by Tuft, Karen
Everywhere he went, whether he was visiting his boot maker or inspecting the latest crop of thoroughbreds at Tattersalls, he was invariably met by old friends and acquaintances, all of whom had heard he had died and were bluntly curious to learn of his miraculous return. And this invariably led to questions about his experiences on the Peninsula.
Dealing with the barrage of questions and the backslaps and jovial comments left Anthony frustrated and angry. Was he the only person in all of England who had survived battle? Of course not. Yet everyone treated him like some sort of paragon, like a hero.
He did not feel like a hero.
His only respite this week had been in Amelia’s company. Before leaving for London, Anthony had met with his mother and sister and set out the plan for introducing Amelia to society, the general consensus being that he carefully select when and where to take her. Eventually the gossips would see what a lovely, serene young lady she was and the scandal surrounding the betrothal would fade, with other on dits taking its place.
As a result, Anthony had escorted Amelia to the theater, Gunter’s, Hyde Park, and a few small dinner parties. These had given her the visibility she needed at present.
He intended to go to Doctors Commons today to obtain a special marriage license. Tonight he was escorting Amelia and Lady Walmsley to Vauxhall Gardens, and the day after tomorrow he and Amelia would return to Ashworth Park. Lady Walmsley intended to remain in London until the wedding took place, at which time she would arrive at Ashworth Park with all the other guests.
He tipped his chin up so he could spread lather more easily on his neck. “I have decided we are returning home day after tomorrow,” he said.
Lucas rested a hip on the edge of the washstand. “You are always the most chatty when you have a deadly instrument in your hands,” he observed.
“I wonder,” Anthony said, deftly finishing his task and rubbing a towel over his face, “why you persist in hovering when I am clearly no longer an invalid. You ought to be relieved, you know, since you must be anxious to return to your own family.”
Lucas studied his own image in the looking glass. “I will return home soon, but not quite yet.”
“As you wish. What do you suppose we will learn from Swindlehurst’s man when he returns from Kent?” Anthony asked. “I find it extremely odd that Amelia has no family to speak of on either her mother’s or her father’s side. There must be someone. Speak up, man,” he said when Lucas still did not reply.
“My family do not need me at present,” Lucas said, ignoring Anthony’s question about Swindlehurst. “And I am content to remain here for the time being—unless you would care to explain to a valet you have yet to hire about your nightmares and bouts of nausea. You would do well to warn Miss Clarke too before the nuptials take place.”
“I do not foresee that as a problem,” Anthony said. “The lady has already seen me indisposed.”
Lucas’s eyebrows rose in question. “Indisposed, eh? And she did not run screaming for the hills? Very brave of her.”
“Indeed.”
Lucas grew serious. “If you are to rid yourself of your ghosts, Tony, you must first come to terms with certain truths. Truths I have told you before.”
“Please share.”
“Certainly.” Lucas ignored Anthony’s tone. “As the fourth son of a viscount, I was clearly made to understand I must be responsible for myself—finding a suitable career and income. I was not to depend on my father for anything beyond the barest of essentials, except in extreme circumstances. Owing to the fact that my father had five sons and three daughters, I understood what he was saying.
“You, on the other hand, were the spare to your brother, the heir. You would have understood that you had to be ready to act,” Lucas said, “despite your loathing to do so. You were reared with the understanding that you were responsible for the welfare of others. It is what made you a good captain, Tony, and why your men respected you as they did.”
“Not all of my men.” Anthony had a scar to prove that. “Your attempt to explain your theory is failing miserably, and I grow tired of trying to make sense of it.”
“I mean only this: that I was responsible for myself and my own actions. There were no expectations of anything beyond that, and that is what I did—other than save your pathetic hide once you were wounded.
“But you felt responsible for everyone’s personal actions besides your own. I daresay you felt responsible for more than that, considering your upbringing. So when things went horribly wrong and you saw those under your command dying or, worse, doing egregious, dishonorable things, you naturally thought you had allowed them to occur and felt powerless as a result. Your own near death did not serve to help any of this either. You were in a bad way for a while, you know.”
“Pray, tell me, Dr. Jennings,” Anthony said, irritated. “How am I to overcome these things? Have you a remedy? An elixir, perhaps?”
“Of course I don’t,” Lucas said softly. “I only wish to heaven I did.”
His reply took the wind out of Anthony’s sails, and he sank deeper into his chair, running his hand behind his neck to rub the tight muscles there.
“But if I could offer anything along those lines,” Lucas said, “it would be that you begin by finding a way to forgive yourself.”
“For what?” Anthony asked.
Lucas smiled wistfully. “You are the one who must figure that out.”
Chapter 13
The following morning, a boy arrived at Ashworth House with a letter from Swindlehurst, which Anthony read immediately. It stated that Swindlehurst’s investigator had returned from Kent and asked Lord Halford to suggest a time when they could call on him.
Anthony wrote a quick response, saying he would meet Swindlehurst at his office at eleven o’clock, and sent it back with the boy, tossing him a half crown for his efforts. Anthony had a piece of business he wanted to attend to first thing, and it would be more convenient if he spoke to Swindlehurst and his man there.
His first item of business was to place the announcement of his betrothal to Amelia in the newspaper. It was not necessarily a commonplace thing to do, although the society writers for the paper frequently included such information in their columns. For Anthony to place his own announcement, however, was a way to ensure the correct information was disseminated amongst the ton and would also serve to reinforce the Hargreaves family’s acceptance of Amelia into their midst.
Anthony arrived at Swindlehurst’s office promptly at eleven. Marlowe, Swindlehurst’s assistant, showed Anthony straight into the solicitor’s private office.
“Come in, my lord,” Swindlehurst said. Another man, whom Anthony presumed to be the investigator, rose from his chair when Anthony came into the room and shook his hand. “John Abbott at your service, my lord,” the man said.
“Mr. Abbott,” Anthony replied. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
When both men were seated, formalities out of the way, Anthony asked bluntly, “What have you to tell me, Mr. Abbott? Good news from Little Brenchley, I hope.”
“Interesting news to be sure, my lord.” Abbott was a lean and wiry man, roughly forty years of age, with a neat mustache and dark, intelligent eyes. “As you have already been informed, Miss Clarke’s surname is not Clarke, but Clarke-Hammond.”
“Edmund Clarke-Hammond being her father,” Anthony said.
“Correct. The vicar of Little Brenchley and son of John Clarke-Hammond, Viscount Winfield of Somerset,” Abbott said. “I have the documents in hand from Kent to confirm this.”
Excellent, Anthony thought. “And what of his wife?”
“Maiden name of Sarah Rigby, as Swindlehurst will have told you,” Abbott said. “The older residents of Little Brenchley recall her beautiful singing voice. She performed frequently at church—until her illness and death, th
at is. Took quite a toll on the vicar and their daughter, from what I understand.”
“And her family?” Anthony asked.
“Well,” Abbott said. “I happened on one woman who was a particular friend of the former Sarah Rigby. She told me Miss Rigby’s mother was a seamstress and her father a coal miner until the black lung made him too ill to work; they are both now deceased. It makes one wonder,” Abbott mused, “how the daughter of a coal miner and the son of a viscount could have met, let alone married.”
“Similar occurrences have been known to happen,” Anthony said wryly. “My own situation, for example. I presume you plan to uncover the details of their marriage with some alacrity,” Anthony said.
“Quite so,” Abbott replied. “In fact, as soon as we are finished here, I am bound for Somerset.”
“Learn what you can there,” Anthony said, “but do not speak directly to the Clarke-Hammonds. I would prefer to handle that myself, if and when the time is right.”
“Understood, my lord.” Abbott rose from his chair. “Discretion is always uppermost in my mind.” He tipped his hat and was gone.
Based on what Abbott had said, Anthony doubted there was much of any family on the Rigby side, not if her grandparents were already dead. And on her father’s side? That connection would need more finessing than Anthony had time to provide at present.
When Abbot was gone, Swindlehurst sat back in his chair. “Brandy, Halford?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure?” He rose and took up the decanter on a tray behind him, splashing a modest amount of amber liquid into a glass for himself. “You just learned that the woman you are to wed is the granddaughter of a coal miner and a seamstress.”
“And a viscount,” Anthony added.
“Do you think it will be enough to appease the critics?” Swindlehurst asked, taking a sip of his drink.
“It will have to be,” Anthony said. “I cannot and will not jilt Miss Clarke, or Clarke-Hammond, as the case may be. It will be up to her to cry off, if it is to happen at all.”
If she knew her nights would be disturbed by his thrashing and bellowing and her days spent dealing with his somber moods and self-recriminations, would she cry off? Anthony realized more and more that he did not want her to end the betrothal once the scandal had passed, even for all that he thought it would be in her best interest.
Lucas had suggested that Anthony would benefit by forgiving himself.
How could he possibly do this when he had no idea how to begin or if he deserved forgiveness at all? How did one rid oneself of the ghostly faces, the gunfire, and the screams of agony and despair that were always there in his mind?
He stood. “I will be leaving for Ashworth Park soon. I presume you will keep me informed of any updates in the investigation.”
“Certainly,” Swindlehurst said. “Good-bye, my lord, and many felicitations on your upcoming marriage.”
Anthony nodded and left, striding past Marlowe in the outer office. He leaped into his curricle and grabbed the reins from his surprised groom. He flicked his whip, and the horses sprang into action. How, he thought, pain cutting through his chest, every bit as raw as the wound he had taken at Badajoz, could he bind Amelia to him in his broken state? He craved her practicality and kindness, longed for her softness and the sensation of her in his arms, but what did he have to offer her? Not much, if he was honest. The security of his home and income. Affection. Children.
She deserved someone who could give her his whole heart, something Anthony was unsure he could ever do, as hollow as he often felt inside. Could he be so selfish as to wed her anyway?
He was afraid he could. And the thought grieved him at the same time it offered him a perverse kind of solace.
* * *
Anthony arrived home from Swindlehurst’s office, handing his curricle over to his groom and instructing him to get Bucephalus and another mount ready. Then he strode into the house, barely giving the butler, Gibbs, time to move out of the way after opening the door.
He tossed his hat and gloves onto the table in the front hall and took the stairs two at a time, not stopping until he located Lucas reading in one of the sitting rooms. “Change your clothes,” Anthony said. “We are going riding in Hyde Park. And I refuse to hear that you do not have suitable riding clothes you can be seen wearing in public. I happen to know you have organized a decent wardrobe for yourself, despite the limited amount of time we have been in London.”
“Of course I have,” Lucas said, setting his book aside, not perturbed in the least by Anthony’s tone. “I have always known that sooner or later I needed to resume my role as a viscount’s son. May I ask why we are suddenly to be trotting about the park?”
“Because I need to ride, devil take it, and there is nowhere else to do it but there, despite the people who will be thronging the place at this hour to see and be seen. I need you along to smile at all and sundry and deflect any attempts at conversation away from me.”
“I see,” Lucas said.
Pronouncement made, Anthony stalked off to his bedchamber, where he jerked his coat off and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. He paced to his wardrobe and yanked it open. “Riding breeches. Where are they?”
Lucas leaned against the doorjamb and watched. “Most likely where they always are when they are not on your body.”
Anthony ignored Lucas and sat on the bed to tug off his boots. Lucas walked over and grabbed a heel and pulled.
“Maybe you’d like to explain what has happened?” he asked.
“Nothing has happened. Nothing bad anyway,” Anthony said, tugging his shirt off from over his head.
“Because you always act like this when something good happens,” Lucas said wryly. “Unlike most people, who tend to smile in those instances.”
Anthony glared at him. “You are neither my doctor nor my confessor.”
“True,” Lucas replied. “I am merely your friend.”
“Then, as my friend, come riding with me, and let the rest of it go for now.”
By the time they dressed and went downstairs, both horses were waiting for them. They mounted and turned in the direction of Hyde Park.
Anthony could sense Bucephalus’s energy beneath him, and he patted the horse’s neck. “Just a few more minutes, old fellow, and we’ll be there.” He longed for a gallop so the wind in his face would set his memories free and clear away his guilt. Hyde Park was large and was maintained with a rural aspect, including dense woods in areas, and was sufficient for a good run in the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately this afternoon he would be limited to riding Bucephalus at a sedate pace, but it was better than nothing.
It was the height of the social hour by the time he and Lucas arrived, and Hyde Park was teeming with people. Anthony put a hand to his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun and gazed out over the swirling mass of humanity before him. Ladies strolled together, followed discreetly by their maids; matrons rolled along in their open landaus; gentlemen rode by on horseback or in their curricles.
Anthony was not in the mood for any of it. “This way,” he said to Lucas, veering off in a less-populated direction. “Unless you’d rather remain here and chat.”
“I may do just that,” Lucas said, bringing his mount abreast with Bucephalus. “I might find more congenial company if I did, considering the mood you are in. But I am nothing if not loyal.” He urged his mount ahead of Bucephalus.
Rotten Row had few people on it, so against the rules for the time of day, Anthony allowed Bucephalus to move into a canter, leaving Lucas behind. The steady rhythm of the horse beneath him took the edge off the guilt and helplessness he felt.
Eventually he brought Bucephalus to a walk, then he and Lucas proceeded toward the gate they had originally entered. He managed to tip his hat to a few ladies without having to engage in conversation, and L
ucas deftly interceded with those who did not take the hint from Anthony’s polite but distant responses.
They were nearing the gate when a couple of Anthony’s friends from university hailed him. He and Lucas rode toward them, both men dismounting when they reached the group. Anthony shook hands with each of them and introduced Lucas, referring to him as his nursemaid, making them all laugh.
“I am not at all surprised,” Hugh Wallingham said, “considering the fact that at last report you were dead.”
“I am entirely responsible for the life and health of the current Earl of Halford,” Lucas said with a wink. “As I remind him daily.”
The men laughed again. “But seriously, Tony,” Sir Richard Egan said, “what happened to you over there?”
Anthony glanced at Lucas and then said, “It is as Lucas told you. I was wounded, and he managed to find a willing Spanish lady to assist in my recovery. He saved my life.”
Anthony’s words elicited an array of congratulatory backslaps, particularly addressed to Lucas’s person, which Anthony personally enjoyed watching—until one member of the group asked Anthony in a hushed tone, “Just how willing was she?” The guilt and frustration Anthony had worked to alleviate this afternoon flooded back at the insensitive question.
“Bad form, Freddie,” one of the men murmured.
Lucas shot Anthony a speaking glance, but Anthony had had enough. These young men were noblemen who had chosen not to fight—and had had every right not to, considering their responsibilities to their families—but for one of them to make light of the people suffering at the hands of Napoleon or the armies that laid waste to their homelands, whether in conquest or defense, was intolerable.
“Señora Bartolo,” he said in a low voice that carried weight nonetheless, “watched in horror as her city underwent a lengthy siege and the bloodiest battle imaginable, followed by a thorough pillaging at the hands of the so-called rescuers. That she was ‘willing’ to assist at all is a blessing for which I am daily thankful.” He looked at Lucas. “Would you care to add anything?”
