Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “All a credit to my own training.”

  The ghost of a smile wreathed the weathered face of his superior. “That is true.” He thumped Tristan on the back, and then as if the brief exchange had never occurred, the lieutenant-colonel was back in his familiar position; hands behind him, gaze forward. “You’re adjusting to life back in the military?”

  “Aye, sir,” he said automatically. It was a lie. There was a tedium to what Tristan did here. He’d believed returning to the role he’d served in before would restore his honor, that it would fulfill him. Only to find an absolute emptiness in the course he’d set. There was a void because what he wanted—who he wanted—was, in fact, somewhere else.

  Poppy.

  Pain slashed through his chest and he resisted the urge to rub at that ache.

  “No complaint with your accommodations?”

  “None, my lord,” he said quietly, thinking of the last place he’d all too briefly called home.

  “Have I mentioned I’ve a rat infestation?”

  “You’ve not, Tristan. We’ll require cats, then. Sir Faithful won’t be pleased, of course, but he should also dislike the alternative.”

  How composed she’d been when any other woman would have run screaming from the idea of a residence filled with rodents.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Spicer snorted. “You would be the first gentlemen to serve with me who didn’t bemoan his living arrangements.”

  Tristan followed his men’s movements through their drill. “I’ve no reason to complain.” Unlike the soldiers who slept six to a room, sleeping two to a bed and cooking in those same rooms where they slumbered, Tristan’s position as an officer afforded him greater comforts: spacious rooms, his own bed. Eating not the grub scraped together but rather dining in the local taverns.

  “That’s always been your way though, isn’t it, eh? Even when you had reason to gripe, you didn’t.”

  Tristan briefly shifted his focus from the neat rows of soldiers in the courtyard. “Sir?”

  “Villiers. Or St. Cyr, as he’s known now.”

  Stiffening, Tristan retrained his attention on his men.

  “Nothing to say about it?”

  “I’m not certain what you’d have me say,” he said carefully. What he’d done in battle had never been about attaining fame or notoriety. He’d simply done that which was right in service to his country.

  “Most men would have wanted the matter righted. They would have wanted the world to rightly know that when on foot, they’d single-handedly fought off three French soldiers and saved not only one’s best friend but one’s commanding officer.”

  The man knew that. Of course it should have come as no surprise. Spicer had known everything.

  “I was the reason you dismounted.”

  Yes, the other man pinned under his horse, he’d been trapped awaiting an inevitable death at the hands of the French. Sobbing and pleading, Spicer’s screams for help had split through the din of cannon fire.

  “You cut down three with nothing more than the edge of a bayonet. And then went back for Villiers, sobbing with his head in his hands.”

  Tristan’s gaze landed on a pair of soldiers, beside one another in line: one dark, the other light, of like height and fresh from university, but only one of them with uncertainty in his gaze, as he periodically stole a glance of reassurance from the man beside him; they may as well have been he and St. Cyr as young men. “Not all men are meant for the military.”

  “No, that is true. Most would have wanted the record corrected.”

  As it was a statement more than a question, Tristan let Lieutenant-Colonel Spicer’s words stand in silence.

  The other man, however, would not be content with that. “Most would have wanted the world to know that it was, in fact, you who was the hero at Waterloo. Not Villiers.”

  Tristan looked over in some surprise. “How did you—?” He abruptly stopped talking.

  “How did I know?” Lieutenant-Colonel Spicer did not let the matter die. “Villiers wrote me. He merely confirmed everything I’d already known.” His superior, wholly focused on their regiment, spoke in his clipped, no-nonsense tones that may as well have been observations about the drills unfolding and not the past that had already occurred. “Changed my opinion some on Villiers. Not much. He was a terrible soldier and a lousy man for not having corrected the record.”

  He stiffened. “Either way, it was never about recognition,” he said tersely. Saving lives and leading men to safety. That is what it had always been about. “St. Cyr is a man of honor.”

  “No,” Spicer said casually. “But the man who’d defend him and stand by him for the mistakes he made is. There were some powerful people insistent that you not be granted the commission.”

  Grateful for that turn back to his own past and away from a discourse that betrayed his friendship, Tristan eyed the regiment. “Undoubtedly.” Such was the treatment for those men whose families were guilty of great wrongs. And where that had once before left him with a bitter taste of regret and guilt, now Poppy’s echo reverberated clear in his mind.

  You are not responsible for your father’s sins and crimes…

  And with it, for the first time since he’d learned of his family’s involvement in Northrop’s disappearance, a lightness suffused his chest, healing and freeing.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Spicer clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about the opinions of men who don’t know a thing about character. It’s why I demanded the commission go to you. You’re more worthy than any one of those lords prancing around London; men who’d protect their arses rather than risk all on the battlefield…as you did.”

  Lieutenant-Colonel Spicer was the reason Tristan had received the commission then. Emotion flooded him. “Thank you, sir,” he said hoarsely.

  The other man blanched; the display clearly too much. “You’re relieved for the day.” Spicer grunted. “I pay my debts. If you require anything, Bolingbroke, you just need to inform me.” With that, he marched off. “At ease,” Spicer bellowed, striding forward, immediately commanding the in-sync soldiers.

  The letter carrier arrived. “Letters for ya, Captain.” The boy held out a small stack.

  Tristan’s pulse pounded. With a word of thanks, he took the notes tied together with a black ribbon.

  Having been in Ireland now more than three months, Tristan had become something of an expert on, of all things…the post.

  In his time serving in the Cork Barracks, he’d gleaned the following: it took, on good weather days, three at most for a post from London to arrive.

  Four on average.

  And generally a week when weather was poor.

  When he’d first arrived in Ireland, three days had been the average with which he’d received notes from his wife. Somewhere along the way, that had shifted.

  Those letters still came, but with less frequency and it was never predictable when they would…or worse, would not…arrive. Oh, they always came. Just…infrequently.

  And the handwriting had grown hurried.

  And her parting address had gone through a decay.

  “Ever Yours” had eventually become “Yours”.

  And then…

  Poppy.

  It was likely a matter of haste, more than anything which accounted for that change.

  Because what was the alternative? a silent voice jeered… That any affection Poppy had carried, had also faded in his absence.

  It was a possibility that entered anytime a note arrived from her, one that he thrust out of his consciousness. So that he didn’t have to think about what it had been before he’d left. Or…what he’d truly yearned for.

  “I love you, Tristan…I always have…”

  That was what he’d longed to hear from Poppy…and it was very possibly words she would have had for him, had he stayed.

  And how he’d given all that up…telling himself it was for her. For them.

  You equate your honor with how th
e world views you and not with how you live your own life…

  How right she’d been.

  At his approach, a soldier saluted, and drew the door of the barracks open.

  “At ease,” Tristan commanded as he made for his offices. The minute he’d entered the rooms and closed the door behind him, he sifted through the notes.

  St. Cyr.

  Blackthorne.

  Tristan’s heart sank as he reached the last note.

  His sister.

  Claire.

  Twelve days.

  It marked the longest passage of time since Poppy had penned him.

  Tristan,

  I trust you are doing well. You know I am generally not one to complain; however, I must confess to annoyance that you should be able to make your escape from London, while Faye and I were called back to endure…Mother, here. As you can imagine, she’s not taken well to being barred from most social events.

  “No, she certainly would not.” Tristan found his first grin since he’d reached the third note. He continued reading.

  Poppy—

  His heart sped up at the mere sight of her name.

  Has been endlessly more patient than Mother deserves, and exceedingly kind to both Faye and I. She appears to despise all the balls and soirees as much as I myself do. Alas, she’s been a sport, escorting us in the evening, and suffering the company of her dour art instructor during the day. One would think that foul temperaments and a lofty attitude is a requisite for the role.

  I digress; you are missed. Be well.

  Claire

  Post Script: Despite all that, I still find you the greatest, most wonderful, most devoted brother.

  Post Post Script: Next week, Poppy will be holding an art exhibit of her work in our townhouse. I find it inspiring. Mother is, of course, livid. I shall notify you of her success.

  He scanned those pages.

  Poppy was putting her work on display.

  Pride, so powerful and potent sent his heart pounding.

  He sank onto the chair at his desk, re-reading those words, and then he slid his eyes closed. In his time apart from Poppy, he’d lain awake, tortured by their argument. Haunted by the words he’d hurled at her in anger. Words that he should have only given to her from a place of caring. But mayhap in some small way she’d been encouraged by his urging. Tristan’s lips formed their first real grin since he’d left her. Or, knowing his wife, she’d seen his charges as a challenge.

  Tristan knew only one thing…he wanted to be there.

  He stilled.

  I need to be there.

  He wanted to stand beside her when her work was on display, wanted to witness her receive the praise and adulation she so deserved.

  If you require anything, Bolingbroke, you just need to inform me…

  Tristan quickly folded the note.

  There was one favor he needed.

  Chapter 22

  Tristan,

  You were right…about so much. I have been hiding my artwork out of fear of what the world will say. I’ve decided to not hide anymore. I wish you could be here for it.

  Poppy

  This moment should be everything in her world.

  A hope she’d never even dared have, because well, she’d not allowed herself to dream wide—until Tristan had challenged her to do so.

  And yet, though her ballroom was transformed into an art display, with her work on exhibit…for her family and the eventual guest, Mr. Houdon, the moment was somehow still incomplete.

  Her throat constricted, and she attempted to swallow around it as she stared at the abstract colors she and Tristan had painted.

  It is magnificent… Do you know, Poppy? I can’t name anything that has made me feel that way…

  Her eyes slid closed, and the ache of losing Tristan hit her all over again, fresh in its pain, and she had to look away from that work they’d created together. Before she’d known his intentions. Before he’d chosen another path. Before she’d known that she was not enough for him.

  No, you always knew that.

  You were the sister-like figure who’d become a friend but nothing more.

  Across the room, her sister, conversing with Christian and his family, caught Poppy’s eye.

  Poppy flashed a smile that felt strained to her own muscles.

  Prudence said something to her husband, and then slipped away from that happy tableau they’d been.

  Which was, of course, that which Poppy had been missing. She was truthful enough to admit as much to herself. That she was the greatest of liars. That she’d done such a convincing job when she’d offered Tristan a marriage of convenience that she’d almost believed it herself.

  Almost.

  “I should think you’d be smiling more,” Prudence said quietly, as she reached Poppy. “You’ve managed the impossible—you’ve earned Mother’s approval.”

  They looked as one to where their Mother stood conversing with Caleb and Mr. Houdon. The regal dowager countess beside the wizened old artist and the broad bear of a man who’d become Poppy’s mentor couldn’t be a more peculiar sight.

  “Yes, one could hardly believe it,” she murmured.

  Their mother had always railed at their love of art, and lamented at the time they’d spent sketching.

  “You’ve done what I never have and never could do, Poppy. You’ve made your work into something not just for you, as I’ve done, but something that the world could and should share in, too.”

  She made a sound of protest.

  “I’m not disparaging myself,” Prudence interrupted. “It is the honest truth. I enjoy art. I always have. But I wouldn’t have asserted myself to take control of Penelope and Ryker’s hotel. Nor would I have dared paint a man nude.”

  “I didn’t paint him nude,” she said on a small smile.

  “Attempted to.” Prudence waved her hand.

  Except… Her smile withered. For along with thoughts of Rochford came everything that had followed: her residence at the Paradise. Tristan. Her marriage.

  Oh, God, when would her heart stop splintering? It wouldn’t. Because she missed him still and hated herself for missing him. Because he’d not cared enough to stay, and yet, she should be breaking apart inside at the loss of him.

  Prudence slipped an arm through hers. “Either way, it’s all the same. Art was never something meant to be hidden away on a sketchpad for you. And I am so very proud of you for doing that which I, nor any other woman I’ve known, has done.”

  Only, Poppy hadn’t realized all that of her own. Her husband had seen that, when she herself hadn’t. She’d believed herself bold and daring in her work, but all the while she’d never had higher expectations for herself…because simply put, it had been safer that way.

  I speak as though what you do is safe. You’d call me out, and yet, bold and spirited and proud as you are, you’ve hidden yourself away. In empty rooms of your sister’s hotel, away from Polite Society. On your sketchpad…

  In the moment, when he’d hurled those words at her, she’d been destroyed inside by the low opinions he’d had of her.

  She realized now, in his absence. Acknowledged how very right he’d been. About so much. And he’d missed the moment. He should have been here for it.

  “Why does it feel as though you’re not as elated about this night?” Prudence murmured, giving her arm a light squeeze.

  “I am,” she said quietly, for it was possible to feel competing emotions all at once: a duality of pain and joy, so starkly different, and yet, capable of living together.

  For the remainder of the night, Poppy went through the motions of being part of the moment with her family and the great artist Houdon. It was as though she observed another, watching herself, until at last all her family and guests had gone, and quiet remained.

  Poppy remained there fixed on the small segment she’d painted with Tristan, that smattering of blue and green paint, those colors thrown together by she and Tristan, blended there in an unexpected
harmony that had never been able to transcend their marriage.

  “You showed yourself to the world, princess. Did you get burned?”

  She glanced to the lone guest who’d remained. A kind friend and mentor, when it should have been another man. And yet, friend though he was, she couldn’t very well bring herself to tell him she’d been burned long before, with her heart seared because of her loss. “No burns,” she murmured as Caleb came forward with that small satchel he was never without.

  He set it on the floor at her feet.

  Poppy glanced down at it.

  “Go on,” he said gruffly.

  Going to a knee, Poppy reached a hand inside. “It is a stone,” she blurted.

  He nodded. “You’ve experimented with fabrics and paints and charcoals. Never used stone before. It’s time. All artists use stone.”

  “I didn’t presume to be an artist,” she said wistfully.

  Caleb gave her a sharp look. “You’re an artist,” he said flatly, in the decisive tones of one who’d reached the conclusion and decided the matter was settled. “As long as you let yourself be.” He shoved the sculpting stone at her. “You’ve painted every damn wall here, Poppy. You’ve painted every room. You’ve worked in your sister’s hotel. It is time to grow.”

  “I don’t…know what to do with it,” she confessed.

  Caleb slid himself into position behind her. “Here.” Taking her hands, he guided them over the stone. “Close your eyes.”

  Poppy went absolutely still. No man, aside from Tristan, had ever held her close.

  Only there was nothing sexual in Caleb’s touch. Nothing suggestive in his hold that spoke of seduction or scandal. Because with Caleb, it was only ever about art…which is what had saved her from her misery when Tristan had left.

  “Close ’em, princess,” he ordered, and it was that all perfunctory business-like quality there that drove the tension from her.

  And Poppy closed her eyes; she ran her hands exploratively over the hard surface, noting those details one missed when assessing it as only cold stone: the contours. The grooves. The imperfections. All perfect analogies to the human form. “Very good, princess. You’ve got to feel what it is to work with stone. You can’t create the human form from it, if you don’t understand your material.” His voice broke through the spell and her concentration.