Geoffrey had to fight to keep himself from smirking. This was rather like gaining the advantage on the battlefield—the same sense of triumph, only with considerably less immediate bloodshed. “Odd, then, that I distinctly recall overhearing you tell several other officers on our first night outside of Plattsburgh that my insistence on nightly rounds was a colossal waste of time and I was a fool to mollycoddle grown men. Did you change your mind about the practice again after that conversation?”
“I, er…” Shelley’s eyes flitted nervously around the gallery, as if seeking a friendly face. After a few seconds, he seemed to find one and cleared his throat. “That is, I only meant that such a menial task was a waste of a senior officer’s time, and he ought to delegate the chore to his subordinates. I did not mean that I thought the effort entirely wasted.”
Clever. Geoffrey had to give him credit for that. But then, he’d never thought Shelley was stupid. Apathetic and uncaring, yes, but also smart. Geoffrey could only hope he was just the tiniest bit smarter. “Ah, well, that explains it, then. But did you ever, at any time, see fit to inform me that you had taken on this task, thereby freeing my valuable time for other endeavors?”
“No, I did not.”
Raising his eyebrows quizzically, Geoffrey asked, “Why not?” As if he did not already know the answer.
Shelley shifted from one foot to the other, and his ears got a shade redder. He was definitely beginning to lose his temper. “I didn’t see the point,” he snapped. “You said you enjoyed doing it yourself, though for the life of me, I can’t understand why. Waste of bloody time if you ask me.”
“Then why do it? Clearly not for my sake, since you didn’t believe I would give up the task anyway, and certainly not for your own.” Geoffrey narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Unless you were looking for an excuse to be out and about after most of the camp had retired for the night. An excuse, perhaps, for being down by the river after dark?”
“I didn’t need an excuse to do what I wanted. I was your second-in-command. Not that you ever treated me as such,” he added, fury beginning to seep from his voice like blood from a small wound. “And the men knew it. Everywhere I went, I heard about that paragon of virtue who preceded me. It was ‘Prescott would have done this’ and ‘Prescott wouldn’t have done that.’ Whenever any of them didn’t like my decision, they just turned to you, and you overruled me. You constantly undercut my authority and made me a laughingstock to them.”
And just like that, Geoffrey saw the opening. As if the two of them had been sword-fighting and Shelley had suddenly dropped his guard, leaving his belly exposed. Drive in the knife and end it. “Is that why you bashed my head in?”
“We both know I didn’t do that,” Shelley spat hotly. “I was standing right in front of you when it happened.”
The courtroom, which had already seemed quiet, became eerily still. As if no one in attendance breathed. As if no one so much as twitched a muscle. Every eye fixed on Martin Shelley, and heat boiled into his face as he realized the enormity of what he’d done. What he’d allowed himself to be goaded into saying aloud.
For just a second, Shelley’s body stiffened and his gaze darted frantically around the room, obviously in search of an avenue of escape. But it must have become clear to him almost instantly that there was no place to run. The tension leached from his limbs, and his shoulders drooped. Geoffrey almost felt sorry for the man.
Almost.
“Officers,” General Acton intoned, “please take Major Martin Shelley into custody. The charges are treason and attempted murder.”
The officers in charge of the court proceedings did as they were ordered. Shelley made no protest. The courtroom remained unnaturally silent while the major was escorted from the chamber, as if no one could believe what they had just seen and heard. Hickinbottom, in particular, looked stunned.
When the door had closed behind the officers and Shelley, the judge advocate turned his attention to Geoffrey. “It appears, Lieutenant Colonel, that this court owes you an apology. Unfortunately, it is not in my power to give you an adequate one. What I can do is dismiss the case against you on the charge of treason and render summary judgment on the charge of desertion. Based on the facts now in evidence, this court finds you guilty not of desertion, but of the lesser charge of being absent without leave. The penalty for this infraction is the forfeiture of your salary for the period of your absence, but you are otherwise hereby reinstated to your full rank and may return to active service or sell your commission as you wish.” He slammed the gavel against the table in front of him. “This court is adjourned.”
And as the judges rose from their seats, the whoops and cheers and whistles began.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Late July, 1815
Major Martin Shelley’s court martial had been swift and the verdict unanimous. He and Captain George Ross—whom Shelley had eventually named as his accomplice—were found guilty on all charges. The only sentence the panel could impose under the circumstances was death. Despite the fact that the two men had attempted to blame their crime on her husband, Laura could take no particular joy in the outcome. Grateful as she was that the truth had finally come out, the idea of rejoicing in any man’s death appalled her.
What she could celebrate was Geoffrey’s acquittal, and the decisive victory of the Duke of Wellington and the British Army over Napoleon Bonaparte at Waterloo. As an American, Laura had no opinion about Bonaparte one way or the other, but it was nearly impossible not to be caught up in the elation of the people around her. And selfishly, she also knew that the end of the almost decade-long war between Britain and France made it that much easier for her husband to sell his commission and retire for good.
With Parliamentary sessions closed and the onset of summer, London was beginning to empty out as the well-to-do retired to their country homes to escape the heat and stench of the city. On this particular morning, Nash and Tish and their three children planned to depart for their estate in Lancashire. As Walter and Artemisia and their brood had returned to their village in Cumbria shortly after Geoffrey’s acquittal, this would leave Laura and Geoffrey as the only inhabitants of Langston House, save the servants.
Though, to be fair, there were quite a lot of servants. Including Kinsley, the lady’s maid Tish had insisted Laura must have, who was currently engaged in the task of pinning up Laura’s hair so she could go down to breakfast.
“Oh!” Laura yelped involuntarily, twitching at the sudden and unexpected sensation.
“Begging your pardon, mum,” Kinsley said apologetically. “Did I poke you?”
Chuckling, Laura shook her head. “No, not at all.” She pressed her hand to her gently rounded abdomen and smiled as she felt it again, this time both from the inside and the outside. Leaping up from the chair, she called her husband’s name.
Geoffrey appeared almost instantly in the doorway to the dressing chamber, his cravat askew and only half tied. “What is the matter?”
“Everything is wonderful,” she hastened to reassure him, quickly closing the short distance between them. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed it to her midsection. “Wait for it,” she told him.
For a few seconds, she feared their offspring might disappoint her, but then the flutter came again, and Geoffrey’s eyes widened with astonishment. “Is that…?”
Grinning up at him, she nodded. “Our daughter.”
He stared at her in fascination, clearly awestruck. The baby moved again, and this time, Geoffrey smiled with such unalloyed joy that tears came to her eyes. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoes and gave the corner of his mouth an affectionate peck. Heedless of Kinsley’s presence, Geoffrey angled his head so he could capture her lips in a very thorough kiss that demonstrated far more than mere affection.
“Maybe we should forget about breakfast,” he murmured in her ear.
Amusement bubbled in her chest. Patting her belly, she shook her head. “Tempting as that offer is, I’
m afraid our child would strongly object to my skipping a meal. I’m ravenous.”
Playfully, Geoffrey rolled his eyes. “Already she has us wrapped around her little finger.”
Laura’s throat constricted just a little. Although she knew he was not completely convinced of the baby’s sex, he used the feminine pronouns anyway to please her. He was going to be the most loving and supportive father a little girl could ever hope for.
When they arrived in the dining room, they found the rest of the family arrayed around the table, their plates already half empty. Unlike dinner, breakfast was served from salvers set out on the sideboard. The vast number of different dishes had not yet ceased to astonish Laura, nor had the eccentricity of some of the items her English family treated as breakfast fare. What possessed anyone to want to eat kedgeree—a mixture of smoked fish and rice and hard-boiled eggs—first thing in the morning was beyond her, even now that she no longer experienced morning sickness.
Once Laura and Geoffrey had served themselves and taken their seats at the table, Nash said, “We hope to be on the road to Barrowcreek within the hour. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to rush you into making any decisions, but it would be helpful if I could tell the staff how much longer you plan to stay here in London.” He focused his attention on Laura. “Now that the trials are over, I imagine you’ll be anxious to return to America.”
Laura exchanged glances with her husband, and he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. “Actually, we thought we might stay in England until after the baby is born. That is, if you have no object—”
Her sister-in-law, who occupied the chair at the opposite end of the table from her husband, sprang to her feet and dashed around the table, flinging her arms around Laura’s neck. “Objections? How could we possibly object to your staying so we can meet our niece or nephew? And finally spend some time with this one,” she added, glaring at her brother-in-law with mock annoyance. “But are you quite sure that is what you want to do? You have ample time to sail before you must begin your confinement.”
Suppressing her amusement at the concept of confinement—as if a farmer’s wife could simply laze about in bed for the last few weeks of her pregnancy or for more than a few days after giving birth—Laura shook her head. “Even if everything went exactly according to plan, we might not make it to Plattsburgh until November, and that is cutting it awfully close. If the baby were to come early, I might have to give birth among total strangers or even worse, at sea. I would rather not take that risk.” She smiled at Tish and then around the table at Nash and her newly acquired niece and nephews. “Also, I would like a little more time to get to know all of you better.”
At first, she had agonized about staying in England for so long. After all, she had told Daniel she would be gone no more than seven or eight months, and now she was contemplating being away perhaps twice that long. But in the end, the decision had been easy.
In the weeks since Macomb’s letter had arrived, she had received three other missives from America—two from Daniel and one from Joseph—and their contents were reassuring. With Joseph’s guidance, her son appeared to be settling into his role as the farm’s owner and operator. Indeed, Joseph lamented he might find himself out of a job sooner than he had anticipated, since Daniel’s skills as an orchardist and manager already equaled his own. So, although it cut her to the quick to admit it, her son truly did not need her any longer, at least not in her capacity as the head of the family business. That part of her life was over and for all that this seemed both unfair and bizarre to her, she no longer felt quite the sense of loss of purpose at the prospect as she once had. She had built a business once; if she wanted to, she could and would do it again.
And as she told her sister-in-law, she really was worried about the prospect of going into labor too early. If such a thing were to happen while they were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, she could lose not just the baby, but her own life.
But what really made up her mind was that her husband clearly wanted—even needed—to spend more time with his family. And since, by returning to America with her instead of demanding she remain with him in England, he was very likely giving up the chance to see his brothers and sister ever again, she could not bring herself to deprive him of a few more months in their company.
Tish clapped with delight at this announcement. “Then you must be planning to come and stay the summer with us at Barrowcreek.”
Geoffrey gave his brother’s wife a fond look. “We are,” he said, “but we are going take our time so Laura can see more of the country. Also, we expect to stop in Grange-Over-Sands to spend a few weeks with Walter and Artemisia. So you oughtn’t to expect us to reach Lancashire until late August at the soonest.”
Nash nodded approvingly. “That will give us time to open up the dowager house for you rather than you having us under your feet all the time.”
“Oh, that is a marvelous idea,” Tish agreed, returning to her seat. “That way, Laura will have her own house to run as she likes instead of having to put up with my slipshod way of doing things.”
There was nothing sloppy or negligent about the way the viscountess managed her household as far as Laura could see. Quite the contrary, in fact. Langston House seemed to her to operate like a well-maintained cider press, with each of the many parts moving together like multiple sets of perfectly machined gears. Nothing as complicated as the smooth functioning of such an enormous staff in such a massive building could be accomplished without a great deal of preparation and supervision, no matter how well concealed.
“I hope it is a somewhat smaller house than this,” she said cautiously.
“Oh, much! It has only fourteen rooms, and you shouldn’t need more than…” here, she paused, as though counting to herself, “six servants. Not including Kinsley and Geoffrey’s valet, of course.”
“Of course,” Laura echoed faintly, simultaneously amused and intimidated by the idea that the words only and fourteen rooms could appear in the same sentence. Would she ever get used to the fact that she was now a wealthy woman? Or, at least, the wife of a very wealthy man. She had never thought of herself as poor, although there had certainly been lean years, but this…this abundance made her realize how modest her existence had been. When she’d worried that Geoffrey must think her home quite humble and her daily routine arduous, she had truly had no idea just how humble or how arduous!
Under the table, Geoffrey’s hand closed reassuringly over her knee. “Or we could let something smaller in the village. It is, after all, just the two of us and,” he added, flashing her a wink and a wicked grin, “we like each other well enough.”
Nash groaned theatrically. “For the love of all that’s holy, Geoff, think of the children.”
The oldest of those children, Eugenie, who was a few months Daniel’s senior, emitted a ladylike snort of derision. “Oh, Papa, we don’t mind as long as it’s not you and Mama making eyes at each other. Then…” She wrinkled her nose and shuddered.
Her father let out a bark of laughter and then turned to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at his wife, who gazed back at him with simpering devotion. Phillip, the youngest of the three at eleven, made a gagging sound and was cuffed playfully on the shoulder by his fourteen-year-old brother, Simon. Eugenie rolled her eyes, and then the entire family—parents and children alike—dissolved into laughter.
Laura’s heart squeezed just a little. America was her home and always would be where she truly belonged, but parting with this newly acquired family was going to be sweet sorrow indeed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
December 15, 1815
Garlands of evergreen and holly draped nearly every surface in Langston House’s spacious parlor, and a huge log burned high and bright in the fireplace. Gifts had been exchanged and gratitude expressed, and now the happy, high-pitched chatter of children’s voices mingled with the equally happy but slightly less penetrating murmur of adult conversation.
Her back supported b
y a pillow and her feet—curse the swollen things!—propped on a cushioned footstool, Laura surveyed the spectacle around her with a mixture of delight and wonder. She had never in her life attended such a large or festive Christmas gathering, partly because her own family had been small but also because Christmas was not a holiday of any particular note back home. Church attendance on the day of the Savior’s birth was de rigeur, but everyone she knew had always treated it more like an extra Sabbath than as a day for merriment and celebration. Certainly there had been no decorations or presents, and especially there had been no holiday feasts, for cooking a huge meal on an occasion of such religious solemnity would have been considered blasphemous.
Laura rested one hand on top of her positively enormous belly and wished she weren’t quite so full of baby, since this would limit her ability to truly appreciate the vast amount of food that was apparently being prepared. There would be, she had been informed by several of the children—each of whom had imparted to her in tones of hushed reverence the name of the one particular dish which must have been their favorite—goose and venison and mince pies and Christmas pudding and, very much to her surprise, Brussels sprouts. These days, she could scarcely manage more than a few bites at any meal without suffering from terrible indigestion.
And her back hurt something fierce.
Geoffrey, who’d been engaged in an animated conversation with Thomas and Walter, must have noticed her grimace, for he was at her side before she even registered she had made a face at all. “Are you all right?”
He asked her this question every time her expression reflected the slightest discomfort, and it was both adorable and slightly exasperating. By her reckoning, the babe wasn’t due for another full week and might not make an appearance for another week or two beyond that. In fact, Daniel had been so late that she and Samuel had joked he was already a month old when he’d been born. But no matter how many times she explained that minor aches and pains were only to be expected during the last few weeks of pregnancy and rarely meant anything exciting was about to happen, he continued to react to every twinge as though it were a sign of impending catastrophe.
Sleeping with the Enemy: Lords of Lancashire, Book 4 Page 24
