A Fine Gentleman

by Sarah M. Eden

  “You must do what you feel is best,” Stanley had said. “My father always told me it is in those moments when we are tested to our limit that we discover the person we truly are. You have it in you, Mary”—he had always called her Mary, claiming it was easier for an Englishman to pronounce—“to save your family. You are not one to quit when circumstances grow difficult. Use your strengths. Do all you can. And most important of all, cling to whatever hope you can find.”

  “Is that what you do?” Mariposa had asked as they’d moved amongst the most severely wounded, checking for those who had breathed their last. She’d tried to sound braver than she was. He believed in her so much more than she believed in herself. An almost overwhelming need to prove herself worthy of his trust swept over her.

  “I search out every ray of hope I can find,” he said. “I think if I didn’t, this war would drive me mad.”

  “What if I lose the rest of them?” Mariposa asked, biting down on her lips to stop her sudden rush of emotion from escaping. “I have so little of my family left.”

  Stanley stopped his perusal and returned to her side. He took her hand in his, patting it in precisely the way her father had been wont to. That gesture alone nearly undid her, bringing every suppressed, painful memory to the surface. “When my father died,” Stanley said, “I looked around at my family and wondered, What if the rest of them die too? What if I lose them all? But then I realized something.”

  “What did you realize?”

  “I was only a little mite, thirteen, in fact. But I could help them. My mother—we call her Mater—she needed comfort, and I could do that.” He nodded as if reliving that moment of resolve. “I could hold Mater’s hand when she was teary or fetch her wrap if she grew cold—little things that helped her feel loved. And Philip, my oldest brother, was so overwhelmed. I could help him by keeping my younger brothers out of his hair. I looked for things I could do, no matter how small, and I did them.”

  “What if my family needs more than I can give?”

  “You are all they have,” was his answer.

  And so, when the British army had packed up to move on to the next battle, Mariposa had gathered her family, along with their necessities, and left their ancestral home, uncertain they would be safe if they remained. They’d slept at times in barns, traded their belongings for food or funds, hidden from any and every sign of danger.

  She’d quickly learned to assume anything and anyone might be a threat. She’d learned to play roles to keep her family fed and safe. She’d learned to lie.

  She’d done her share of lying to Stanley’s brother. What would her dear friend think of that? Would he understand? She needed to find the Thorntons’ solicitor but could not hope to do so without help. Mr. Jason Jonquil was in the legal profession; he could search out another member of the legal profession without raising anyone’s suspicions.

  She could not risk drawing attention, not when a very real and worrisome threat hung over them all. Her efforts could not be kept quiet without some level of deception. The lies were justified. She told herself as much over and over again. Any person would do as much to save their family.

  The reality of their perilous situation could not be dismissed. She had received a note shortly before her mother and brother had disappeared, one that haunted her thoughts. Though she had not been present when the missive had been left for her, she knew who had penned it.

  In the course of her survival, she had made the acquaintance of many people whose true identities were hidden, as hers so often was: invaluable allies she knew only by such names as The Bear and The Daffodil, as well as terrifying threats, like this man from France, known only as Bélanger. The notorious Frenchman was known for his brutal and vengeful nature, and she, by virtue of having shared with the British army information she’d stumbled upon about his plans for a covert crossing of the Channel, had made herself his enemy.

  “A butterfly’s wings are easily clipped,” his note had declared. “Wingless and alone, she will die.”

  Wingless. That threat had been leveled at her. Alone. A threat made against her family.

  “The young and the old are easily disposed of,” he’d added. “The addled dispose of themselves.”

  Her younger brother, Santiago. Her aging abuela. Her mentally fragile mother. The threats had been too pointed to ignore. The man who had penned the chilling warning was precisely the sort to carry out such heartless acts. She knew him to be a murderer. And he knew she had full knowledge of his crimes.

  From that day forward, she’d never stopped looking over her shoulder. She’d never let her guard down. Now two members of her family were missing, and she very much feared the ruthless Frenchman was responsible.

  “On England’s shores, we will finally know peace,” her father had said.

  Oh, Papá. I very much fear you were wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Mariposa leaned back into the questionable comfort of the less-than-elegant squabs of her rackety hired conveyance and smiled at how confused Mr. Jonquil would be when she stepped into his office. She had not yet sorted him out, but the attempt was proving excessively diverting. She needed the distraction and the bit of joy it brought.

  What mischievous imp had convinced her to bring the information to him directly when he had so specifically instructed her to send it to him? The confounded man had hardly left her thoughts in the days since she had met him, he being such a mystery.

  What reason could he possibly have for never smiling? Stanley had smiled and laughed with her even while surrounded by the horrors of war—at least he had early on. She herself had enough sorrow pressing on her heart to excuse a lack of levity, and yet she found reasons now and again to smile, to laugh, to find some joy in life.

  “Such a handsome man really ought to smile,” Mariposa mused aloud. Such a handsome man. She’d not intended to make that observation. “Well, no woman who saw him could possibly think otherwise,” she defended herself. “Even if he is something of a gloomy cloud and will likely throttle me the moment I step through his door.”

  She sat alone in the hired hack. Abuela had remained at home, leaving Mariposa in the reliable hands of Will Williams, a veteran of the war against Napoleon. He was as large as a bull and looked every bit as intimidating. Mariposa, however, had discovered him to be as softhearted a man as she was likely to encounter. She felt as close to safe with him at her side as she likely ever would.

  Will had spent a good deal too much time during his stint on the Continent within close range of the massive canons employed in countless battles and, as a result, could hardly hear a thing. He wasn’t likely to give her away during their visit to Mr. Jonquil. Abuela was not so dependable; she’d taken to “twitching” whenever Mr. Jonquil was mentioned.

  “Miss Mariposa Thornton,” young Mr. Hansen announced precisely as he had the last time she’d come to Mr. Jonquil’s office. Even the inflection was the same.

  Does Mr. Jonquil not allow even the slightest bit of spontaneity? Mariposa looked around the room at the extremely symmetrical layout and perfectly organized papers and myriad books, no doubt organized on multiple tiers. She had an almost overwhelming urge to tip the painting behind Mr. Jonquil’s desk and leave it hanging horribly askew, simply to see if Mr. Calm and Collected would show some emotion in response.

  “Miss Thornton.” Mr. Jonquil addressed her the moment his secretary left them. Mariposa recognized his tersely patient tone and very nearly grinned, which would, of course, have ruined everything. “I believe I told you to send your information to me.”

  “Yes.” She opted for a tone of voice thoroughly infused with pride, as though pleased with herself for so closely following his directions. “And here it is.” She pulled a small, folded stack of papers from her reticule. “I have sent it to you.”

  “No,” he countered. “You have delivered it. I asked you to send it, Mis
s Thornton.”

  “And so I have.” Mariposa kept her eyes wide and extremely innocent. “I have sent it from my house in my carriage to you. Personally.”

  “But that is not sending. That is delivering.”

  “You did not say you did not want the information delivered. You only said to send it to you. And I have. See?” She laid the folded papers on his desk. “It has been sent and has arrived.” She smiled as sweetly as humanly possible.

  “You have misinterpreted my words.” Mr. Jonquil’s exasperation became more obvious by the moment.

  Mariposa sighed and gave him a look of overly sympathetic understanding. “At least you have not yet repeated yourself. That is something to be proud of, even if you still cannot seem to make yourself understood.”

  His jaw began twitching, and Mariposa judged it best to stage something of a strategic retreat. She wished to see his mask slip a little, not cause him apoplexy. She left her papers and wandered to the first set of bookshelves, eyeing them with an appearance of casual interest but, in all reality, entirely determined to identify Mr. Jonquil’s method of organizing his many hefty tomes. She was certain there was a scheme and that it was overly complicated and clung to with a viselike grip.

  What are you hiding, Jason Jonquil?

  “Now that you have delivered these papers—”

  “Sent,” Mariposa threw back over her shoulder, unable to resist baiting him just a little more.

  He didn’t correct his word choice. “I am certain Hansen could summon your carriage so you can be on your way.”

  “Oh, I do not have a carriage here,” Mariposa answered, successfully sounding offhand.

  “No? How do you plan to return home?”

  To Mariposa’s surprise, Mr. Jonquil sounded concerned. She turned to look at him and very nearly exploded with laughter. It was not concern that had tinged his voice but outright horror. The poor man was deathly afraid he would never be rid of her.

  “Why would I wish to go home, Mr. Jonquil?” she asked. “You have not yet read the papers. Do you not remember, that is why I have come?”

  She patted his hand, knowing that would only add to the almost ridiculous role she played. But instead of exasperating him, the gesture momentarily overset her. A tingle of pure anticipation shot up from her hand to her arm and seemed to permeate her entire body in a matter of seconds. His was certainly not the first male hand she had touched—there must have been hundreds amongst the wounded and dying at Albuera and Orthez—nor was he the first handsome man she’d ever encountered, but never had she become so suddenly aware of a gentleman’s mere presence.

  She didn’t at all like it. Her strategy depended upon being in control of their encounters, of keeping him upended. She simply could not allow herself to be unsettled.

  Before she could pull back, Mr. Jonquil grasped the hand she still had pressed to his and pulled her the rest of the way around the desk until she stood close enough to hear his every breath.

  “Now listen here, Miss Thornton,” he said, his jaw tense, his words clipped. “I have been as patient as can be expected of any gentleman. But there are a few ideas you have tossing about in that otherwise empty head of yours that need straightening out.”

  She stood frozen, both by a sudden wariness at his authoritative and extremely annoyed tone and by a certain captivating quality he had about him.

  “I am not incompetent,” he insisted. “Neither am I an imbecile, nor do I repeat your words because I have none of my own. I do not take kindly to being treated condescendingly.” He held her barely at arm’s length. His grip on her hand was unrelenting but not at all painful, as if he made certain he did not hurt her, despite his obvious anger. “I will read through your papers, but I will not sit idly by while you insult me. Is that understood?”

  For a moment, she was tempted to drop her pretense entirely, to simply confess her act and her reasons and ask him to forgive her. But it was too soon, and she did not know him well enough. The best way to survive in an often violent and uncaring world was under the protection of masks and armor and pretense.

  Oh, why couldn’t life have remained simple? Why hadn’t Napoleon and his marauding soldiers remained in France? Why hadn’t Papá and Abuelo simply remained at home that horrible day? Why hadn’t Marcos been spared? Why had Mamá and Santiago been taken from her as well?

  To her mortification, her chin began to quiver and not, she was certain, indiscernibly. He was too near to not notice. In fact, his expression softened. As he looked into her face, his tense posture relaxed ever so slightly.

  Mr. Jonquil closed his eyes for the slightest of moments. A sigh escaped his lips. He released her hand and held out to her a folded handkerchief. “You are the most exasperating female I have ever known,” he said quietly.

  Pain radiated through her at his words. Exasperating was precisely how she had intended to appear. Still, it was hard knowing he thought of her that way.

  Why should that bother me? She hadn’t survived years of warfare by making friends. She’d survived by being careful and distant, by hiding behind the very mask he was commenting on.

  “Is this gen’leman hurtin’ you, Miss Thornton?” Will asked, his voice a little louder than necessary. The man didn’t hear well, after all.

  “No, Will,” Mariposa answered, shaking her head to aid his understanding. She dabbed at a single tear that managed to escape her eye.

  Through years of terror and difficulty, she had almost never broken down, not since that emotional conversation with Lieutenant Stanley Jonquil amongst the dead and dying of Albuera. A single unflattering comment from his brother and suddenly she was fighting a surge of emotion.

  I must be tired. She had been up quite late the night before, after all.

  She commanded herself to focus once more. The information she had delivered would help Mr. Jonquil find the Thornton solicitor, who would, in turn, help her find her family. She was too close to allow herself to fall apart now.

  Her protective cocoon settled into place once again. “Will you require long to read through the papers I sent you?” Her voice was quieter than she would have preferred, but at least it was steady.

  “Sent,” he muttered. A hint of amusement hung on that single syllable. Amusement?

  She had hoped to see indications of precisely that in him. It was enough to restore her spirits a little. “Excellent,” she said. She had to look up, far up, to see his face. He had the most magically blue eyes. “I am so pleased to not have to fire you. I have heard it said that the third time is the charm, but I do not think that particular saying would apply in this situation.”

  “Certainly not,” he answered dryly.

  Someday, Mr. Jason Jonquil, Mariposa silently said, I will see you smile.

  He led her to an empty chair opposite his desk and, summoning absolutely impeccable manners, offered her a seat before returning to his chair and unfolding the papers she had left on his desk. A fraction of a moment later, he looked up.

  “Miss Thornton?” Mr. Jonquil asked.

  She smiled in precisely the way she’d taught herself to, looking vague and untroubled despite the innumerable heavy thoughts swirling in her brain.

  “Who recommended my services to you?” Mr. Jonquil looked as though he very much wished to know.

  She opened her mouth to answer but was cut off.

  “And do not answer ‘a close acquaintance.’ You provided that invaluable nugget already.”

  The perfect reply surfaced in her mind, one certain to frustrate the poor gentleman. She met his gaze and smiled sweetly. “Your brother.”

  Chapter Six

  Your brother, Jason repeated silently.

  He had six brothers, and any one of them was capable of playing him such an underhanded trick. “Highly recommended,” she’d said. One of Jason’s own brothers had highly recommended she se
ek him out. But which one?

  Not Charlie. He was only seventeen and probably entirely unaware of what his brothers did with their lives.

  Corbin was unlikely to have sent him the exasperating woman. He was Jason’s own twin, and the two had always understood each other on a level above and beyond any of the other brothers. Besides, recommending legal council to any person would require a conversation, and Corbin rarely spoke to his own family, let alone anyone else.

  Philip. Jason tensed at the mere thought of his eldest brother. Philip had likely suggested Miss Thornton seek out Jason simply on a whim. Or, more likely still, because he knew she would drive him absolutely mad.

  Yes, Philip was the obvious answer. And as fate would have it, Philip was on his way to Scotland with his wife and not nearly close enough to receive the kind of retribution Jason owed him.

  Miss Thornton turned slightly to the side, her eyes studying the view from his office window. Despite the fact that she was a troublesome creature, Jason couldn’t help admitting that she had an enchanting profile with her dainty mouth and tiny, pert nose. And, good heavens, that hair. Thick. Abundant. The most intriguing shade of deepest brown. There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t notice.

  She is an aggravating prattle box, Jason reminded himself. He forced his eyes to return to the papers in his hands. He could still smell the breezy scent of her perfume from those few moments when she had stood directly beside him. It reminded him somehow of the seashore.

  He concentrated harder on the reasons he disliked her. She misunderstood his words, twisted everything he said to make him look like a fool. And she did it so well that either she was a complete featherhead or a very gifted actress. There had been something in her eyes as she’d condescendingly patted his hand that had looked infuriatingly like laughter.