by Lee Rowan
Brendan bit his lip. Carlisle was not looking at him anymore. His elegant profile was facing forward, his gaze turned to the other riders and the ladies in their carriages as the parade of Society took its well-regulated turns around the Park.
“I am not …” He stopped, wondered if Carlisle’s words had been a warning to keep his mouth shut. Would he ruin everything by speaking? Or would it be worse to hide his dangerous truth, and let this good and beautiful man risk disgrace and ruin through trying to help someone entirely undeserving?
Brendan took a deep breath, and let go of all the rosy hopes for the future. He could still study art, his mother had not objected to that; one way or another she would see to it that his father eventually understood that having a son who painted horses was not such a bad notion. But the rest of it… No. He could not reach out to take something that he had no right to ask for. There were other horses in the world, other places to paint. The family’s manor would do well enough. He could not accept help offered in ignorance, with so much depending on his lie.
He tried once more. “If you choose not to follow the plans we have discussed,” he said carefully, “I will understand perfectly—in fact, I would think you well out of it and hold no resentment. I can remove to an inn, and have my case sent there from your home. But I cannot lie to you, sir. My friendship with Mr. Hillyard… was not platonic.”
He closed his eyes, and waited to hear the sound of Carmen’s hoofbeats moving rapidly away. He heard only the steady clop of her steps, in counterpoint to Galahad’s.
“I know,” said Philip Carlisle.
Brendan could not speak. He hardly dared to breathe. They walked on steadily for a minute or more.
“I’m not so green that I failed to realize the circumstances,” Carlisle said finally. “But it seems to me that this inconsiderate clodpole—whatever you may call him, he is hardly your friend—has given you a hard enough lesson. And in any case, it’s not my place to judge.”
Brendan had been prepared for anger, revulsion, or even cold dislike, but not for this neutral acceptance. He shivered suddenly, and Galahad shook his head in sympathy, bridle jingling. “Nonetheless,” Brendan said, his voice unsteady, “I do feel as though I ought not take advantage of your generosity. I should not stay under your roof.”
A note of humor crept into Carlisle’s voice. “Do you also plan to procure a bell for yourself, and walk about shouting, ‘Unclean! Unclean?’”
He knew the Major meant that as a joke, but it struck too close to the gold. “I—I feel as though I should.”
“Please refrain, Mr. Townsend. Only the gossips would enjoy the performance, and you must know that such behavior would terrify my horse.”
The request was delivered in such a dry, ironical tone that Brendan had to meet Carlisle’s eyes once more. And when he did, he could not stop himself from laughing, and then apologizing yet again.
“I am not suggesting you continue this activity,” Carlisle said, as matter-of-factly as though he were talking about a binge of deep Basset, “and, God knows, certainly not with Mr. Hillyard.”
“Absolutely not,” Brendan said. “When I consider his character, I cannot believe that I was so stupid as to…” He shook his head, disgusted with himself.
“I assure you, every man alive has some mistake of that sort in his past. More likely with a barque of frailty, but everyone errs. Women, gambling, drink, adventuring—did you never get into trouble as a boy?”
“Not really. I could always see where things would lead, and it never seemed worth the consequences.”
“You might have been better off if you had been a hellion, and got it out of your system.”
His jangled feelings finally back under control, Brendan nodded. “I believe you are right, Major. How did you become such an oracle?”
“When one spends twenty years the Army,” Carlisle said, “one sees a seemingly endless procession of young men making mistakes, over and over again, always the same sort of mistakes. And whether it’s cards or bad judgment in battle or a petticoat entanglement or something similar, each of you thinks he is the only young man who has ever been so abominably stupid. You are not unique in that respect. I do not believe there is anything you could possibly do that some other young man has not already attempted, and botched even more thoroughly.”
A sudden memory made Brendan smile. “James did say that if you could not help a soldier with his problem, the problem could not be solved.”
“Did he, now?” Carlisle’s tone was grim, but his expression was not. “I shall have to thank Captain Townsend for that encomium, when next I see him.”
“He’ll appreciate your gratitude, I am sure. And your magistrate in Kent clearly feels the same way. Still… I believe it would be proper for me to remove to other accommodations.”
“Oh, for the love of God! “ Carlisle cried, his patience apparently at an end. “D’you think you’re contagious? We have a job to do, young man, and as I said in my note, we shall find the task much easier if you do not have to extract yourself from the bosom of your family when the flag goes up. Leave if you must, but don’t do it on my account.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes! We have enough in the way of complications from that loose-screw classmate of yours.” He shook his head and said nothing for a little while, then went on, more calmly, “I do not intend to remonstrate with you or harangue you with Scripture. I have observed that you are what my grandmother would have called ‘a well-behaved young man.’ And even if you were not, I’m quite capable of defending my virtue against any unwanted advances. Stay until the job is done.”
Slightly dizzy with relief, Brendan could only say, “Yes, sir.”
With the tension behind the unspoken lie dissipated, their conversation became more normal, which meant that it reverted to horses. Carlisle noticed a small scar across the back of Galahad’s left foreleg, which led to an explanation of the odd circumstance of a piece of snapped carriage-wheel being flung halfway across the road, the extent of the injury, the time it took to heal, and the herbs used in the poultice. Brendan was so relieved to have such commonplace matters under discussion that he became quite animated when describing Galahad’s efforts to remove the medicinal pack.
When they began exchanging anecdotes of idiotic horse antics, Brendan felt he had come home. He knew better; he knew that Carlisle’s tolerance was not to be taken as a sign of anything but the man’s determination to complete a task he had undertaken, but he was nonetheless grateful for not being treated like the pariah he felt himself to be.
After another half-hour or so of exercise, with night beginning to fall, they returned their horses to the mews behind Carlisle’s town house and walked around to the front door.
“May I offer you some refreshment?” Carlisle asked.
“Yes, thank you—if it would not be too much trouble.”
“None at all.” The Major led his guest into a spacious, comfortable front parlor, a room Brendan had not seen on his earlier visit, where the curtains were drawn against the night. A branch of candles burned upon the mantle on either side of a portrait of a beautiful, liquid-eyed woman with stunning auburn curls arranged in a style of some years past. Brendan thought the room pleasant, if a bit old-fashioned; one of the chairs had been upholstered in a fabric very much like one his mother had used in her own sitting room many years earlier.
“I hope you will not be too uncomfortable staying here until we resolve your difficulty,” Carlisle said. “My home is large enough, if not in the pinnacle of style.” He glanced around the drawing room, obviously ignorant of whether the furnishings were a la mode or sadly outdated. “I never had much interest in such things—my wife always looked after that.”
“It’s lovely,” Brendan said. “And quite comfortable.”
“Thank you. Port?”
Brendan nodded, and thanked his host when he handed him a glass.
Carlisle waved his hand as though displaying the
décor. “Since her death, I’ve kept it this way—I’ve had no interest in refurbishing.” He glanced at the portrait hanging behind him, and added, “Nor in much else. I really must thank you for taking me out of myself with this little puzzle.”
“She was beautiful,” Brendan said. “You must miss her very much.”
Carlisle’s smile was sad, reminiscent. “As I would miss my breath. It would have been our fifteenth anniversary, this Midsummer’s Day. I can hardly believe she’s been gone for ten years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s I who should apologize. After ten years, one would think…” He sighed. “I always feel a bit of guilt at this time of year. Lillian made me promise I would marry again. She said that our son would need a mother, and that I—”
“You have a son?” It seemed strange that Carlisle had not mentioned him before now. The boy must be away at school. Brendan wondered what he would look like—a sturdy child, tall and fair like his father, or a lively redhead?
“No.” Carlisle’s mouth tightened. “He survived his mother by only a few hours. Something wrong with his blood, the doctor said.”
Brendan was silent. He could scarcely imagine the grief of two such losses coming so close together. No wonder Major Carlisle had been so sympathetic to Jenkins, the smuggler.
“Losing him as well… Well, that gave me the excuse I needed to break my promise. Since I had no child, I saw no need for a new mother. I decided I would never marry again,” Philip said, and added in a low tone, “I could not bear to face that loss another time.”
“I should think not,” Brendan said.
“That was the time I spoke of—when I wished that I might end my life. I hope you do not think me too great a coward!”
“Not at all. I understand—” Brendan shook his head suddenly. “No, I cannot understand. Forgive me, please, I do not mean to pry, but—how do you bear the loneliness?”
Carlisle shrugged. “I have my horses, my books…friends at the club, my charity work—and, of course, the occasional venture into criminal investigation.”
And yet he’d said he had no interest in anything. But it was possible to keep busy without necessarily having much interest in the activity—anything would be better than brooding over such a loss. “Of course,” Brendan said with automatic courtesy.
Carlisle raised an eyebrow; Brendan could see him school his features to polite tranquility. “Oh, you must not think me a recluse, Mr. Townsend. I count myself rich for having had five years of happiness. There are many who’ve never had as much.”
“I wish you’d had more,” Brendan said, then sought a different tack. “I do appreciate your hospitality, more than I can say. My mother suggested I seek lodgings with Mr. Hillyard, and of course that would never have done.”
“Certainly not. Would you care for a game of billiards before we dine?”
“Only if you will not be bored beyond measure by playing against a hopeless amateur. Riding is the only activity at which I excel.”
“We shall be evenly matched, then,” Carlisle said. “So long as we do each other no injury with the billiard cues, we may count the attempt a success.”
The sky was lit by flashes that spoke of cannon fire on the ridge behind their camp, but Captain Lockwood never flinched at the occasional blast that struck too close to their tents. “Good work, Ensign Carlisle,” he said. “I shall write your father and let him know what a bright, observant young man he sent me.”
“Thank you, sir.” Philip was near to bursting with pride. He’d known that the oddly-scattered stones had meant something, that the arrangement had been intentional, no accident, and he was enormously relieved that the Captain had confirmed his tentative guess. What a man Captain Lockwood was, and how lucky he was to have drawn this assignment! The Captain even looked like a hero - tall, slender, his dark eyes and hair making him look so strong and serious. His expectations were high and his praise rare, but infinitely precious for its scarcity.
“Thank you, Carlisle,” the Captain said. “We shall go into battle tomorrow forewarned and forearmed, thanks to your keen eye.”
“Thank you, sir.” Philip said again. He hoped he sounded matter-of-fact, but he could not keep the grin from his face.
“You’re a good lad. Let’s hope tomorrow sees you safe, and us to victory.” And the Captain leaned down and kissed him, quickly and gently. “Off with you, now.”
Philip didn’t want to go. He wanted another kiss, wanted to beg the Captain to allow him to stay the night. But he knew that was impossible, and he meant to be a good soldier, so he obeyed his orders. He ran back to his own tent, his body tingling from head to toe and his blood thundering in his ears. The Captain had kissed him!
And then the cannons began to roar—
Carlisle sat up in bed, the clap of thunder dying off in the distance. What in God’s name—?
Rain from a spring storm slapped on the windows, and a flash of lightning lit the room, followed by another, quieter burst of thunder. And his body still tingled with the memory.
Captain Lockwood… Good God. He had not even thought of Lockwood in years. He had practically worshipped the man; his first commanding officer had been everything that Carlisle had hoped to be, a sterling example, and the best teacher he could ever have wished.
Captain Lockwood had died in that battle. Forewarned, forearmed, it had not mattered. The enemy had simply outnumbered and outfought them. Even the hidden cache of ammunition was not enough.
Half the regiment had perished. A mere Cornet, Carlisle had been the only officer to survive that day. It was burned on his memory. That kiss, so gentle, so full of promise…
That never happened.
Or had it? Shaken awake at this late hour, full of longing, Carlisle could not remember for certain. Knowing Captain Lockwood and his rock-solid integrity, he could be sure it had not. Even if the man had wanted to, Carlisle knew he would not do such a thing to a youngster under his command, a boy whose wakening manhood had become confused with hero-worship.
But dreams could be peculiar things. Sometimes they told you truth that was not fact. It almost did not matter whether the Captain had kissed him or not. Philip had wanted him to, had wanted it desperately—not only in his dream, but in that distant past. If Lockwood had survived that battle… what might have happened then?
Nothing. Nothing would ever have happened, because Ensign Carlisle would never, not even on pain of death, have revealed his feelings. And Captain Lockwood, even if he had been inclined that way, would never have taken advantage of a boy who had not yet reached his majority.
As things turned out, that question mattered not at all. While home on leave, Philip Carlisle had been introduced to Lillian Winter, the sister of another junior officer, and fallen head-over-heels in love with her. His attachment to Captain Lockwood was, if he thought about it at all, remembered as a keen enthusiasm for the Army and adulation of his commanding officer. All that was very normal, very acceptable. Philip had not even needed to deliberately set the other feelings aside; the joy of finding someone who loved him, whose intimate presence made him feel alive, brought him to manhood in a way that nothing else ever could. His love for Lillian had left no room for anything else.
But Lillian had been gone for ten years, now. Ten terribly lonely years.
Society’s matchmaking ladies had left him alone for two years after his bereavement; for another three, they tried to find him a new wife. They did not succeed. Eventually, they gave up. They said, Major Carlisle, poor man. He has buried his heart with his wife.
When he first heard that expression, it suited his feelings exactly. He had genuinely believed it to be true.
Now, for reasons he could not comprehend, Brendan Townsend was making him feel alive again, under circumstances that were completely reversed. Now he was the older man, and Brendan was …not a child. Younger, perhaps, and less mature, but physically and intellectually a man grown.
And in this pa
rticular matter, more experienced than Carlisle himself.
“I’m quite capable,” he had told Brendan, “of defending my virtue against any unwanted advances.” Well, that was true enough.
But what in God’s name was he supposed to do if he did want those advances?
CHAPTER 12
The streets were quiet; the time was a little past midnight. Brendan wished he could see the faces of the two men sitting with him in the hired carriage driven by Major Carlisle’s coachman, Edward. Carlisle himself occupied the seat opposite, quiet, composed, ready for anything. Beside him, Tony fidgeted, his attitude toward Carlisle that of a dog meeting a new arrival in the pack—one who was unwelcome, but too formidable to fight.
“Tell me, sir,” Tony asked suddenly. “What is your plan if he should laugh in our faces?”
Carlisle’s voice was steady, his manner commanding and slightly aloof. If Brendan continued his analogy of a hunting pack, Carlisle would be the unquestioned leader. “I do not think he will be likely to laugh. You have only to do your part—get us through the door and into his office, and return to the carriage when I tell you to go. You need not concern yourself with any untoward events; I will deal with those.”
His certainty calmed Brendan like a swallow of good brandy; Tony only sat back without replying. The carriage rolled inexorably along the cobblestones, past the Cock and Bottle. It pulled up to a stop just long enough for its three passengers to get out.
“Fifteen minutes,” Carlisle reminded Edward, who nodded, clucked to the horses, and drove slowly around the corner. He would meet them at the end of the alley on the other side of the row of buildings, down the passage from the hidden exit.
The Major’s voice was crisp in the cool evening air. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” said Brendan, surprised that his voice was steady. “Let us get on with it.”
Tony led the way into the mollyhouse. The night was dark, their hats shaded their faces, and the entrance was a blind doorway. Tony gave a coded knock upon the inner door, and when a window in that door slid open, he proffered his token of membership, a coin with a notch cut out of the edge. “Mr. Scarlet and two guests, for The Arbor,” he said.
