by Allison Lane
Angela had described Jeanette as the best mantua-maker in London, so Marianne wasn’t surprised to find the place crowded. Assistants raced back and forth with piles of fabric and trims. Maids bustled about with tea and cakes, disappearing into some inner fastness to collect wine whenever a gentleman appeared. Half a dozen customers were placing orders. It didn’t take long to realize that receiving Jeanette’s personal attention was a great honor, bestowed on someone of her insignificance only because Angela was a marchioness.
A baroness and her daughter sat at a nearby table choosing gowns for an upcoming house party. From their conversation, Marianne deduced that they had come to London primarily to shop. A dowager complained that current fashion bared too much of her thick ankles and was quickly assured that a flounce would distract the eye of any observers. In another corner two sisters debated the merits of lace versus ribbon.
“If Madame Caldwell is ready,” said Mademoiselle Jeanette, recalling Marianne’s attention, “Nicole can measure now.” She gestured to a door that had just disgorged a beautiful matron.
Marianne met Jack’s eyes. His smile reminded her that Jeanette’s staff needed her business, so they would not hurt her. Taking a deep breath, she headed for the fitting room.
Jack had remained aloof since she’d shaken him awake two nights before – hardly a surprise. He abhorred weakness, so would regret his revelations. But at least he was here for her today.
Facing Nicole and an anonymous under-assistant alone was her hardest test yet. To keep her mind from the hands brushing her body, she focused on the voices in the next room. Two young ladies were laughing together as they fitted their new gowns.
“Beautiful,” remarked one. “You were right about using point lace on the sleeves.”
“If only Mr. Carstairs likes it,” sighed the second. “But I’m probably doomed. His eyes strayed to Miss Oberon again last evening. He will never see me as aught but Robert’s baby sister.”
“Stop moping, Sarah,” demanded her companion. “No one could mistake you for a child in that gown. For all it’s propriety, it draws the eye exactly where you want it.” She giggled. “But haven’t you heard? Miss Oberon is in the briars this morning.”
“What happened, Mary?” Anticipation lit her voice.
“Scandal, my dear.” Fabric rustled. “She abandoned all manners after you left. Mr. Carstairs was appalled.”
“But what did she do?”
“First she threw herself at Sir Reginald Northridge and followed him outdoors – he was the highest-ranking gentleman present, you might recall, so it was obvious that she was hoping to attract his interest and raise her consequence. She didn’t return for at least half an hour. But things must not have proceeded as she’d hoped, for when her mother remonstrated with her, she lost her temper, shouting that she was no longer a child. Then she flounced off in a huff, bumping Lady Matthews and nearly knocking her into the punch bowl.”
“Heavens! How could—”
Marianne lost track of the conversation as the under-assistant shoved her arm aside so she could stretch a tape around her chest. She stifled a shudder.
“…far too cold for al fresco dining,” Sarah was saying. “But Robert talked Mama into driving out to Richmond anyway – he swears the food at the Star and Garter is beyond passable. Mr. Carstairs will be there, and you must come, too.”
“Only if you include Mr. Eppincote,” said Mary slyly.
“Really? I never suspected a thing.”
“There may be nothing, but he seems most intriguing. And very capable. I told you how he scattered those horrid dogs who attacked me last week.”
“Yes, but—”
“It was the most romantic rescue. The slavering beasts were lunging as if they would make a meal of me. Mama’s maid was utterly useless – all she did was cower and shriek. But Mr. Eppincote drove the dogs off with his cane, then walked me home, making me feel, oh, so safe.”
“So you said,” murmured Sarah.
“Well, yesterday I saw him approaching on Piccadilly and was preparing to thank him again when Lawrence Delaney’s team shied – that boy has no business riding, let alone driving. How many accidents has he caused?”
“Robert swears hundreds, but he always exaggerates,” said Sarah. “What happened?”
“Heroics, thank heaven. The horses were heading straight for me. I’d taken a footman along on the outing, but he was of no more use than the maid. I might have died without Mr. Eppincote. He rushed into the street and grabbed Delaney’s team, calming them before they could reach the pavement. I thought I would faint from relief, and everyone else exhaled so loudly I vow they raised a breeze. Delaney was furious, of course, but he slipped as he jumped down to blister Mr. Eppincote’s ears and landed face first in the gutter.”
“Eewww!” exclaimed Sarah, then burst into laughter. “But I wish I could have seen that. It serves him right.”
“He looked positively awful,” giggled Mary. “His face— But you can imagine what it was like. Mr. Eppincote assured himself that I was safe, again escorted me home, then invited me to drive with him in the park this afternoon. I do hope Mama lets me wear this new carriage dress.”
“That is the last measurement, Madame Caldwell,” announced Nicole, recalling Marianne’s attention. “As soon as I fasten your gown, you can go.”
Marianne shivered. There wasn’t an inch of her body that hadn’t been pinched or prodded, but she had survived without breaking down.
Yet pleasure in that accomplishment faded as she passed the adjacent fitting room. Sarah and Mary were now speculating on Colonel Caldwell’s mad wife…
She was still shaking when she rejoined Jack and Angela. The order had grown to thirty gowns in her absence. Dresses for morning, evening, balls – did he know that she’d never learned to dance? – opera, walking, traveling… It was obvious that he intended to push her into society. Her mouth dropped as he added a court dress.
“I can’t,” she moaned under her breath.
Jack smiled. “Of course you can. We can’t formally present you, as there are no drawing rooms scheduled just now, but Carlton House is hosting a dinner for Wellington next week. Since I’m in town, I must attend, and you must join me. Think of it as practice for facing the bishop.”
“You expect me to meet England’s Regent?” she choked.
“You will be fine. There is nothing frightening about the man. He may be Regent, but he is also fat as a flawn, creaks when he moves, and dresses like a cub despite being well past fifty. He won’t speak to you above a minute, if that, and will confine his remarks to wishing you well.”
She had no choice but to agree. Yet it was the last straw for her nerves. Hysteria bubbled up until she could barely contain it.
Jack noticed. “Time to go,” he announced, rising, then addressed Mademoiselle Jeanette. “Do you have the information you need?”
She nodded, then huddled with Angela while Jack helped Marianne with her cloak and bonnet.
“You’ve done very well, my dear,” he murmured in her ear. “A real trooper. Jeanette will collect an assortment of slippers, hats, and whatnot for you to approve later.”
That was what Angela was arranging – another special service available because of her rank. Sighing in relief, Marianne nodded and tried to focus on two new shoppers, who were laughing over a tale about an obese lapdog who had tried to seduce a svelte terrier in the park that morning. But her brain was too fuzzy to follow the words.
A clock chimed as she followed Jack outside. Four hours had passed since they had arrived. No wonder she was tired.
A voice behind them made her jump.
“Jack! How wonderful to see you recovered.”
Marianne turned. The speaker’s tawny hair raged in a tousled mane around a tan face dominated by golden eyes. Powerful shoulders and legs added to the impression of a lordly lion. A tan coat and buckskin breeches completed the illusion.
“Damon.” Jack paled, his tone hars
h enough to chip ice.
Marianne tensed. Was this an enemy? Yet Damon had addressed Jack as informally as Jack addressed Devall, and his obvious pleasure indicated long acquaintance – even close friendship.
Jack visibly pulled himself together to make introductions. “Marianne, this is Damon, Major Lord Devlin. Damon, my wife. And I believe you know Lady Blackthorn.”
“Wife! When? Did I miss an announcement?”
Marianne flinched. Was the idea of Jack marrying so odd?
Idiot! hissed Hutch. They probably served together for years.
Of course. Major Lord Devlin. If he was a friend, he would have expected to stand up at Jack’s wedding. But Jack had doubtless cut all ties with his military friends after Waterloo. If Devlin had come to Blackthorn House, Jack might have refused to accept the call.
At least Jack looked uncomfortable at being caught out. “The announcement is in today’s papers. We married Wednesday, very quietly.” Realizing that his rudeness needed an explanation, he added, “If I’d known you were in town, I would have invited you, but I thought you would be home by now. How long has it been since you’ve seen Devlin Court?”
“Seven years, though I stay in touch with the steward.” He hesitated as if unsure what to say next. “How is the leg? I’ve not heard from you in some time.”
“How very interesting.” Angela glared at Jack. “We hadn’t heard from him in some time, either, until he showed up on the doorstep last week. Why don’t you explain your sudden lack of courtesy, Jack.” She pulled him around to face her. When he tried to withdraw, she insisted.
Marianne nodded as another fact fell into place. Jack had been cutting himself off from all friends, convinced that he was no longer worthy of their respect. But the friends would rather help than let him go.
She examined Lord Devlin more closely. He was more open than Devall, and possibly less haunted, but she sensed the same honorable core. And he had served at Waterloo. Yesterday had produced no ideas for investigating Jack’s nightmare. Now…
The only practical weapon is the one at hand. Jack’s own words. Marriage had revealed his problem, but she needed a new weapon to solve it.
Her plan was risky, but to help Jack, she must trust her instincts and Devlin’s friendship. Jack was so disgusted with his family’s weaknesses that he would never befriend a dishonorable man.
A glance showed that Angela held Jack’s attention, so Marianne beckoned Devlin closer. “Jack is suffering, but not from his leg,” she whispered. “I need help if I am to heal him.”
“What do you mean?” He, too, kept his voice low, but concern filled his eyes as he glanced at Jack.
“We can’t talk here. Will you call at Blackthorn House this afternoon? Jack should be out on business.”
His brows raised – even she knew that her request was unusual, if not outright scandalous – but he nodded. “I would like to know you better, for I consider Jack a brother. How long have you known him?”
“He saved my life twelve years ago, but I did not see him again until last month. His estate adjoins mine.”
“Ah. I’ve known Jack since I bought colors seven years ago. He helped me survive the most devastating loss anyone can suffer, then became a mentor and friend. If there is anything I can do for him, I will.”
Marianne relaxed.
Damon turned to Jack. “I’m late for an appointment with my tailor, but I’ll be at White’s this evening. My congratulations on your nuptials.”
“What is going on?” asked Angela softly as Jack bade farewell to his friend. Her snapping eyes were proof that Jack’s explanation hadn’t satisfied her.
“I’m not sure, but I mean to find out.”
She deflected further questions by pleading exhaustion – which wasn’t feigned. Climbing up and down cliffs would have left her with more energy than shopping.
Jack helped her into the carriage, the confusion in his eyes replacing the aloofness he’d maintained for two days. She nearly smiled. He’d expected Devlin to cut him on sight, so this encounter had pushed him off balance. And that was good. Devlin’s ignorance gave her ammunition in her battle to prove him wrong. If Jack had fled the field, Devlin would surely know about it.
Pleading fatigue, Marianne shut herself in her room until Jack left for another appointment. The moment he stepped into a carriage, she summoned Daisy and changed into a sprigged muslin trimmed in green ribbons. With luck, Devlin would call before Jack returned.
He did. Half an hour later, a footman carried his card to the drawing room.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said when the door closed behind him. “My request was scandalously forward, but you are the only one in a position to help me.”
“Help with what?”
She gestured him to a chair. Though she knew he would not harm her, she remained nervous when anyone loomed over her. It had been Craven’s favorite trick. Fortunately, manners should keep him seated until she stood. If Angela mentioned this unchaperoned meeting, she would claim that she was testing her progress.
“Am I right that Jack has not responded to recent letters?”
He nodded. “I had nearly decided to visit Seacliff to see how badly he was hurt. Even the thigh should have healed by now, and that was his worst injury.”
“It is doing well. His limp is gone except when he is unusually tired. But that is not what plagues him.” She took a deep breath, for she knew Jack would condemn her as a traitor if he discovered this meeting. “He will not thank me for talking to you.”
“Understood. Jack goes out of his way to help others, even risking his life on occasion. But he has never once accepted help in return. I’ve never understood why.”
“Needing help might be construed as weak, and he fears any sign of weakness. His father has a reputation for cowardice.”
“No one would ever accuse Jack of weakness! He’s the strongest man I know, by any reckoning. I’ve seen him remain calm in situations that would have sent Wellington himself scrambling for cover.”
The butler interrupted, delivering a tray with tea and wine. Marianne concentrated on pouring until Barnes left.
Once they were alone, she set her tea aside. “It doesn’t matter what others think. Jack believes he harbors his father’s cowardice – to say nothing of his brother’s viciousness. So he holds himself to a higher standard than others, tolerating no mistakes. And he always assumes the worst.”
“What are you saying?”
She paused. “He is plagued by nightmares – something he is unable to hide now that we are wed.” Her cheeks burned as she realized what she’d said, but she forged ahead. “They are rooted in his conviction that he behaved dishonorably at Waterloo.”
“Absurd!”
“Undoubtedly, but he believes it. Rather than face the world’s censure, he cut his friends – you are not the only one who has heard nothing from him lately – and hid himself at Seacliff. Your greeting this morning confused him, for he expected to be cut.”
Devlin’s face paled. “What the devil does he think he did?”
“He isn’t sure, for portions of the battle are a blank, but from the flashes that remain, he concluded that he stabbed a British officer in the back, then fled the field in disgrace.”
“Preposterous!”
“Of course. He is incapable of killing without cause, but he doesn’t believe that. Living under the pall of Deerchester’s reputation – to say nothing of Wilcox’s – has convinced him that he is prone to evil.”
Devlin cursed. “Now I know what you meant by assuming the worst. Has he lost his wits?”
“No, but he is very stubborn and convinced that his bad blood has finally caught up with him. I refuse to believe he did anything wrong.”
“Nor I.”
“Good. Then I trust you will help me discover the truth. The nightmares are tearing him apart.”
“Surely loving you will help.”
“Hardly. Marriage was another of his kind
nesses – it was the only way to foil my uncle.” She shook her head, regretting the admission, for it raised speculation in Devlin’s eyes.
But he said nothing. “What do you want me to do?”
“Find someone who saw Jack on foot during the battle. Discover what really happened. I can think of no other way to prove that his honor is intact. I have learned to know him well, for we have spent much time together since meeting again. Thus I know that honor is more important to him than breathing.”
“I will try, but there is no guarantee that I will succeed. Waterloo was a hellhole that left little time to look beyond one’s own battle. The chances that anyone can remember one minor incident involving an officer from a different regiment is very small.”
“I understand. But I must try. Jack has already saved my life twice, and is trying to do it again. I cannot sit idly by and not repay him.”
“Nor can I. If not for Jack, I would have died in Portugal, the victim of carelessness – or worse. There was a period when an honorable death was preferable to a life of pain. My closest friend died in the first battle. I was still reeling when I learned that my entire family had been killed in a boating accident.”
“My God! How did you survive?”
“Jack. He took me under his wing, making sure I kept my mind on business. And he sat through hours of maudlin soliloquies as I castigated Fate.”
“He’s very good at that.” She was surprised when her tongue continued speaking. “We met in France twelve years ago. He escorted me back to England after my family was killed by a mob.”
“Dear Lord. He can’t have been much above twenty.”
“About that, but already committed to helping others.” She drew in a shaky breath. Amazingly, she had mentioned her family’s death without succumbing to tears.
“I will begin asking questions immediately,” Devlin said, laying aside his wineglass and further personal questions. “Do you have any clues that will narrow the search? He was wounded in the afternoon, but I’ve no idea when or where.”
“He was sent with a message to the 95th about an hour after Colonel Morrison fell – did you know him?”
