For Love or Honor

by Sarah M. Eden

  “I ain’t suggestin’ ye go without a walking stick,” Pluck said. Stanley could tell he had followed him across the room, but he didn’t look back. “Just that ye not use that one.”

  “You have a walking stick simply lying around, I suppose.” Stanley carefully smoothed his right glove. The skin beneath was tender, as always.

  “Might happen to.”

  Stanley did not at all like the sly edge to Pluck’s voice. He turned, careful not to dump himself on the floor in the attempt. His inert right leg did not always turn with him.

  “How did you come to be in possession of a walking stick?” Stanley asked warily. “I doubt you carved it yourself.”

  “I stoled it.” Pluck shrugged.

  Stanley’s stomach dropped. “Pluck.” Growing up in the seedy parts of London, the young man was bound to have picked up a few undesirable habits. Stanley had not thought he was a criminal. “You cannot—”

  Then he noticed Pluck was grinning. Stanley knew that look. “Where did you really get it?”

  “From His High an’ Mighty Lordship,” Pluck said. He reached behind the chest of drawers and pulled out an ebony walking stick.

  “The earl gave you his wife’s walking stick?” That didn’t seem likely. Sorrel couldn’t walk far without it.

  “Nah.” Pluck spun the stick around in his hand. “It’s his High an’ Mighty Lordship’s own twig, it is. Says he don’t carry it no more, seein’ as how his lady cuts a finer figure with hers—she makes him look like a bumblin’ noddy by comparison.”

  “It looks just like hers.” Stanley would have sworn it was Sorrel’s.

  “Aye,” Pluck said. “An’ it’ll look right nice with yer uniform.” Pluck tossed the stick, and Stanley caught it with his left hand.

  It was lighter, much less clumsy than his own. One would purchase just this type of fine walking stick with the intention of using it for years on end. His stick was meant as a temporary fix to his rather permanent problem. One of his men had carved it for Stanley to use while they waited to see how long he lived before infection set in.

  “I don’t know.” Stanley eyed the smooth, polished wood. It wasn’t the type of implement he’d take back to the Continent with him. Practicality always trumped appearance in the army.

  “C’mon,” Pluck said. “Your lady’s nearly engaged to some nambsy swell, an’ you’re gonna arrive at the ball with a log of wood what makes you look like a common beggar? What kinda soldier are ye? Cain’t head off to war with slingshots when the enemy’s armed with muskets. Even those who volunteered for a folorn hope were given ammunition, though they knew they was signin’ up for almost certain death—chargin’ the enemy first, like they was.”

  “I was part of the forlorn hope at Orthez, Pluck. You don’t have to give me details.”

  “An’ ye didn’t survive it by goin’ in with a target on your chest and a big sign sayin’ ‘Shoot me,’ did ye?” Pluck pulled Stanley’s outer coat from the clothes press. “Ye went in fightin’, even though everyone knew the slim chances of success.”

  “Are you saying this endeavor faces similar odds?” Stanley gripped Philip’s walking stick ever tighter. He didn’t want to hear Pluck’s answer, though he knew perfectly well what it was. A hardened, broken man like he was had little to offer a beautiful, joyful young lady like Marjie.

  Pluck shrugged. “Lord Devereaux’s staked his claim, and he’s claimed the stronghold. You’re rushin’ the defenses, puttin’ yourself in the line of fire. Maybe ye’ll come out the winner; maybe ye won’t.”

  “Most men don’t survive a forlorn hope.” It seemed an appropriate metaphor—men rushing to death and glory in the name of battle strategy. There was a reason volunteers were used for the first attack against a fortified enemy stronghold. No one should be forced into a suicide mission. “It’s generally a lost cause.”

  “When did ye begin giving up on lost causes?” An earnestness overtook Pluck’s words. “Even when a roaring fire trapped a whole battery of artillerymen, ye didn’t ride off like all the others. Ye didn’t say ‘Bad luck,’ and get on with it.” Pluck’s voice grew thick. Stanley knew the boy was reliving those moments at Waterloo when he could very easily have been burned alive. A sheen of tears too minuscule to be noticed by anyone who didn’t understand the devastating impact of battle memories hung on Pluck’s lashes. “Ye pulled a worthless street orphan outta the flames ’cause ye didn’t give up on ’im.”

  Stanley squared his shoulders against the weight of his own recollections. Soldiers never permitted their emotions to surface. “Pluck—”

  “A man who’d do that ain’t the sort to let some highbrow cove run off with his woman.”

  “Miss Kendrick was never actually mine.” Even the tentative claim he’d once had was no longer valid. He’d been whole before physically, if not entirely mentally. Though the war had taken a toll before Waterloo, he’d had some hope of putting the years of bloodshed behind him. That hope had drowned in the muddy fields near Brussels.

  Exasperation filled Pluck’s eyes. “Ye didn’t let the Frenchies have Orthez. Don’t let ol’ Lordy-Pants have your lady.”

  “Ol’ Lordy-Pants? That is an expression you’d best not say in front of anyone else.”

  “Time to be a man, Cap’n. Rush the wall. Fight for what’s yours.”

  “You are missing a rather vital aspect of the analogy, Pluck.” Stanley, however, had caught on immediately. “In the end, we gave Orthez back. It never belonged to us.”

  “Aye, but it didn’t belong to ol’ Nappy, now, did it?”

  “Are you comparing Lord Devereaux to Napoleon?”

  “I’m only sayin’ if you ain’t planning to try and win Miss Kendrick for yerself, at least make certain she’s getting a good deal, you know?”

  “Save her from the cruel clutches of a heartless dictator?”

  “An’ if you steal a bit o’ her heart along the way”—Pluck managed to look almost coy—“well, them’s the spoils of war. And it’s somethin’ to carry back with ye when Daddy Hill comes a-callin’.”

  A little bit of her heart. It was more than he deserved, but heaven help him, he needed it. He needed the reassurance that there was some part of him that was good and unsullied enough for an earthbound angel to love.

  “So what’s it gonna be, Cap’n?” Pluck asked. “The target-on-my-chest, shoot-me-sign walking stick or the fancy, look-out-Lord-Nimbsy-Bum-I’m-watchin’-ye one?”

  “Nimbsy-bum?”

  Pluck didn’t answer beyond a crisp nod.

  Stanley tossed his rough-hewn walking stick to Pluck. Philip’s stick fit oddly in his scarred hand, but he would adjust. He was determined to.

  “Forlorn hope?” Pluck asked with a grin.

  Stanley nodded. “Time to rush the wall.”

  Pluck shoved a fist in the air.

  “Don’t you dare start prancing around like a little girl again.”

  “But, Cap’n Jonquil, ye’re just so han’some and heroic,” Pluck answered in that ridiculously high voice he’d used before. He batted his eyelashes again, so Stanley shoved him with his free hand.

  Pluck laughed, and Stanley couldn’t help doing the same.

  A knock echoed off the door. “Stanley?” What was Marjie doing at his door?

  “Rush the wall, Cap’n.”

  Stanley hobbled in that direction. “You’ve got it wrong, Pluck. She is the city, not the wall.”

  “Either way.”

  Stanley opened the door, his heart thudding far too loudly. He’d done his best to look presentable but knew he paled in comparison with Lord Devereaux.

  “Good evening, Mar—” Her brows were drawn, her eyes pleading. “What is it?”

  “I went down to the entryway to wait, and Sorrel was there, sitting in a chair. She looks ill. She’s pale, and her eyes are glossed over.” Marjie wrung her hands. “She hates when I fuss over her, but I’m worried. I am certain she is on the verge of one of her fevers. She would let
Philip help her—I know she would—but I don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s probably in his rooms.” Stanley looked over his shoulder at Pluck. “Deliver a message to his lordship. Tell him his wife appears to be ill and he is needed in the entryway.”

  “Yes, Cap’n Jonquil.” Pluck snapped a salute that was, for once, not even remotely cheeky. He left quickly, an advantage to having a young, energetic valet and a reasonably well-trained soldier.

  Stanley turned back toward Marjie. The worry hadn’t left her eyes. “You and I will go down to the entryway and see that Sorrel is well.”

  He stepped from his room, intending to make his way downstairs. Marjie didn’t follow as he’d expected her to.

  “But Philip says I’m not supposed to make a fuss over her,” she said. The lines of worry hadn’t left her forehead.

  “No fuss,” Stanley said. “We’ll simply keep an eye on her.”

  Marjie nodded, though she still seemed hesitant.

  “If they voice any objections, we’ll tell them it was my idea,” Stanley said.

  Marjie smiled a little. “They’ll never believe you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Stanley motioned for her to come with him. “Let’s go make sure Sorrel is well. It may take Pluck a minute or two to track down Philip.”

  For a moment, he lifted his arm, intending to offer his hand. She looked very much as if she needed a reassuring touch. He realized almost on the instant that he required both hands to navigate the stairs. His hand fell back to his side.

  Rush the wall. How ridiculously pompous it sounded. He could hardly walk down a flight of stairs.

  “I hope Philip can convince her to stay home tonight,” Marjie said as they walked slowly down the stairs. “Sorrel can be very stubborn about these things, and she ends up only more ill than before. I don’t want her to suffer.”

  When a man loved a woman, he simply didn’t allow anyone or anything to hurt her, not if he could possibly prevent it. Philip loved Sorrel. He could be trusted to do all he could to secure her welfare.

  Marjie’s compassion had always astounded him. Her beauty had taken his breath away from the first moment they’d met. Her sweetness had been a balm to a soul ravaged by the violence of war.

  He would never let anyone hurt her or make her unhappy, even if it meant making sure she found a gentleman who was better for her than he could ever be.

  Chapter Seven

  Sorrel looked precisely as Marjie had described her. She sat on a chair near a tall window in the entryway, pale and still.

  “Stanley is coming with us this evening,” Marjie said to her sister. Stanley could hear the edge of worry that colored her tone, though she did an admirable job of sounding casual.

  “Pulled himself out of his exile, did he?” Despite the show of wit, Sorrel’s words were noticeably belabored.

  Her lack of coloring and the weariness of her posture spoke volumes about the state of her health. There was no evidence of fever in her eyes. He’d learned to look for that in the army. Once illness clouded a soldier’s eyes, it was time for the doctors to intervene.

  “You have a new walking stick,” Sorrel said. “A definite improvement.”

  “I was told the last one was pathetic.”

  She shook her head. “The last one was a concession.”

  What did she mean by that? And why did his choice of walking stick matter so much to her? She had been out of patience with him since his return. She hadn’t been that way before he’d left for the Continent.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed at her left temple with one hand. The other hand, Stanley noticed, was balled in a fist on her lap.

  “Lady Techney, I have heard, has decorated her ballroom to look like an ancient Grecian temple.” Marjie’s words sounded forced. Her hands grasped one another, and her eyes never left her sister. “White pillared columns and hanging vines.” She continued her description as Stanley turned toward the stairs, hearing light footsteps descending.

  Philip’s eyes met Stanley’s, a question evident in his expression. “How ill is she?” he whispered as he came to Stanley’s side.

  “Not too bad off,” Stanley said, whispering as well. “But she is certainly unwell.” He spotted Pluck standing quietly in the shadows beside the stairwell.

  “How long do you think she has before it reaches its height?” Philip asked.

  Stanley suffered from the same ailment as Sorrel: recurrent fevers following a very severe injury. The shoulder wound he’d received at Orthez would begin to swell, and his entire right shoulder would grow warm to the touch. Within a few hours, his body would grow lethargic and achy. The fever would begin within a day, reaching its climax after two or three days had passed. “Two days,” Stanley answered. “Perhaps fewer.”

  “Lud, I wish there were a way to get out whatever it is that keeps causing these infections,” Philip said. His eyes were on his wife, frustration pulling his mouth in a sharp line.

  “But there isn’t,” Stanley said. He understood that well. The universal opinion of his own situation was that a piece of shrapnel was still embedded in his shoulder but too deeply to have been seen when the wound was originally cleaned. Should it someday work its way close to the surface, it could be removed and the fevers might stop.

  “Well, time to beard the lion,” Philip said. “This is always something of a delicate undertaking.”

  “She does not like being fussed over.” Stanley had seen Sorrel pull up stiff at anything she considered coddling.

  “It is more that she does not like feeling broken. Reminders of her delicacy are unwelcome, to say the least.”

  Stanley could appreciate that. He watched Philip cross to where Sorrel sat. No one seeing his not-a-care expression would ever guess he was worried.

  “Anything else ye be needin’, Cap’n?” Pluck had slid up to him.

  “Not at the moment,” Stanley answered. “But be on the ready. I have a feeling we’re about to break camp.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” A well-executed salute signaled his departure.

  “Have you finished reconstructing Rome?” Sorrel was saying to Philip.

  “My dear, do I look finished?” Philip scoffed. He was without his jacket, though the rest of him was done up to completion.

  Sorrel’s mouth tightened, the knuckles of her fist turning white. “Someone sent for you.”

  Stanley felt Marjie’s eyes on him, and he flicked his own gaze in her direction. How was it that she could look at him in such a way that every protective instinct he possessed was suddenly at the ready? He motioned her over to him. If Sorrel meant to get spitting mad, Marjie ought to be out of firing range.

  “Oh, Stanley,” Marjie said.

  Stanley kept his hand on his walking stick, forcing himself to ignore the temptation to pull her into his arms. She was practically engaged to another man.

  “I don’t want her to be angry with me.”

  “Sending for Philip was my idea,” Stanley reminded her. “I will tell your sister as much if she makes an issue of it.”

  “Why would someone send for me?” Philip asked Sorrel. He raised an eyebrow as if to say he knew full well the reason but intended to make her admit that she’d kept something from him.

  Sorrel looked away from him, her mouth shut in a straight line.

  Philip sighed. He knelt on the floor in front of Sorrel, something no true dandy would ever do. He touched his hand to her forehead. Dropping it back to his side, he asked, “How long has this been coming on, love?”

  Sorrel didn’t look back at him. “I have been a little sore this last week or so.” She waved a hand as if dismissing the complaint.

  Philip took her hand and held it in front of him. “A week?” He sounded frustrated, a little upset even. “How is it that you have been ill for an entire week and didn’t tell me?”

  “I haven’t actually been ill. Only sore.”

  Stanley felt Marjie’s hand grasp his arm. His heart rate nearly tri
pled.

  “It always starts with her being sore,” Marjie whispered.

  “Philip will look after her,” Stanley whispered back. He laid his hand on hers, where it rested on his arm, savoring what was sure to be a fleeting moment.

  “Let’s go home, Sorrel.” Philip lightly touched his wife’s face. “Lampton Park must be horribly quiet with all of us gone.”

  “You had not intended to leave Town this early,” Sorrel said.

  “True, I did not.”

  She shook her head, slipping free of Philip’s touch. “I promised myself I wouldn’t be a burden, that I wouldn’t let my struggles, my worries be—”

  Philip pressed his fingers to her mouth, stopping her words. “There are no your worries and my worries any longer. There are only ours. In this moment, our only true worry is whether or not we can pack up this ridiculously large entourage of ours before you are entirely delirious.” Stanley could hear a smile enter his brother’s tone. “Although that could be entertaining.”

  Sorrel smiled indulgently but not very broadly.

  Philip stood once more, holding his hand out to her. Once she was on her feet, they walked toward the stairs. Her limp was noticeably more pronounced.

  Marjie’s hand tightened around Stanley’s arm. He was certain she was struggling not to “fuss,” as Philip had apparently labeled her attention to her sister’s well-being. Marjie would worry until they were back at Lampton Park, where Sorrel could rest and recover.

  “Philip.” Stanley stopped him as he passed.

  With his head turned toward Stanley and away from Sorrel, Philip’s face transformed from merely attentive to fully concerned, something he apparently did not wish Sorrel to see.

  “If you’d like to leave in the morning, I will see to it,” Stanley said.