All You Could Ask For

by Angeline Fortin

  “Have you seen Jack? He is supposed to be in Town.”

  “Is he?” Her voice held surprise and an edge of excitement. Richard wondered how she knew Jack Merrill. Recognition niggled at the back of his mind but continued to elude him. “I would love to see him.”

  “I’ve gotten a townhouse recently and invited him to stay with us.” Francis handed the woman one of his calling cards. “I’m expecting him anytime now.”

  “Will you let him know that asked after him?” Her gaze shifted to Richard. “And, uh…I believe Oona may have sent you around an invitation recently. I’m sure everyone would love to see you again.”

  “I’ll have to look into it.”

  The angel’s gaze focused behind them and her expression softened slightly. Richard turned to see a young, dark-haired gentleman in his early-twenties approaching with a wide smile. He was dapperly dressed and handsome enough to turn the heads of other ladies as he passed.

  Richard hated him on sight.

  “Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me, I believe Lord Aylesbury has come to claim me for our dance.”

  “I’ll look for that invitation,” Francis responded with a wide smile, a rare sight these days. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Abby.”

  “Lady Abygail, I believe this is our dance?”

  “Goodbye, Francis.” The woman cast her cool gaze over Richard, assessing him and apparently finding him wanting. “Richard.”

  * * *

  “Abby?” Richard’s voice cracked as she took the young man’s arm and moved off toward the dance floor. “Abby Merrill?”

  “You were talking to her.” His brother frowned. “I assumed you recognized her.”

  “How could you expect that I might?” Richard said in astonishment, feeling the fool. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “Nor have I, but the lass has changed nary a bit,” his brother returned with a shrug. “I recognized her immediately.”

  Richard hadn’t. To him, this otherworldly Abby Merrill was a dramatic change from the tomboyish, sassy scamp he remembered from years past. In his memories, she was forever grimy, her hair tangled and loose, and her figure the last time he’d seen her had been that of a child. The Abby he remembered fondly was a jolly friend always up for a spot of fishing, racing or other boyish pastimes.

  This Abby…well, this Abby was polished to a high gloss. Tidy, elegant, and mannered. And Sara—ah, her sister, Sara Merrill—had said that they were having an engagement ball. Was it for Abby? Wasn’t there another sister? He hoped so and wondered why.

  “Shall we find CB, Richard?” his brother prompted.

  Richard watched Abby rotate around the dance floor for a moment longer, absorbing the sight of her fair hair flashing white in the light from the chandeliers. Abby Merrill, he thought shaking his head. He couldn’t believe it.

  “All right, then. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 10

  To be yourself in a world

  that is constantly trying to make you something else

  is the greatest accomplishment.

  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

  He hadn’t recognized her!

  Abby could scarcely believe it.

  Upon seeing him through the crowd looking so smartly handsome in his uniform of the Scots Guard, she stared so hard that Sara had finally stopped talking to follow her gaze curiously. The bright red coat with its gold braid and trim stretched across Richard’s broad chest. The black belt hugged his waist as tightly as the black britches did his thighs. It’d been all she could do not to sigh over him—which she had been content to do from a distance—until Sara recognized him and insisted they say their hellos.

  Of course, the uniform of an officer was like a beacon to Sara’s young eyes.

  With her greatest fear unfolding itself before her, Abby’s first urge had been to run away and spare herself his reaction. Desire to see him up close warred with that fear, winning out in the end. She summoned every ounce of composure she possessed to calm herself and follow her sister. Her eyes ate him up as they approached, noting the changes the years had brought—the sword at his side, the cut of his hair, and the tightness of his jaw as her sister had prattled on and on.

  Then he’d spoken directly to her with that deep, sensual tone. It occurred to her that Richard might have been flirting with her, even if it was just a tad, and her heart had soared, pushing aside her nerves. Her fear. Even her curiosity over his injuries. But then, when Francis had greeted her so casually, she’d seen the confusion on his face. When he’d realized who she was, the denial.

  “What has you so glum?” her partner asked, drawing her attention as they reached the center of the dance floor and he drew her close for the waltz.

  Harrison Brudenall, the Marquis of Aylesbury, owned a Belgrave Square townhome just next door to the Boughtons. Abby had met him shortly after their arrival in Town and found in him a caring friend.

  “Nothing at all, Lord Aylesbury,” she responded carefully, placing a hand on his shoulder and catching her skirts in her left hand just in time for him to spin her about in the opening bars.

  “You’re not at all your normal bright, cheery self this evening.”

  Though the marquis was an excellent dancer whose strong lead did allow for some conversation during the dance, Abby found herself with no words to explain. She opted for wrinkling her nose. “When am I ever bright and cheery, my lord?”

  “My lady, I assure you, you have a definite potential for both,” he countered with one of his wide smiles and she could feel herself relax.

  Aylesbury was just the sort to put everyone at ease. Young, handsome, and personable, the marquis was also unfailingly courteous and caring. What Abby appreciated most about him, however, was his ability to look her in the eye when he spoke to her. Unlike so many others, his eyes never wandered to the side or lingered on the scar that curved across the right side of her face.

  Self-consciously, she angled her head away from Harry, presenting him with her unmarred left side. There was nothing worse than living with people who reminded her daily of her diminished worth, unless it was receiving more of the same from complete strangers.

  The Season hadn’t disappointed in that respect. She’d gotten everything she expected and more. In the superficial world of the ton, the stares and whispers followed her each time she left home.

  They conveniently grew in volume whenever she was in earshot.

  Her family hadn’t been at their first garden party for more than an hour before she’d heard Oona sighing pitifully for her dear, beloved stepdaughter’s horrible fate, hinting that the unseen scarring beneath her clothing was even worse than Abby’s face.

  She’d longed to hide away from them all, as she had for years. She didn’t want pity, couldn’t bear the revulsion. How did Oona think Abby was to find a husband when the eligible men looked at her so? When she stoked their morbid curiosity?

  For some reason—be it God’s pity, an angel’s blessing or Oona’s prompting—Harry Brudenall seemed to have taken a liking to her, overlooking her most obvious faults. Of course, he liked everyone, and everyone liked him in return. He was extremely popular, favored by all the young ladies because he distributed himself among the wallflowers with enthusiasm. It was their Season as well, he told her. Every lady deserved to dance during her Season. It gratified him to bring that pleasure to them.

  She liked him a great deal. It was hard not to when he cared so much for others. She didn’t think he did so out of pity for the wallflowers or even for her, at least to any great extent. As hard as it was to comprehend, given the usual tendencies of the London ton, Abby believed that Harry actually did enjoy being kind.

  Even though his father had died the year before leaving Harry, his only son, with more responsibility than most young men liked to have, the new marquis bore that as good-naturedly as he did everything else.

  Though he had as much pressure on him as Abby currently bore to marry, he tended to go abou
t it in an unperturbed fashion. His need to marry and beget an heir was most likely the reason why Oona had quickly latched on to him, changing Aylesbury from tentative friend to suitor—her only suitor, if the truth were known—much to her father’s delight.

  That was the reason the Earl of Haddington was bearing the expense of a Season, after all. From his perspective, it was going well for him so far. Her sister, Catharine, was making a match of it with George Lyle, Lord Westbourne, while Sara held decent odds of getting Christopher Jervis, Viscount St. Owen, to propose. Unless, Abby sometimes thought, Sara kept talking to him.

  For Abby, it was to be Aylesbury.

  Though she saw his courtship as nothing more than a charitable act that would provide him some benefit in the end, she knew that if she seriously considered marriage, she could do far worse than Harry Brudenall. The marquis was rich, funny, and intelligent, as well as dashing and handsome with black hair and vivid blue eyes.

  Everything about him was all that a woman could hope for.

  But when Abby had looked into another man’s warm mossy green eyes tonight, she’d known that a comfortable marriage to a friendly face wasn’t going to be enough for her.

  Her worst fear. Her greatest hope.

  She never dreamed Richard would come back London. Oh, she always prayed that he would return home safely, but she hadn’t pictured him entering London society for any reason. Yet here he was after all those years and she wanted him still, loved him still. Though clearly, he was no longer the frivolous youth he’d once been. He looked harder, tougher. The lad he’d been years before was gone. There was a pain in his eyes, beneath his warm appraisal, that hinted at hardship. Was it merely his injuries? Abby wanted to find out, search him out and soothe his pain away.

  Would it be worth the risk to seek him out? She chewed her lip thoughtfully. The ballroom, as brightly lit as it was, still held the dim cast of evening and she’d been careful to keep her head turned away from him. Richard hadn’t seen her scars yet. What would he think? Would he shudder with horror as so many had and draw away? Would he stare rudely, leaving her uncomfortable and longing for solitude?

  * * *

  To Abby’s surprise, the waltz drew to a close then and Lord Aylesbury whirled her about one last time before bowing low over her hand.

  “You are a graceful a partner as always, Lady Abygail.” He offered her an arm to lead her from the dance floor. “I sometimes think dancing is the one thing you truly enjoy.”

  “Nonsense, my lord, I love to ride,” Abby countered. She’d spent the better part of the last several years on horseback, riding across the highlands to better avoid her family at Glen Sannox House. Certainly, she’d done far more riding than dancing.

  “And you have an excellent seat,” Aylesbury went on smoothly. “I feel, however, that this is the first time I’ve been in your company when I feel I haven’t had your company at all.”

  She winced, cheeks flushing hot. “I’m sorry, my lord. I’m afraid I’ve a bit on my mind this evening.”

  “That is easy enough to see. What is it that has you thinking so deeply?”

  How could she tell him that it wasn’t what was bothering her as much as who? Harry was a good man, good company and a good friend. She had no desire to hurt his feelings by showing preference for another.

  “I shall guess, then,” the marquis went on. “It is that chap in the regimentals who has distracted you so. Aha, with that blush, I see that I am right. Who is he?”

  “The gentleman of the Scots Guard is Captain Richard MacKintosh and the other was his older brother, the Earl of Glenrothes. I grew up with them. They are old family friends.”

  “Old family friends, hmm?” Aylesbury raised a brow at her deliberately casual explanation. “Is that all then?”

  “Certainly. Anything else you saw was merely concern on my part. The captain was recently injured and is home to recuperate.”

  “I don’t think I saw concern at all in the man’s eyes when I led you out to our dance,” he argued. “I think I would call it…astonishment.”

  “Because he hadn’t recognized me,” Abby blurted out. “He was merely embarrassed.”

  “Had it been so long?”

  “Six years, I think.”

  Aylesbury laughed out right then. “I think I see it now, poor fellow!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s the look of a man who discovers that the child he once knew is a woman grown,” the marquis explained, “after he’s already had indecent thoughts of her. Old chap probably feels a bit queasy about now.”

  “He’s always seen me as a child.” She was unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

  “To my eternal regret, I don’t believe he does now. Once his self-flagellating moment has run its course, I fear I might find myself with some competition for your affections,” Aylesbury said mournfully.

  For a brief moment, Abby’s heart raced with hope and possibilities before it sank. Tracing a hand absently down her cheek, she shook her head. “You are my one and only suitor, Lord Aylesbury. No other man has found me worthy of any affection at all. I doubt Richard MacKintosh would be any different.”

  “London is peopled by fools of little depth and character.” He traced his knuckles down the path her own fingers had just followed. It was his first open recognition of her scars, but Abby didn’t feel any pity from him, just an acknowledgement of her pain. It made her like him all the more. He went on, “I cannot be the only one in this entire town who is not.”

  “Ah, but Harry, what if you are?”

  “Then I will take the best prize of them all and consider myself a lucky man.”

  Chapter 11

  Politicians and diapers should be changed frequently,

  and for the same reason.

  ~ Mark Twain

  “I don’t know what to tell you lads,” Henry Campbell-Bannerman said gruffly in his Scots brogue. “Hadn’t heard a word of this before.”

  “I rather assumed you hadn’t, CB.” Glenrothes nodded tightly.

  As Francis explained the matter to Campbell-Bannerman, the man who’d held the office of War Secretary the previous year when the mission had been ordered, Richard had read the surprise registering on the politician’s face as he spoke.

  The sub rosa habits of the government and military of the British Empire had ceased to surprise him more than a week before. Regardless of Palmer’s claims, the former secretary knew nothing of his brother’s capture and escape, much less the continued imprisonment of Vin, Jace and the others. It went to follow that if CB—the head of the War Department when the incident occurred—didn’t, then Stanhope, his successor, didn’t either. The urge to smash Palmer’s nose with a strong right made him clench his fists. The undersecretary should be glad he wasn’t there.

  “What would you like me to do then?” the politician asked.

  “We’d like you to send forces into Egypt with the sole intent of finding my unit and freeing them from the rebels,” Richard told him. “We’ve discovered what we were sent to, we’ve assessed the size and strength of their movement. I’ve given my full report on the matter, as has Lieutenant Temple. Now, it is time to bring our men home. We’d like you to intervene on our behalf with Stanhope to see it done.”

  His fierce words conveyed a wealth of passion. It had to be done. He must find a way to see it happen. Luckily, CB was considered a fairly radical Liberal, a man more inclined to take some chances rather than follow a strictly party line. They would need him on their side if they hoped for any chance of convincing Stanhope or the Duke of Cambridge to take any action. His Royal Highness, Prince George, the Duke of Cambridge, was the Commander-in-Chief of the Queen’s forces and a notorious traditionalist. He wouldn’t support any move that might be considered even remotely subversive. Sending a force into Egypt to free a band of spies might be too much for the man to bear.

  “What say you, CB?” Glenrothes asked when Campbell-Bannerman remained
thoughtfully silent. “Will you throw your weight behind this?”

  “Let me look into it and meet with Stanhope and Cambridge. I’d like to know why they were sent there to begin with, Glenrothes. I can tell you I had no idea.” He raised a brow at Richard. “Seems a strange assignment to me, Captain MacKintosh.”

  “It seemed strange to us at the time, as well,” he agreed. “But orders are orders, aye?”

  “They are indeed.” The secretary nodded slowly, studying Richard for a long moment. “Have you spoken with Rosebery yet? As Foreign Secretary at the time, he might’ve heard something of it.”

  “We were hoping to catch him here tonight, as well.”

  CB grunted. “Talk to him and I’ll get with Stanhope. I’m supposed to leave for my holiday in France with Charlotte in two weeks,” he added, referring to his wife. “If we’re to get this thing done, it will need to before then.”

  Glenrothes nodded grimly. Richard knew his brother wasn’t bolstered with any confidence at the words. For all that CB was liberally minded, the politician had ambitions. It could have been worse, of course. If they had to rely on Rosebery, the thing would never get done. The former Foreign Secretary was neck deep in political ambitions, having already claimed that he had but three goals in life: to win the Derby, marry an heiress, and become prime minister. He had already accomplished two of the three. A quartet of spies held prisoner in the middle of the desert would be the last thing he would allow to cost him the third.

  “We appreciate anything you can do.” Glenrothes held out a hand and firmly shook the politician’s hand. Richard followed in suit before they moved away.

  He watched the emotions flit across his brother’s face and knew a sinking feeling. It had been best, he knew, to let Francis take the lead in delivering their problem into the right hands. It was his brother’s duty as the head of the family and as Earl of Glenrothes. Richard knew he wouldn’t have gotten any better results on his own, which was to say, any results at all.