Kindred Spirits

by Allison Lane

  “But you can’t know that! I don’t know that. There is too much evidence otherwise.” His face twisted in anguish.

  “You accused me of putting you on a pedestal – being blinded by gratitude, I suppose.” Returning the gun to the table, she reached for his hand. “One way to judge a man is by the friends who stand by him. You may be right that I have little experience evaluating people, but Devall has known you since you were both lads – long before war encased you in armor. He would know of any inclination to dishonor. Yet he describes you as the most honorable man he knows.”

  “He doesn’t know me anymore. I’ve seen him only a dozen times in fifteen years.”

  “But you write often. And Lord Devlin has seen you constantly since you met – seven years ago, I think he said.”

  “How do you know Damon?”

  “You introduced us, and I spoke with him at Lady Potherby’s. Hartford speaks highly of him, as do others I’ve met. You and Devlin lived through the same battles, suffered the same discomfort, faced the same enemies. He, too, counts you his closest friend and a remarkably honorable man.”

  Jack pulled his hand away and walked to the window.

  Marianne remained seated. Pain radiated from him in waves, bringing tears to her eyes. She longed to comfort him, but he had made it clear that he did not love her. Any gesture of caring might drive him back to suicide.

  “You see too much,” he whispered after several minutes of silence. “But how can I live knowing I failed my country, my superiors, and myself?”

  “But you don’t know that, Jack,” she repeated. “You don’t remember what happened. How can you justify making so permanent a decision based solely on a nightmare that might be a fantasy? Until you have evidence, you cannot accept those images as real. The only cowardly thing I have ever seen you do is refuse to look for the truth. You must investigate, Jack. I would wager everything I own that either the dreams are false or the facts are different than you imagine.”

  He turned from the window, his face twisted in pain. “Perhaps you are right. Since I am too weak to end the affair, I might as well court scandal by announcing to the world that I am a murderer.”

  The words brought her racing across the room. “Damn you, Jack. It was honor that stayed your hand, not weakness. Deep inside, you know that you must seek the truth.”

  “I don’t know anything anymore, Marianne.” His arms pulled her against him. He laid his head atop hers. Shuddering sobs escaped.

  She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him closer. Her own tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, but they were tears of joy. Jack’s wall was breached, its stones scattered. He was feeling again. And it seemed that he needed her, at least a little. He might not want her love, but he didn’t hate her.

  She stroked his back, offering whatever comfort he would take.

  He finally stopped shaking. She was wondering what to say when he let out a long sigh and murmured, “I’m so tired.”

  “Of course you are.” She released him – reluctantly – and stepped back. “I doubt you’ve slept well in months, but you will now. Go back to bed. I will sit with you and make sure you don’t dream.”

  Nodding, he snuffed the candles, removed his boots and jacket, then crawled into bed. His weariness was more apparent with each step. Now that he had abandoned his purpose, his body demanded rest.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marianne and Jack were still eating breakfast – Jack had slept until noon – when Barnes announced callers.

  “Damon,” said Jack, glancing at the proffered card. “Probably come to congratulate you on yesterday’s victory. The news will be all over town by now. You’d best be prepared to entertain society. They will beat a path to your door.”

  Marianne opened her mouth to object – he clearly did not intend to stay with her – but Barnes forestalled her.

  “Lord Devlin asked so see both of you, Colonel. Alone.”

  Jack’s brows flew up, but he nodded. “Very well.” Shoving his plate aside, he led Marianne to the drawing room.

  Marianne’s mind was racing. Devlin must have found something. If not, he would have met her privately. She prayed that it was good news, or at least not too bad. Jack had promised to investigate, but he’d said nothing about what he would do if he really had killed a man.

  “How lovely to see you again, Lord Devlin,” she said when she entered the drawing room. His eyes glowed like twin suns as he raised her hand to his lips. He looked very pleased with himself. She nearly fainted at the thought that he’d almost been too late.

  She didn’t spot the second man until Devlin turned to Jack. The witness – for who else could this be? – was tall and thin, his eyes dark with suffering. One sleeve hung empty.

  Jack spotted him at the same moment. “So you caught it,” he said, shaking his head at the empty sleeve. “Marianne, this is Captain Lord Hardcastle, heir to the Duke of Streaford. My wife, Captain.”

  “You can drop the rank. I sold out when I returned from Belgium,” said Hardcastle, accepting a glass of wine. “But you seem surprised by my injuries. Don’t you remember?”

  Pain flashed through Jack’s eyes. “Parts of the battle remain blank.”

  “Just as well,” said Devlin easily. “It was a vicious day.”

  “Damnation,” muttered Hardcastle under his breath. “I should have sought you out earlier – or at least written. I owe you too much to allow my thanks to run late.”

  “For what?”

  “You saved my life.”

  Jack’s eyes widened.

  Marianne wanted to jump for joy.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall it,” said Jack slowly. “What happened?”

  “We’d been charging their artillery most of the morning – the damned French were more heavily fortified than we had expected. I’ll never know exactly what happened. I went from shouting orders to flying through the air in an instant. I don’t recall hitting the ground. Sometime later, I woke up, scarcely able to breathe for the weight on my chest. You met Cheney, didn’t you?” He looked at Devlin.

  “Decent lad, but too cocky by half.”

  “True, but so were we when we first bought colors.”

  All three men nodded. Their expressions excluded Marianne. Each was recalling experiences she would never understand.

  Hardcastle shifted. “He might have made a good officer if he had lived.”

  “What happened?” asked Jack.

  “His body was lying across my chest. I tried to heave it away, but the attempt hurt so bad, I passed out. By the time I again awoke, the sun was well past its zenith. Cheney still lay atop me. I managed to turn my head enough to see that a dead horse was pinning his legs – its rump crushed his thighs into my side.”

  “No wonder it was hard to breathe,” murmured Marianne.

  “That wasn’t all,” continued Hardcastle. “A piece of wood had skewered his shoulder. I never figured out what it was – a pike or a piece of a gun carriage, I expect. But it pinned him to the ground as effectively as the horse. I was trapped in the middle. My free arm was mangled so badly it would not move.” He glanced at the empty sleeve. “The other arm was trapped beneath me. By the time you happened along, Colonel, I was convinced that I would die.”

  He paused to drink wine.

  “What happened?” Jack’s voice was unnaturally calm.

  Jack’s dream. Tremors rattled Marianne’s cup, so she set it aside. Her heart raced. This had to be Jack’s dream.

  “You were on foot and wounded yourself,” said Hardcastle. “Your one working hand couldn’t dislodge that spear or pull me free. You tried shouting for help, but the French were massing for a new charge, so no one ventured out. I expected you to slip away, for staying put your own life in mortal danger. I should have known better.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Marianne, wondering if Hardcastle expected special treatment because of his birth.

  He spotted her suspicions. “Not because of m
y status,” he said, turning to face her. “Your husband pulled dozens of men from certain death, many of them common soldiers.” He turned back to Jack. “I’ll never forget your heroics, Colonel. Despite the French poised to charge, you hacked at Cheney’s body until you had cut the stake loose. Several of the enemy were shooting at you, but you didn’t waver. When I was free, you threw me across your good shoulder and raced back to our lines, the French close behind. Just as we reached the first square, you took a blow to the thigh and stumbled into our own fire. Hands pulled us into the square, but I feared you were dead. It wasn’t until I woke from a coma a week later that I learned you’d survived. By the time they released me, you were gone. I meant to find you immediately, but I received word that my mother was ill. We buried her yesterday.”

  “I had not heard,” said Jack. “My condolences.”

  Marianne could almost hear his thoughts tumbling about as they realigned themselves in this new pattern. She moved to replenish Devlin’s wine. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You will never perform a greater service. The dreams had grown worse.”

  “Things are often not what they seem,” he agreed, matching her tone. “My apologies for the delay. I had hoped to return by Saturday, but the duchess took a turn for the worse.”

  * * * *

  By the time Devlin and Hardcastle left, Jack was more relaxed than he’d been in months. He couldn’t believe how wrong he’d been.

  “You put Damon up to this, didn’t you?” he asked when they were alone.

  She jerked guiltily, but he didn’t sound angry. “I asked if he knew anyone who might have seen you fall. He didn’t, but insisted on looking for someone. It seems he is grateful to you for rescuing him from trouble in the past.”

  “He proved you right.” His head shook in wonder. “Yet who would have thought such damning evidence might have an honorable explanation?”

  “You never considered that the officer might already have been dead, did you? Despite your own history.”

  “Never. I wish you hadn’t heard that, though. Desecrations are hard to accept.”

  “Have you forgotten your own words? The body is merely a shell that temporarily houses the spirit. Once the two part, the body is of no import – especially when the damage saved a life. It is time to set the past behind you, Jack.”

  “This incident, certainly.”

  “No. All the past. Stop brooding about your ancestors. You are nothing like them, and never will be. I do not believe that blood plays a large role in forming character.”

  “Not true. I’ve met many evil men. It is a trait that runs strongly in families such as mine.”

  “But that has little to do with blood. Children often emulate their parents. If a father is sneaky, the son learns to be sneaky. If he is honorable, the child learns to love honor.”

  “My family produces vicious cowards.”

  “But not always. Think, Jack. If blood were the deciding factor, then all brothers would be alike. Yet you can find evidence to the contrary in nearly every family. What about Devall? Angela claims that his father was a brutal tyrant, yet Devall is a benevolent reformer because he chose not to follow in his father’s footsteps. And Angela is nothing like her greedy, selfish mother.”

  Jack walked to the window and stared at the rain drumming on the cobblestones in the square. “Yet you said yourself that parents shape their children’s character.”

  “Only if the parent spends time with the child. You can’t emulate something you never see – which is how Angela turned out so well; her mother missed most of her childhood. I suspect that your father ignored you. You were not his heir and were much younger. And there are other role models available – tutors, friends, neighbors. In the end, we are what we make of ourselves.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Of course if does. You are a born leader, Jack. Like Devall, you choose models consciously and for specific purposes. You made a decision early in life to follow another path. And you have continued that habit ever since. There is a passage in Romans that makes the point quite well. Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honor, and another unto dishonor? You and Wilcox started with the same breeding – the same clay. He chose to emulate the worst of his ancestors, a lazy path followed by someone of limited intellect, for it required little thought and no discipline. You chose honor, a difficult road, especially for someone surrounded by dishonor. But you had the intelligence, perseverance, and courage to make it work. Same start. Very different result. And the training that produced that result won’t change, so relax. Be yourself, and you need fear nothing.”

  “How did you become so wise?”

  “Reading and observation. I have watched people since coming to London – how else can I learn how to go on in society? It is very instructive. Many of the cubs are unsure of themselves, so they copy the dress and habits of others. Take Mr. Dawkins, for example. He apes Lord Sedgewick Wylie, down to the color of his coats, the knot in his cravat, and his topics of conversation. Mr. Dawkins chose wisely, for Lord Sedgewick avoids the foppish silliness of Lord James Hutchinson, and he disdains Brummell’s growing dissipation. He also cares about his followers. He deflected young Reynolds from falling in with a cardsharp, for example, so Dawkins is in good hands. Mr. Singleton, on the other hand, is not wise, for he seems determined to follow in Devereaux’s footsteps. Angela calls Devereaux the most unscrupulous rakehell in society.”

  “True. And his friend Millhouse is nearly as bad.”

  “Another instance of judging a man by his friends. You have hated what Deerchester represents since you were old enough to understand it. Who did you trust and admire in those years?”

  “My tutor,” he admitted. “Reeves was the opposite of Deerchester – educated, honorable, unwilling to compromise his ideals, even when doing so would have been to his benefit.”

  “The perfect model. You have always chosen well, as your friends prove. And I suspect that you chose Wellington as your model in military matters.”

  “You make it sound simple,” he said, turning back to face her. “But I’ve seen evidence that blood also matters.”

  “Perhaps, but choice and custom can overwhelm even the harshest blood – as you have proved.”

  “But I would pass that blood to my children.” He cursed himself. He had not expected to father any children, but now he had no choice. As Marianne had warned in the beginning, having won their case against Barnett, there was no way out of this marriage. What hope did he have of preventing his sons from falling prey to their ancestral breeding?

  “So that explains it,” murmured Marianne. “Jack, there are no guarantees in life. Every family has its black sheep – or so people claim. That by itself is proof enough that breeding has little to do with behavior. All you can do is love your children and teach them proper values, something best done through example.”

  Jack gave up the argument. Whatever the truth, he must take his chances. There was no way he could avoid children. Marianne’s vow of love had warmed his heart – and other places. He could not hurt her.

  “Forgive me, Marianne,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I have treated you shabbily. But you are right again. There are no guarantees. We can only do our best. You needn’t fear for the future.”

  Her arms crept around his back. “I suspect some of your trouble was melancholia. It saps the energy and twists events until even mild problems seem incurably black.”

  “You sound intimately acquainted with it.”

  “I suffered from it for more than a year after returning from France. It seemed wrong that I had survived. Nigel and Cecily were far more deserving of life than I, for they were well behaved, while I was usually in trouble. But it passed in time.”

  “As has mine.”

  “Good.” She smiled – a real smile that lifted her mouth as well as lit her eyes.

  Jack’s knees wobbled. He’d known that her smile must be potent,
but this was more powerful than a battlefield rocket, spraying him with sparks of light and happiness, its fire heating his blood.

  Turning her face up, he kissed her. “I love you, Marianne. For weeks I’ve cursed Fate for showing me the heaven I could never enjoy. Now I must thank Fate that you turned up on the cliff that day.”

  “You love me?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “Then why did you flinch from me this morning?”

  He traced her brow with one finger. “When you swore that you loved me, I knew I must give up my plans. The pain nearly felled me – remember, I still thought myself irredeemably venal. But I could not hurt you. I had tried to keep my distance so you would not form an attachment, so your declaration exposed yet another way I had failed.”

  “I loved you long before you kissed me that day, though I did not recognize my feelings for what they were until later.” She flung her arms around his neck and met his mouth.

  Passion exploded between them, more intense than he had thought possible. Gone was any hint of fear when he parted her lips and stroked her tongue with his own. She moaned – a song compelling enough to distract a man from all the Sirens in chorus.

  He pulled her closer, tracing the lines of her back, then slid a hand between them to tease her perfect breast.

  “Jack.” She squirmed against him until he nearly climaxed. Her mouth slid down his cheek as he turned to nip her ear.

  “Let’s finish this upstairs,” he murmured. “It’s time you moved out of my dreams and into my bed.”

  * * * *

  Two days later, Jack and Marianne were again in the drawing room. He had reported for duty the day before, once again able to hold his head high.

  He was glad that Wellington’s new post would keep him in London, for it meant that he could retain his commission. If Wellington had been sent overseas, Jack would have had to resign. He couldn’t leave Marianne behind, but didn’t want her traveling with the army. Now he could renovate the town house he’d inherited from his uncle, then start a family. They would visit Seacliff and Halworth often, but most of their time would be spent in town.