by Brenda Hiatt
“But—”
It was too late. Already the Duke was addressing the crowd, raising his voice to battlefield level to command the room to silence.
“Your attention, everyone, if you please! You may recall that I promised you something special this evening, and here she is. The woman to whom more than a few of you owe your lives and whom I’m sure many of you mourned, as I did, when we thought she was lost to us forever. I give you the heroine of Vimeiro, Porto and Grijon: Miss Xena Maxwell!”
Stunned silence greeted Wellington’s announcement, then the enormous room erupted into tumultuous applause. Every bit of Xena’s wartime courage was needed as dozens of officers surged forward to greet her, several with eyes suspiciously bright with unshed tears.
“My dear Miss Maxwell!” exclaimed one, whom she belatedly recognized as the same Lieutenant Greevey she had nursed to recovery from a bullet wound after Porto. “You can’t imagine how delighted I am to see you alive and well after all. You must allow me to introduce my wife. Cora, dear, this is the woman I told you about, without whose nursing skills you would have never met me.”
The petite brunette at his side smiled, though not quite as warmly as her husband. “Then of course I must thank you as well, Miss Maxwell. I’ve heard much about you since our marriage. I’m sure my husband is not the only one happy to learn that news of your demise was false.”
“Ecstatic, more like,” he loudly assured them both as Xena murmured a polite acknowledgment. “It’s like a miracle seeing you again after all this time!”
“Here, now, Greevey, give others a chance to pay their respects, won’t you?” A much taller man shouldered him aside, beaming from ear to ear. “Don’t know if you remember me, Miss Maxwell, but you saved my leg when the camp medic wanted to take it clean off. Can’t thank you enough for that. I’m not ashamed to confess I cried like a babe when I heard you’d drowned.”
Xena smiled in return. “Of course I remember. You were Ensign Paddymore then, were you not?”
The big man nodded eagerly. “Major by the time the war ended. All thanks to you, as I’d have been invalided out after my first three months if that idiot orderly’d had his way with my leg.”
More and more officers crowded in to express their gratitude and delight at discovering she hadn’t died after all and, in many cases, to introduce her to their wives or to fellow officers who hadn’t previously met her.
Though Xena did her best to be gracious, she could not but be aware of the awkwardness of her situation. How on earth was she to solicit the influence of any of these people on Theo’s behalf when they all believed her unmarried? If only she’d told the full truth to General Wellington upon first meeting him on the street…
Several times, when yet another man hailed her as “Miss Maxwell,” a correction was on the tip of her tongue, but she feared the Duke might prefer to make that correction himself, and in his own time. Unfortunately, though she occasionally caught sight of him across the crowded room, he had not been near enough for conversation since announcing her.
With a slightly strained smile, she turned to the latest group of officers accosting her to yet again recount the circumstances leading to the false report of her death.
* * *
“As I feared, your dallying has made us late,” Lord Peter commented as the carriage rolled up to Apsley House. “I did mention that this reception would be key in reestablishing you in Society, as many of those attending are extremely influential. Or had you forgotten?”
Harry scowled. “I needed a bit of a wash after this afternoon’s activities. That aspect of my campaign is going well, by the way. Been doing good deeds with a vengeance, though certain members of the Quality may not agree.”
His scowl faded into a grin as he remembered the expression on that arrogant marquess’s face on discovering his pockets unexpectedly empty. Glancing wildly about at those nearest him on the street, his eyes had briefly lit on Harry but hadn’t lingered, clearly considering him too impaired by drink and disability to have been the culprit.
“Glad to hear it,” Peter replied drily. “William, through Sarah, has reported much the same.” He glanced over at his pretty wife, who nodded. “But you know how Old Nosey feels about punctuality, even in social matters. Perhaps we can contrive to slip in unobserved.”
“I’ve become quite adept at that lately,” Harry informed him, still grinning. “But you’re right. Let’s join the throng.” It was clear the Duke of Wellington’s reception was in full swing but Harry was glad to see a few other latecomers. At least they’d not be the very last to arrive.
The haughty butler at the door handed them off to a smartly dressed footman to be shown into the grand ballroom. At the sight of so many of his erstwhile army comrades in their regimentals, Harry frowned. He’d not worn his own uniform since leaving service.
“The invitation said nothing about dress,” he muttered. Peter hadn’t worn his, either, but was decked out in his customary colorful style, wearing a peacock blue coat over a scarlet and silver waistcoat.
“No, it didn’t.” Peter looked less than pleased as well. “No matter. If some wish to relive what they consider past glories, let them. I intend to enjoy showing off my new bride, instead. Look, there’s Jack, and in normal evening wear.”
Together they made their way across the floor to Jack Ashecroft, now Lord Foxhaven. They’d seen little of their friend since his marriage two years since, as he’d spent the majority of his time at his estate in Kent.
“Wasn’t sure you’d manage to get to Town, what with the recent rains,” Peter greeted him as they reached his side. “Is Lady Foxhaven with you?”
Jack slapped both of his old friends on the back in greeting, then shook his head. “Nessa remained behind. She’s been a bit poorly in recent days. Didn’t feel up to travel.”
Peter frowned. “Sorry to hear it. Nothing serious, I hope?”
A huge smile spread across Jack’s face. “I suppose you might call it serious, but nothing to be sorry about. She tells me she’s increasing again. She won’t admit it, but I believe she’s hoping for a girl this time.”
“From what you’ve told us of young Julius’s exploits, can’t say I blame her,” returned Peter, laughing.
“If you two are going to discuss nursery matters, I’ll find someone else to talk to,” Harry declared, rolling his eyes.
Both of his friends turned to grin at him. “Your time will come, Harry, mark my words,” Jack said with a chuckle. “Then you’ll wonder why you were ever so averse to the idea of a wife.”
Harry snorted. “Leave off with your dire prognostications, won’t you? I’ve escaped parson’s mousetrap this long and have every confidence I can continue my evasions indefinitely. Can’t imagine why you’d wish a wastrel like me on some poor unsuspecting chit anyway.”
“The right woman could be the very thing to help you finally mend your ways,” Peter chided him, still smiling.
“God forbid!”
With a shake of his head at such a reprehensible idea, Harry turned away to investigate whether their host had broken out his best bottles for the occasion…only to be accosted by Wellington himself.
“There you are, Thatcher,” his former general exclaimed. “Began to wonder whether you meant to turn up at all. Afraid you missed my big announcement twenty minutes since, but perhaps that’s just as well. Now I can spring the surprise on you personally. Come along, Foxhaven, Northrup. I daresay you’ll want to see this.”
With a gesture for them to follow, the Duke began thrusting his way through the crowd toward the far side of the enormous reception hall.
* * *
Once her initial discomfort began to fade, Xena rather enjoyed hearing story after story of a time she was now able to remember with fondness. Mindful of her plan to create useful connections for her son, she smiled, laughed and related a few stories of her own, confident that an opportunity to disclose the truth of her situation would soon present itself.<
br />
Observing that some wives seemed less delighted by her “miraculous” survival than the officers, she related only those stories least likely to offend overly-sensitive feminine ears. The men, unfortunately, were not so restrained.
“Remember the time you taught young Phillips here a lesson, Miss Maxwell?” laughed an officer she at first had trouble recognizing, he’d grown so portly since she’d last seen him.
She had no trouble recognizing the former Ensign Phillips, however. He had the same thin, sly face and peevish expression he’d worn seven years earlier.
“Decked out in soldier garb you were, and challenged him to a duel for a comment he made about your posterior,” the older man continued with a chuckle. “Put a nice little hole in his shoulder with your rapier, and well deserved, too.” He punched Phillips in that same shoulder.
All the men within earshot laughed uproariously while Phillips managed a tight smile. “I merely made a jest about her unfeminine attire. How was I to know she had such a thin skin?”
“As I recall, Mr. Phillips, ’twas your skin that proved thin on that occasion,” Xena retorted swiftly. “Shall we discover whether that is still the case? I wager I can still best you with either sword or pistol.”
“I’ll have you know it’s Sir Barney Phillips now,” he snapped, scowling, then quickly moved away.
The officers laughed again but most of their wives appeared scandalized. “Surely you did not actually wear breeches in the camp, Miss Maxwell?” one matron asked in shocked tones. “Nor handle weapons?”
Before Xena could reply, three or four officers confirmed that indeed she had, and a good thing, too, as she’d been of help in defending the camp.
“Breeches seemed far more practical than skirts for such conditions,” Xena explained to the affronted young matron. “I’d like to think that someday there will be no stigma attached to a woman who dresses for comfort and practicality rather than convention.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide and she moved hastily away.
“But clearly that day is not yet come,” Xena murmured, watching her decampment with mingled chagrin and irritation.
A few officers close enough to hear were quick to assure her that they saw nothing wrong with a woman donning breeches when necessary. Xena barely heard them, for she had spotted the Duke of Wellington approaching through the crowd. She must seize this opportunity to tell him about Theo!
“Your grace,” she began eagerly, but again he cut her off before she could finish.
“Miss Maxwell, I’ve a latecomer here whom I suspect you will be particularly happy to see again.”
With a flourish, the Duke stepped aside to reveal three men just behind him. “Gentlemen, allow me to personally present tonight’s guest of honor—our own Miss Maxwell, returned to us from the dead!”
Xena’s breath left her body as if she’d taken a cannonball to the stomach, so sudden and intense were the shock, joy and disbelief that lanced through her in rapid succession. Before her, in the flesh, stood her onetime lover, husband, and Theo’s father.
Harry Thatcher.
CHAPTER 6
HARRY’S CURIOSITY was piqued by Wellington’s barely-suppressed excitement as he led their party across the room to see the “surprise” he had hinted at in the invitation for this evening. When the Duke slowed, he braced himself, suspecting some joke to pay them all out for their tardiness.
However, nothing could have prepared him for abruptly finding himself face to face with Xena Maxwell!
A wild happiness swept through him at seeing her alive—alive!—after all these years before he was assailed by a sense of unreality so intense he felt suddenly lightheaded. Surely this was impossible? She must be an apparition…or another dream. Or perhaps that blow to his head two weeks since had unhinged his mind?
From the corner of his eye he saw Peter step forward, one hand outstretched as though to save Harry from a fall, which made him realize he’d started to sway. With a supreme effort, he strove to pull himself together. Whether dream or insanity, all he could do was brazen it out.
A slight shake of his head served to clear the fuzziness threatening the periphery of his vision, bringing the woman before him into sharper focus. No longer was she the boyish figure with cropped hair and cocky smile who had so intrigued and beguiled him seven and a half years ago. This new Xena Maxwell was fully feminine in both body and face, with long, ebony locks artfully arranged and a far more modish—and flattering—gown than she’d ever worn back then.
Finally, he found his voice. “It, ah, would appear that news of your demise was somewhat exaggerated…Miss Maxwell, was it?” Dragging his gaze from her face, he glanced at Wellington, whose expectant grin had begun to fade.
Xena’s voice, a bit lower than he recalled, snapped his attention back to her. “I…I might say the same, Mr. Thatcher, for the newspapers reported you killed on the battlefield at Salamanca.” She darted a quick glance at his empty sleeve.
Wellington cleared his throat. “Hem. Yes. Well. Perhaps it was rather unsporting of me to spring you upon each other without warning. My apologies. No doubt you have much to say to each other, so I will leave you to it.” Now looking almost sheepish—an expression Harry had never before seen on the Iron Duke’s face—Wellington took himself off.
Almost at once, Jack stepped forward. “Harry, old boy, you must introduce me to the celebrated Miss Maxwell. Foxhaven, at your service.” He executed a smart bow. “Though you and I never met, I heard much about you while serving in the Peninsula. I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”
Her eyes still on Harry, she made a stammering response, whereupon Peter came forward as well.
“Give you good evening, Miss Maxwell. I am Lord Peter Northrup, and this is my wife, Sarah. She is but recently arrived in London, something I presume you have in common? Where have you been keeping yourself these few years past?”
“My…my home is in Yorkshire,” she replied, her voice slightly stronger now. “Though I lived there but little prior to my time on the Peninsula.”
Still dazed, Harry looked on as Xena—so like and yet unlike the girl he remembered—haltingly responded to Lady Peter’s queries about her early life. He paid little attention to her answers, as he already knew that portion of her history leading up to their meeting in Portugal. He was far more curious about the woman she was now—and how she came to be standing before him.
As his initial shock and disbelieving joy faded, uncertainty and suspicion began to creep in. How could Xena possibly have been alive all this time…and why had no one ever told him? Why had she never told him? He’d by no means lived in secrecy since his return from Spain, despite that false report of his death some months prior. Had she but bothered to inquire…
Now several other officers and their wives joined the circle about her. Harry tried to pick up the thread of conversation as Xena began to elaborate on that part of her history he burned to know.
“I still don’t understand why no announcement was made once Colonel Maxwell learned you were never aboard the ship that foundered,” Captain Findlay was saying. “He should have put a notice in the papers, to relieve us all.”
Xena lifted a shapely shoulder, though her expression seemed strained. “I imagine he saw little point nearly three years after the fact, especially as he was off again to resume his archaeological pursuits soon after discovering me alive at home.”
Or, Harry wondered, was it that neither of them wanted to dredge up memories of the old, hushed-up scandal that had led to their hasty marriage and subsequent banishment from the regiment?
“So you’ve been content to stay immured in the country all this time?” he suddenly heard himself asking, with an edge of skepticism he couldn’t keep from his voice.
Turning, she met his eyes squarely with the thick-lashed gray ones he remembered so well. “Content is perhaps not the word I would choose, sir, but I have remained there, yes. My father and…circumstances gave me li
ttle choice.” There was a question behind her gaze, and a challenge.
But what question, and what challenge? Surely she could not blame him for doing nothing to shorten her stay in Yorkshire when neither she nor her father had ever bothered to inform him of her survival?
The conversation moved on then to other reminiscences of the war years, with more than one officer recounting how the remarkable Miss Maxwell had nursed him through wounds that would surely have proved fatal without her skills. Harry listened a few moments more, then stepped back to allow others to join the throng about her.
He couldn’t imagine any “circumstances” that could have caged a spirit such as the one he remembered. Did anyone in Yorkshire—anyone anywhere—even know that she…they…were married? Wellington’s behavior implied he did, for all he’d introduced her as “Miss Maxwell,” and surely records of the marriage must still exist. Now that she knew Harry was also still living, what might she mean to do about it?
Somehow, he must contrive a word alone with her. In addition to burning curiosity, he very much needed to know where he—where they—stood.
“Are you all right, old chap?” Peter and Jack had also retreated from the group, though Sarah was still listening to the others’ tales.
“What? Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
The glance his friends exchanged told Harry he wasn’t the least bit convincing. He tried again.
“It’s just…I knew her rather well when I served in the 45th. Her father was advising Colonel Flagston at the time, you know. Seeing her suddenly alive after all these years believing her dead was like being confronted by a ghost.”
“Ah.” That single word Peter uttered carried more understanding than Harry liked. “I hadn’t realized that you and she were so close.”
“Nor I,” Jack echoed. “In fact, you never mentioned her once in all the time we served together, or since—not even when you first arrived from the 45th.”
