For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  Mel blushed, suddenly remembering the liaison she had overheard earlier. “That’s not what I meant,” she said.

  “Ah. Well, then, if you meant carte blanche to turn these rooms into a matron’s dream cottage, then yes, I did. Strangely enough, she left because I wouldn’t sleep with any of the maids.”

  “What?” Mel asked in shock.

  Sir Barnabas indicated the little nest of blankets and pillows she’d made by the window. “Did I interrupt stargazing or sleeping?” he asked. He grabbed the bottle and glasses again and walked over to the window. He slid down the wall facing where she’d been sitting and indicated the blanket. “Sit.”

  “I will not,” she said firmly. “This is highly inappropriate.”

  “You can’t sleep because of the opium,” he said, pouring first one glass of liquor, then another. The second had only a small amount and he held it out to her. “This may help.”

  She bit her lip, hating that he knew her shameful secrets. “I fail to see how one vice can replace another,” she said stiffly. “Isn’t that simply substituting one problem for another?”

  Sir Barnabas shrugged. “Perhaps. But I will supervise your consumption. Come. Have a sip or two.” He waved the glass slightly, drawing her attention to it. “Believe me, I have some experience with opium.”

  She snorted. “I’m sure.”

  He raised a brow. “I shall ignore your insubordination seeing that it is the middle of the night and I am sitting on the floor.”

  “You are too kind.” She stood her ground, staring at him, and he sighed and set her glass down beside her blanket. He crossed his booted feet and leaned his head back against the wall, staring out the window.

  “I suppose this isn’t a bad view,” he mused. “At least you don’t face the street.” He took a sip. “Wetherald left.”

  “I know,” she said. Belatedly she realized that she’d revealed she’d been aware he was there at all. It wasn’t as if she’d seen his arrival.

  Sir Barnabas didn’t catch the slip. “So I can’t sleep either,” he added, taking another sip.

  “Because he left?” she asked. She walked over and sat down on the blanket, facing the window, not him, her legs curled by her side for modesty’s sake.

  “No. Because my mind will not rest,” he said wearily. “I find I sleep better with a lover at my side. It occupies my mind and holds my other concerns at bay.”

  “Does it?” she asked curiously. “I always found that I couldn’t sleep at all when de Vere or someone else was sleeping beside me. That was when I had to be most vigilant.” She reached for the whiskey glass beside her and took a sip. It burned pleasantly as it went down. One more vice, she supposed.

  “Yes, well, different circumstances,” he murmured. She liked that about him. She could say something like that and not have him react with horror or pity. She hated both.

  “Indeed,” she said. “I like Lord Wetherald.” A fleeting smile crossed his face.

  “Everyone does,” he said. He spun the glass in his hands. “He likes you, too.”

  “I wish he wouldn’t call me Mrs. de Vere,” she admitted.

  “Really?” he asked. “What do you want to be called? I’ve told him to call you Mrs. Jones, but he forgets, I think.” He chuckled. “Subterfuge is not his forte.”

  “I call myself Mel,” she said shyly, wondering why she was sharing such a personal thing with him. He laughed outright.

  “Mel? Sounds like the butcher. I like it.” He raised his glass in salute. “Nice to meet you, Mel.” He was in such an odd mood, but she wasn’t worried. He’d proven himself trustworthy over the past week, and after all, he was very clearly Lord Wetherald’s lover. She’d heard them. He most certainly wasn’t here to attack her.

  “How do you do?” she said politely, raising her glass as well. He laughed again.

  “Is the bed not to your liking?” he asked after a surprisingly companionable silence.

  “The bed is quite satisfactory,” she said uncomfortably. “I simply do not like sleeping in beds.”

  “I see,” he murmured, and she rather thought he did.

  “What do you think Wetherald sees in me?” he asked suddenly, surprising her.

  “You are a very handsome man,” she said, not sure what she was supposed to say. “And quite accomplished and important.”

  “Yes, those are the things one should look for in a lover,” he said wryly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure what she was sorry about. “I don’t know what one should look for in a lover. When I was young and foolish, those were the things I looked for. Now, I don’t know.” She took another sip of whiskey to hide her confusion.

  “I like men and women with strength of character,” Sir Barnabas said. “I don’t much care what that character is as long as he or she embraces it and defends it. A person must know who they are before they can give themselves to another.”

  Mel was startled by how personal their conversation had become. She licked her lips nervously, wondering how to respond. “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” she said slowly.

  “I know who I am,” Barnabas said firmly. “I have very carefully cultivated my personality and my reputation. I am a man who does not anger easily, who is not easily fooled or manipulated. I am in charge of any situation because I like it that way. I am the man who will do what must be done when the need arises.” He turned a burning gaze on Mel. “There is little room in my life for emotion or sentiment. I am a hard man to know. And I like it that way.”

  “Lord Wetherald is very compassionate,” she said, contrasting the two gentlemen. “He feels deeply, though he has trouble expressing it. I think that’s why he is always so correct and polite, because he is trying to contain his emotions. Perhaps what he sees in you is what he wishes he could be.”

  Sir Barnabas scoffed. “Never. He thinks me cold and calculated.”

  “Aren’t you?” she asked. “Isn’t that what you just told me?” He took a drink rather than answer her. She tried again. “I have heard that opposites attract. Could that be it?”

  “I do not doubt that we are complete opposites,” he agreed with a rueful smile. “But in my experience that means the passion will burn out rather quickly.” She had nothing to add to that rather depressing thought.

  They settled into another comfortable silence for several minutes, and Mel began to feel the relaxing effect of the whiskey. Her eyes grew heavy.

  “I will do what must be done to de Vere,” Sir Barnabas said quietly, startling her. She looked over at him and saw the truth of it in his face.

  “I know,” she said. She leaned her cheek against the wall and stared up at the sky again. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “It’s time to give me the information I need,” he told her softly, his voice kinder than she’d ever heard it.

  “I know,” she said, closing her eyes, dreading having to relive her past.

  “I need a list of names if you can give them to me.”

  She sighed brokenly. “I only remember a few. The opium…they began to run together, hard to separate one from another. But there were only six or seven. No more. Some he brought more than once.”

  She shook her head and lifted her glass to her mouth with a shaking hand. She drained it and held it out for more. Without a word he gave her another small serving. She pulled the glass close to her chest and held it with both hands. “I will bring you the list tomorrow.”

  She was surprised when he reached over and pushed the glass up gently.

  “Drink,” he said softly. “Then you shall sleep.”

  It was more of a command than a sentiment meant to soothe, and she smiled slightly as she drained the glass again. She lowered it and coughed slightly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Sir Barnabas reached out and took the glass from her. He rose gracefully from the floor and picked up the bottle.

  “Good night, Mel,” he said quietly. He turned and left without another word.<
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  Chapter 14

  “Press this cravat, Kingsley,” Barnabas said to his valet. Kingsley was noticeably startled.

  “Sir?” he asked, reaching for Ambrose’s cravat.

  “That one,” Barnabas said firmly, staring Kingsley down. Kingsley had been with him for years and was one of the few people who dared to challenge him. Barnabas allowed it because when it came to his attire Kingsley did know best, not that Barnabas had ever told him so. His leniency only went so far.

  Kingsley took the cravat from him with a frown. “May I ask where you obtained this cravat?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No, you may not.”

  Kingsley sighed. “It will take a few minutes to press this, sir,” he said, clearly resigned.

  “Find me in the breakfast room when it’s done,” Barnabas told him.

  Kingsley stopped and stared at him. “You’re going to eat breakfast?” he asked with a frown. “Are you quite all right, sir?”

  “Perfectly,” Barnabas told him. “Mrs. Jones has informed me that I must eat on a regular schedule so as not to upset the cook.”

  “She did?” Kingsley asked, shock on his face. “And you agreed?”

  “Not in so many words,” Barnabas said. “I’m going to see if my breakfast is as prompt as I am this morning.”

  Kingsley hid a smile. “I see, sir.”

  He doubted that Kingsley saw anything close to the truth. Barnabas was hoping to see Mel this morning. It still felt a little strange calling her that. But the more he thought about it—remembered her brief flare of defiance at Mrs. Tilley’s, her resilience and her determination to start over as his housekeeper—the name suited her. It had no delicate flourishes, no trappings of refinement or pretention. It was solid, to the point, steadfast. Perhaps those weren’t the qualities that most people admired in a woman, but Barnabas found himself greatly admiring them in her. He fully expected her to present him with that God-awful list today. And he would have to take it from her and pretend he wasn’t sick to his stomach over it. When had he become so soft?

  He knew she’d heard him and Ambrose last night because she’d slipped and revealed that she’d known Ambrose had left. He’d wanted her to hear when he opened the window. It had been a calculated gamble. He wanted her to see him as a lover. Not hers, of course, but capable of patience and the sort of tenderness that was required of lovers. It did not come naturally to him, although with Ambrose he had found himself easily falling into the role. And it had worked. He’d seen a definite softening in her demeanor toward him during their conversation last night. And she’d agreed to make the list.

  Barnabas believed that luck was made by men with the fortitude and stamina to make things happen. He believed that there were no coincidences, only opportunity and observation. That was why he maintained such an extensive spy network. Many would say it was overkill in times of peace. He knew differently. Peace was maintained by not allowing discord. And the way to prevent discord was to meet it halfway and cut it off at the knees. Brutality in the service of peace and prosperity. It had become his guiding principle. When he was younger that brutality had been used to further his own ambitions. Today, he was slightly more altruistic. As Simon said, for king and country.

  “Sir?” Soames stood at the breakfast room door, staring at Barnabas. “May I be of service?” He was blocking the door.

  “You may,” Barnabas said with a polite smile. “You may open the door and let me into my breakfast room.”

  “Of course,” Soames said, his face and voice passive. He stepped out of the way and opened the door. Barnabas stood there on the threshold as Mel stopped with a forkful of food halfway to her mouth.

  “Oh dear,” she squeaked in alarm, jumping to her feet as the fork clattered to the plate. “It isn’t my fault,” she said quickly. “Soames and Cook won’t let me eat downstairs with the servants, or in my rooms. They insist on feeding me here. And after a few days I was so hungry I had to give in.”

  Barnabas had to admit she looked lovely this morning considering he knew she’d had very little sleep. It was barely seven o’clock in the morning. She wore her usual practical navy dress, but her hair was not quite as severely styled as usual. He suspected she had a headache from last night’s whiskey.

  He gestured to her chair. “Sit.”

  “Oh, sir, I really don’t think that I should—” she began.

  He cut her off. “It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. Soames,” he said without turning around. “You will continue to feed Mrs. Jones here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Soames said calmly.

  “Leave us.” Soames closed the door immediately.

  “List?” Barnabas asked, walking over the sideboard. There really was a rather nice collection of dishes there. He couldn’t seem to remember when or why he’d started foregoing breakfast. He filled his plate, but when she didn’t answer he turned to observe her still standing undecided beside the table.

  “Sit,” he said sharply. She promptly dropped back into her chair. “List?” he asked again.

  “In my room,” she said, standing again. “I shall go fetch it.”

  “Sit.” She did as she was told, a bit slower this time and with more decorum.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I do not like to eat alone,” he lied.

  “You do not like to eat,” she said. “But I believe you prefer to do everything alone.”

  He sat down across from her. “Not everything,” he said, the innuendo clear. She blushed. “What are you going to do today?” he asked. He took a bite of some sort of soufflé. It tasted divine. Had his cook always been this good? He didn’t recall eating anything at home that tasted this good.

  “Whatever it is that housekeepers do,” she replied, her eyes sliding away.

  “So they still won’t let you do anything?” he asked. He spied a steaming pot on the sideboard. “Tea or coffee?” he asked.

  “Tea,” she replied. “I prefer it. But I can have Cook send up some coffee right away.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Just pour me some tea, if you please, Mrs. Jones.”

  She seemed to relax at the return to formalities. “Yes, sir,” she said. He continued to eat as she poured the tea and carefully set it down on the table for him. She stood there at his side, fidgeting.

  “What?” he asked, glaring at her. She was ruining this splendid meal.

  “I was waiting to see if you needed anything else,” she explained through a clenched jaw, looking completely out of her element.

  “No. Sit.”

  She bristled beside him for a moment and then marched around the table to sit again. “I am not a hound,” she snapped. “You needn’t speak to me like one.”

  “I would like you to meet with Hastings in the gymnasium again this morning,” he told her, ignoring her outburst. “I have instructed him to teach you some escape moves.”

  “Escape moves?” she asked, her face pale. “Escape from what?”

  “Not what, whom,” he corrected her. “Some more moves to escape someone who is attacking you or attempting to kidnap you.”

  “Do you expect someone to try to do that?” she asked in alarm.

  “I always expect someone to try to do that,” he said. “It’s—”

  “Why you’re still alive. Yes, I know,” she said. He smiled.

  “Before you go down there, drop the list off on my desk. If I have any questions, I shall send for you when I return this evening.”

  She continued to sit there looking at him.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” he snapped.

  “Sit, stand, stay, go,” she mumbled as she got up and headed for the door. “I’m beginning to see why the housekeepers of England have blacklisted you.”

  “You are not my only option,” he called after her, grinning as he raised his teacup.

  “I am your only hope,” she called back as Soames opened the door for her.

  “Oh,” he said, turning around. She sto
pped and faced him. “Wetherald is probably coming today. Do see him and speak to him a bit, won’t you? He’s quite forlorn that you like me better.”

  He could see her fighting a smile. “I have no feelings for you whatsoever,” she declared. “And I would be quite happy to visit with Lord Wetherald.” She blushed as she said it and Barnabas made a note to be sure to drop in on the visit just to see the two of them together.

  “Mr. Hastings,” Mel said hesitantly.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he inquired politely. She could tell he was miserably unhappy about his duties this morning. He’d been perfunctorily explaining to her how to escape various holds without actually touching her, since she was standing nearly ten feet away.

  “I am sorry I am making this so difficult.” She licked her lips nervously.

  “Not at all, ma’am,” he said. He grew impatient easily, like Sir Barnabas. She wondered if all men of action were like that.

  “You see, I was…held against my will for some time, and I believe Sir Barnabas is trying to ease my mind with these lessons.” She clutched her hands together as she made the confession.

  Without actually changing his stance Hastings gave the impression of going very still. He regarded her solemnly. “I see,” he said.

  “And what I would actually like to learn,” she said, “is related directly to how they did it. Held me, I mean.” She pressed a hand to her stomach and blew out a nervous breath. When she’d been making that list last night she’d been thinking about it.

  “All right,” Hastings said. Like Sir Barnabas, there was no pity or horror on his face. She rather thought she was going to like all of Sir Barnabas’s spies if they were at all like Mr. Hastings. She forced herself to walk closer to him, telling herself that Soames and the other servants were upstairs and would come if she called out. Despite their loyalty to Sir Barnabas, she knew from her short acquaintance with them that they were not at all like de Vere’s servants, who had been trained to ignore all that went on around them.

  She stopped a foot or so away from Mr. Hastings, who looked rather surprised at her willingness to come near. Then she did the hardest thing she’d done in a very long while. She turned her back on him.