by Brenda Hiatt
Harry shrugged, though it cost him an effort. “We were only acquainted for three or four months, but I suppose you could say we were…friends.” A memory of their last, exceedingly passionate encounter assailed him.
Peter nodded sympathetically. “And you feel she should have somehow let you know she was all right.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. No! I— Damn it, Pete, you’re too perceptive by half, as always. Very well, yes. It seems little short of deceptive she should have been living happily in the country all this time with never a word to…to those of us who would have liked to know.”
Again, Peter and Jack exchanged a too-knowing glance.
“Her explanation sounded plausible enough.” Jack shrugged. “She undoubtedly assumed her father would notify her closest friends once her letter reached him. That it never did is no great surprise, given how unreliable communications were back then. Surely there’s no need to infer deception from a single missent message?”
“No. I suppose not. Though she might at least have written again.” Or directly to him. He’d had as much right as her father to know she had survived. Of course, his friends didn’t know that—nor was he about to tell them. “I’ve a mind to sample Old Nosey’s cellars. What say you?”
Though his friends were clearly still curious, neither made any argument as they followed Harry in pursuit of a footman bearing a silver tray of filled wine glasses.
* * *
Xena watched Harry Thatcher’s progress across the room while pretending to appear engaged in the conversation humming about her, though in truth she was still struggling to absorb the enormity of her discovery.
Alive! Harry Thatcher—her husband—was alive! Something the Duke had clearly known full well—which explained his rather odd reaction upon hearing the name of her “late” husband. Despite how retired she’d lived since returning to England, it seemed incredible that Harry could have been living openly in London all this time without her hearing so much as a hint of it.
Her gaze followed him about the room, a thousand questions crowding her brain. Was it at Salamanca that Harry lost his left arm? How long after the notice in the newspapers was he discovered to be alive? And, most importantly, now he knew she was alive, what might he intend to do about it?
It was disturbing to realize she had no idea what sort of man Harry Thatcher was now, and positively frightening that Theo’s future as well as her own were now at the mercy of a virtual stranger’s whims should he choose to exert his legal authority over them
Perhaps Harry’s fellow officers could give her some idea of his character? She began to listen more closely to nearby conversations, alert for any opening that might allow her to learn more without directly mentioning Harry’s name.
“Aye, look at old Tolliver over there.” Viscount Linley, only a few paces away, nodded toward a portly man whose scarlet coat was stretched tight across his abdomen. “Let himself go to fat within two months of Waterloo.”
Moving closer, Xena seized her opportunity, saying, “Many of the men here have altered almost out of recognition from when I knew them on the Peninsula, my lord. Though I suppose some of the most profound changes might not even visible to the eye. Whose behavior or outlook would you say has altered most since leaving the army?”
Lord Linley frowned thoughtfully. “Hm. Bit of a puzzler, that…”
“Not at all,” protested Mr. Mellings, whose own uniform still fitted him well. “Sure to be Colonel Northrup, wouldn’t you say? Transformed himself into a complete dandy within a month of selling out.”
“Lord Peter Northrup, do you mean?” Xena’s interest quickened, for he and Harry had appeared to be friends.
“Aye. On the battlefield he was hard as iron, giving no quarter to the enemy nor to his own soldiers if they disobeyed an order. But ever since returning home, he spends all his time choosing his colorful ensembles and chiding those of his comrades who’ve turned to more disreputable pursuits to while away their time.”
Which comrades, she wondered. “Surely it is admirable of him to guide his friends toward more productive paths if they are going astray?”
Lord Linley chuckled. “Doubt Thatcher sees it that way! Though Foxhaven has cause to be grateful to him, I suppose. Word was, Northrup helped him reform enough to claim his inheritance a year or two back. Some condition or other of Foxhaven’s grandfather, the way I heard it.
“But Mr. Thatcher refuses to be so guided?” Xena asked lightly, attempting to appear amused rather than worried.
The whole group around her laughed.
“Hardly Northrup’s fault, that. Thatcher was known for his excesses even in the field,” Mr. Mellings informed her. “I served in the 48th with him, along with Northrup and Foxhaven—Jack Ashecroft as he was then—and Harry was one of the chief carousers among us. After losing his arm he went from bad to worse. Daresay all he lives for now is drinking, dicing and wenching. Oh! Beg pardon, ma’am. Need to learn to mind my tongue better ‘round the ladies, don’t I?”
Xena forced a smile to her lips. “I heard far worse in field hospitals, I assure you. But if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll trouble that footman for one of those charming canapés and perhaps a glass of ratafia.”
Her false smile still firmly affixed, she moved away, thinking furiously. Could it be true? The Harry Thatcher she’d known had never imbibed at all, nor had she ever witnessed him gambling. Had seven years truly transformed him into a drunken gamester…and womanizer?
If so, perhaps it was as well she’d had no chance to mention her son to anyone, for the thought of such a man having absolute authority over Theo was intolerable. In fact, the safest thing might be to keep Theo’s existence a secret—though that would necessitate leaving London as soon as possible.
It was a shame, really. Mr. Gold had already found buyers for the original six items Xena had sold him, along with three others she had left on consignment. Why, just yesterday she’d written her steward in Yorkshire to commence repairs there, and to box up and send a few more treasures Mr. Gold had specifically requested. And Theo had been so very happy when she’d told him they could remain in London for the winter…
Lady Peter Northrup’s approach interrupted Xena’s anxious musings. “Miss Maxwell, do you suppose we might arrange an opportunity for more conversation than is possible right now? You’ve led far the most fascinating life of anyone I’ve ever met, between traveling the world and then spending time among the army camps. As my husband avoids speaking of his experiences during the war, I would be exceedingly obliged if you could tell me more of what it was like.”
Xena swallowed. “Oh. Er, surely there are dozens here who can tell you far more than I, Lady Peter. I was on the Peninsula but two years. And though I believed at the time I lived just as the soldiers did, I suspect I was rather more sheltered than I knew. Well…except when it came to treating the wounded—but I cannot imagine you would wish to hear those gruesome details?”
Lady Peter paled slightly. “Perhaps not,” she admitted. “But there is much I would like to hear. May I call upon you sometime this week? Where are you staying in Town?”
“Not in one of the more genteel areas, I fear, so it would probably be best if you did not.” The last thing Xena wanted was for anyone even remotely connected with Harry to visit her rooms—and see Theo. Not before she had decided what to do.
“The more, ah, colorful areas of London do not frighten me.” Lady Peter gave her an almost mischievous smile. “But if my calling upon you seems ineligible, might I persuade you visit me in Curzon Street? For truly, I should like to know you better. Were you the one to nurse Harry Thatcher when he was so dreadfully wounded? You both seemed quite strongly affected upon first encountering each other tonight.”
“No, I…I never nursed him. His injury must have occurred after I left Spain—likely at Salamanca, as that was the battle where he was reported killed. In error, obviously.” When had that error been discovered? She wi
shed she knew. “He served in the 45th for three or four months while my father was there advising Colonel Flagston and our paths often crossed. That…that is all.”
Though of course that was not all. Not remotely.
Unbidden, a far-too-vivid memory of the night Harry first introduced her to the pleasures of lovemaking made her knees go unexpectedly weak. Swallowing, she stiffened her spine to compensate, hoping her color hadn’t risen.
“Even so, Miss Maxwell, I would be delighted if you would take tea with me one day this week,” Lady Pater persisted, forcing Xena’s focus back to the present.
“You are exceedingly kind, but I plan to remain in London only another day or two.”
Lady Peter’s beautiful face fell. “Oh, I am very sorry to hear that. I quite looked forward to our becoming better acquainted. If you should decide to stay longer, please don’t hesitate to call upon me, even unannounced.”
Xena murmured something noncommittal, then turned to greet yet another group of officers clamoring for her attention, glad to escape Lady Peter’s insistence. Yes, the sooner she could leave London the better. Though if Harry should decide to follow her…
Would he? Did she want him to? No, of course she did not. Not if what those men said about him was true. Safer, surely, to convince him she had no fortune worth pursuing beyond a mouldering manor house in a remote corner of Yorkshire—nothing, in short, to tempt him away from his comfortably dissipated life in London.
To do that, however, she needed to contrive a moment or two alone with him. Not until she discovered his intentions could she effectively plan a counter-offensive, should one prove necessary.
More than an hour passed before such an opportunity presented itself. Though Xena tried to appear cheerful and animated while responding to continued expostulations about her miraculous survival and all the good she had done during the war, her attention was in fact centered on Harry’s every movement—and the disconcerting memories sparked by seeing him again.
Unfortunately, every time she spotted him he was in the company of others, most often Lord Peter Northrup and Lord Foxhaven, and always, she noted, with a drink in his hand. Nor did the Duke’s guests leave her alone for a moment. In desperation she finally excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room, then found a quiet corner just behind the curve of the nearest elaborate spiral staircase.
Almost at once, she saw Harry approaching—also alone. “Give you good evening again, Miss Maxwell,” he drawled, a sardonic edge to his voice. “Wonder if I might have a word?”
“Certainly, Mr. Thatcher.” She fought desperately to keep her color from rising, reminded again of all they’d once been to each other. Seven years had certainly not made him any less handsome. Rather the reverse. “Here, or somewhere a bit more private?”
His mouth twisted into something that was almost—but not quite—a smile. “For what we need to discuss, an audience might be better avoided. Do you not agree?”
“I do indeed. There is an anteroom just back here—it is where the Duke had me wait until he could spring me upon his guests with a flourish.”
“Pity I missed that. Back here, you say?”
Her heart unaccountably hammering in her chest—for surely she had nothing to fear?—she led him to the small, ivy-papered room she’d quitted some three hours earlier.
CHAPTER 7
HARRY FOLLOWED Xena into the room, trying not to be distracted by the curve of her bottom as it moved under the thin silk of her midnight-blue gown. Now they were finally away from the prying eyes of all those damned officers and their gossiping wives, he needed to keep his mind clear if he was to get the answers he craved.
The instant the door was closed, Xena whirled to face him. “Now we are alone, perhaps you will tell me what you mean to do?”
“Do?” He blinked. “What do you mean? What the devil am I supposed to do when suddenly confronted by a wife who for seven years allowed me to believe she was dead?”
His words sounded harsh even to his own ears and Xena immediately bristled.
“Allowed you to believe? You are aware, are you not, that you were reported dead as well? I had no reason to disbelieve what I saw printed in the papers. Was I to write to a corpse?”
“The papers also printed a notice after I was found alive,” he pointed out.
Xena averted her eyes—those same expressive gray eyes he remembered all too well. “I…canceled regular deliveries of the Times shortly after reading you were killed. Money was tight and it seemed an extravagance having it posted all the way to Yorkshire.”
Thrusting away an image of her poring over the lists of dead and wounded frequently enough to have spotted his name, he returned to the main point. “Salamanca occurred a full three years after I left the 45th,” he reminded her. “Three years during which you could have written to me after learning we all thought you dead. Why didn’t you?”
She compressed her lips—lips that were fuller than Harry remembered. “I…wrote to my father. I assumed he would notify you.”
“Ah, yes, that all-important letter that he supposedly never received.”
“Do you accuse me of lying, sir?” she flared. “I assure you I did write to him, and before the end of ’09. I had no idea he’d not received my letter until he returned home—barely a month before news reached England about the battle at Salamanca.”
She darted a glance at Harry’s left sleeve, then looked away—but not before he saw the flash of pain in her eyes…or was it revulsion?
“Why did you not write again when you received no reply?” Harry persisted. “Surely such momentous news was worth of at least one more attempt?”
Xena lifted a creamy shoulder, again averting her gaze. “He was still quite angry with me when I left Spain. I assumed that was why he did not reply. Writing again might have been seen as groveling for his forgiveness, which I could not bring myself to do. Not after he’d violated my trust by forcing us to wed.”
“Do you mean that you did not expect him to insist upon our marriage when you informed him of our…activities?” Harry could hardly believe she’d been so naive, but it would explain much.
“Inform—? You cannot think I told him? Not after all my pains to keep our… activities, as you term them, secret? Even believing him as forward-thinking as myself, it was scarcely worth that risk—as ensuing events proved. You both knew my views on matrimony. I never expected you would resort to such underhanded stratagem to force my hand.”
Harry stared, then slowly shook his head. “I assure you, I was as surprised as you claim to have been when Colonel Maxwell insisted we marry. He implied it was your wish, so I—”
“So you could not in honor refuse. My father told me it was your wish—and that he would have you court marshaled if I balked.” Her dark brows drew down in a frown. “It appears we were both misled. He clearly owed his information to a third party. I wonder who?”
So did Harry. Aware that they might be interrupted at any moment, however, he shrugged. “That scarcely matters now, does it? The important question is, what do we do now? Announce the truth to the world and live from this day forward as husband and wife?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, looking suddenly alarmed. “After all, we barely knew each other seven years ago, and it’s clear now that neither of us wished for that travesty of a wedding my father forced upon us.”
Though true, her words stung more than he cared to admit. Seven years ago she had seemed to enjoy his company—and his love making—well enough. Alone with her, standing so close to her, he was rather too forcefully reminded of how very much he had enjoyed those encounters.
“What do you propose, then? Simply…pretend we were never more than chance acquaintances during the war and go our separate ways?” Harry supposed he should prefer that course, but…
The look she gave him was both suspicious and hopeful. “I…would not be averse to such a course. I’ve no particular desire to conform my life to yours at this late dat
e, nor can I imagine you wish to conform yours to mine. I gather you have not married again, at any rate, under the misapprehension I was dead?”
Now that was a complication Harry hadn’t even thought of—not that he’d ever been at the least risk of such a thing. “Me? No. And as you still call yourself Miss Maxwell, I presume you are no bigamist either.” He let the implied question hang.
The Xena he’d known in Portugal and Spain had never been one to blush, but now her color rose ever so slightly. “I, ah, no. As no one in Yorkshire knew of our marriage—”
“You never saw fit to tell them. Can’t say I blame you, as I never told anyone either. A bit awkward to admit the truth to everyone now, after so many years of silence on the subject by both of us, wouldn’t you say? Though if Wellington suspects…”
Xena grimaced. “He doesn’t suspect, he knows. I told him myself this very evening, just before he announced me. He neglected to mention you were still alive…and expected to attend tonight.” She seemed understandably nettled by that omission.
“Old Nosey always did like his little jokes. Do you think he’s told anyone else?”
After a moment’s thought, she shook her head. “I feel sure someone would have mentioned it to one of us by now if he had.”
True enough. If there were anyone Wellington might be tempted to inform, it would be Peter and Jack, as they’d done so much vital work for him in the past and were known to be Harry’s best friends. Clearly he had not…yet. Harry imagined the glee with which the two would greet such news and cringed. Far better to tell them the truth himself than risk them learning of it at a venue such as this.
“I could ask Wellington to keep the story to himself,” he mused aloud, “but even if he agreed to do so, he’d certainly want to know why. I confess, I was rather surprised you made no mention of our, ah relationship when Wellington first sprung us upon each other tonight.”
“I realized, as you just pointed out, the awkwardness of such a revelation. Nor did I completely trust my judgment while recovering from such a surprise. As we cannot count on it remaining a secret, however, we must decide how we wish to proceed.”
