret bottle and poured the dregs of it into their glasses. ‘Be that as it may, there is one way of unlocking the key to what it was the mysterious Arthur Derwent was involved in when he died,’ he said diffidently.

  ‘You mean Wellington?’

  ‘He’s the one man in England with enough clout to provide you with that information, Jack. And I reckon he would if he thought there was the slightest chance of you coming back into the fold. In fact, knowing the man’s eye for the long game, he’d pull strings for you just in the hope of it. But as I mentioned, he’s away back abroad next week so you’d have to be quick off the mark. Did I mention that I have an invitation to his dinner party going a-begging?’

  ‘Which would also conveniently get you off the hook.’

  Finlay laughed. ‘A fortuitous side-benefit, nothing more. Anyway, I’m bloody certain Wellington would rather have you there than “Urquhart the Jock Upstart”, as he never fails to call me. Seriously, Jack, if you want to unravel this puzzle any further, you’re going to have to take the bull by the horns. Shall we get another bottle while you mull it over?’

  Jack nodded abstractedly. Finlay embarked on one of his infamous anecdotes about life in the Highlands. His friend, who had had to fight harder than anyone to attain his current rank of major, took great pleasure in spinning fantastic tales of his ‘wee Highland hame’. He recounted them in the officers’ mess with the purely malicious purpose of insulting those who considered their blood too blue to mix with a commoner, but he was in the habit of recounting them to Jack first, in order to refine them for maximum effect.

  Jack listened with half an ear. Though he was utterly appalled by the notion of facing not only Wellington but any number of his former comrades, part of him was already working out a strategy. Having failed what he’d come to think of as the venison test, part of him was still deeply ashamed. Dinner with Wellington would be the antidote he needed, and this time, he would make sure he could not fail. He wou
ld prepare properly. He would plan this like a campaign, with not one but two objectives, Celeste’s and his own. It would be quite a coup to persuade the Duke to grant him access to this Derwent’s file without making any actual promises. He’d need to think his tactics through very carefully. He found he relished the challenge.

  ‘I’ll do it!’

  ‘You know you’ll have to wear your regimentals?’ Finlay cautioned him.

  He had not thought of that. Jack swore, then braced himself. One more test. ‘So be it.’

  Only now did Finlay let his relief show on his face. ‘I owe you, Jack,’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘I really do need to be somewhere else.’

  Jack tilted his own glass and took a small sip, torn between anxiety and excitement. He had forgotten that tingling feeling, of being on the brink of something, of all the pieces of a complex puzzle not quite forming into a pattern, but promising that they might. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it.

  He couldn’t quite believe what he’d agreed to, but he had no option now, and he was glad. No more enduring, he was ready to fight. For Celeste, and for himself. He’d better make bloody sure he didn’t fail this time.

  Chapter Nine

  Celeste stepped back and assessed the completed painting of the Topiary Garden with a critical eye. She was still not completely happy with the quality of light, but the sun had moved from the top-floor room where she had set up her easel and she would be foolish to do any further tinkering until the morning.

  She was drained and a little bit edgy, the way she always was when one of her paintings refused to be finished. The view from this window was one Jack had suggested to her the very first day she arrived here at Trestain Manor. Down there, and depicted on the canvas behind her, was the stone bench where they had first kissed. Sir Charles and Lady Eleanor would be shocked to their very respectable cores if she included that in her painting.

  Though perhaps they saw more than they revealed. Perhaps the notion of his French artist kissing his soldier brother was one of those things which Sir Charles knew all about, but chose not to mention. Not because it was shocking, but because it was unimportant. A French artist could have no role to play in the future of a baronet’s brother, save the obvious one as his mistress. Celeste perched on the windowsill. Why was it that being a mistress seemed so much more demeaning than being a lover? ‘Bien, it is obvious,’ she muttered. ‘A question of property, bought and paid for. Always, it comes to this, in France and in England. I will never be anyone’s mistress.’

  She would, however, very much like to be Jack’s lover. In the two weeks that had passed since he had left for London, Celeste had been forced to accept that her feelings for him were a great deal stronger than she had ever experienced before. She missed him. The problem was, she missed him a great deal too much. She longed to make love to him. She knew he felt the same. One of the reasons he’d gone to London was because he was determined not to let that happen. Not that either of them had acknowledged the depth of their attraction, but they had not had to. That kiss in the lake had been evidence enough.

  Sir Charles had made no reference to her intemperate outburst the day before Jack’s departure. Another thing swept under the carpet, no doubt because the opinion of the hired artisan meant as little as the fact that the hired artisan had been kissing her patron’s brother. Perhaps she was being unfair. Perhaps.

  Jack had left his brother a note. It had been handed to Sir Charles at breakfast the morning of his departure, and the peer had been so surprised, he had read it aloud, quite forgetting Celeste’s presence.

  ‘So you see, my dear,’ Sir Charles had said to his wife, ‘he knows full well that his behaviour was somewhat extreme. I think we must take comfort in the fact that he feels well enough to venture alone to the metropolis.’

  ‘I am not entirely convinced,’ Lady Eleanor had replied, ‘that he ought to be let loose in London in his fragile state of mind.’

  Sir Charles however had fully recovered his optimistic spirit. ‘We must regard that as a positive sign. He is no doubt looking to take up the reins of his life again. A cause for rejoicing, not worry.’

  Turning away from the window, Celeste hoped that he was right. She wondered if Jack had made any progress with her locket or with that strange ring. She wondered how he was occupying his time. She could not imagine him shopping, or drinking in taverns or going to the theatre. Were there parks in London where he could walk? Was there a lake where he could swim? It was not only for the sake of his injured arm that he swam. His muscular body was testament to his love of exercise.

  In an effort to stop herself thinking of that body, Celeste pulled a chair in front of her canvas. The untrimmed topiary had a fantastical look about it. It reminded her of something. She closed her eyes, willing her mind to go blank, a technique she had honed over the last couple of weeks, when memories had begun to pop into her head at the oddest times. Yes, she had it! Another illustration from the storybook her mother used to read to her.

  There was no consistency to her memories, save that they were all from before the time she had been sent away to school. A swimming lesson. A description of a gown which made Maman smile at some secret memory. A sampler Celeste had worked on, depicting the English alphabet, which she’d had to hide from Henri. She could no longer deny that her mother had cared for her, but it made her determined efforts to disguise the fact all the more inexplicable. Celeste wondered, not for the first time, what Jack would make of it all. She laughed inwardly, not for the first time, at herself for wanting to tell him. There was, after all, something to be said for being understood, even just a little. It was not something she had reckoned on.

  The sound of feet on the stairs outside the room made her heart give a silly little leap. No one ever came up here uninvited. It could not be Jack, because she’d have heard a carriage. Though the driveway was on the other side of the house. She jumped to her feet as the door opened, and her heart jumped again. ‘It’s you,’ she said stupidly.

  ‘In the flesh. May I come in?’

  Celeste took a step back before she could throw herself at that very attractive flesh, trying to remind herself of all the very excellent reasons why she should not. Jack’s hair was ruffled, his clothes were dusty and he was in need of a shave, but still her pulses fluttered at the sight of him as he crossed the room.

  He took her hand in his, made to raise it to his lips, then changed his mind. ‘I see you’ve been hard at work,’ he said, nodding at the canvas.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ His opinion of her was not relevant to the success or failure of the commission, but it mattered all the same.

  ‘Charlie will be pleased,’ Jack said.

  ‘Yes, but Sir Charles is easily pleased.’

  Jack laughed. ‘You know perfectly well it’s good. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘No. But you do like it, don’t you?’

  ‘I do.’

  Celeste smiled. Jack smiled back at her. Their eyes locked. She lifted her hand, as if to reach out for him, just as he did the same. Their fingers brushed. She turned away to sit on the window seat.

  Jack leaned his shoulders against the fireplace. ‘I have news. Rundell and Bridge, the jewellers, have confirmed that your locket was purchased through them. It was a private commission, and the maker’s mark on your necklace belongs to a former senior goldsmith who has unfortunately retired to the country. However, they have written to him, enclosing a sketch of the item, and have promised to inform me as soon as they hear back from him. What they could tell me was that the stones were of the first quality. It’s an extremely valuable piece.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, then it is true what you said. Maman must have come from a wealthy family?’

  ‘It seems highly likely.’

  ‘Would it have been a terrible scandal then that she was enc
einte and not married?’ Celeste asked. ‘Shameful enough for her family to disown her? I don’t know, you see, not really. I mean of course, in France it is not any more acceptable than in England for any young woman to have a child without a husband, though it is naturally perfectly acceptable for a man to have a child without a wife.’

  ‘Acceptable to some men, but we’re not all the same.’

  ‘You’re right. I beg your pardon. I think you must have seen much of it though? Many women have a weakness for a man in uniform, and a man in a uniform who has been away from home for a long time—bien.’

  ‘Bien, indeed,’ Jack said wryly. ‘I— Good Lord, why did I not think of that!’ He had pulled a velvet pouch from his pocket. Now he reached inside and took out the signet ring with the military crest on it, and stared down at it as if he had never seen it before. ‘I had a very interesting conversation with my friend Finlay Urquhart regarding this ring. It was most enlightening.’

  * * *

  By the time he had finished recounting his tale, Celeste’s eyes were wide with wonder. ‘So you think it’s possible that this Arthur Derwent might be my real father? Can it be true?’

  ‘It would explain why your mother was in possession of his ring. It’s certainly plausible, though at this stage, nothing more.’

  ‘So now we wait once more, on a letter,’ Celeste said.

  ‘Actually, there’s something else we need to do first.’

  He sounded odd. Nervous? He was staring down at his boots. Definitely nervous. ‘There is?’ Celeste asked.

  Jack gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Nothing terrible,’ he said. ‘At least—more tedious, really.’

  ‘Yes? And what is this not-terrible, tedious thing that is making you so interested in your boots?’

  Jack laughed, and joined her on the window seat. ‘There’s one man who can grant me access to information regarding Arthur Derwent,’ he said, ‘and by coincidence, he’s hosting a dinner party at a house not fifty miles from here, on Saturday.’