by J. D. Robb
“Here, Papa, take this. I do not want you to be sad anymore.” Poppy held out the bright gold coin as she came into his study.
David Lindsay looked up from the bills that littered his desk. The child was only nine years old and already trying to rule the world.
“Poppy,” he said, trying for kindness rather than exasperation, “you know I am not your father. I thought we agreed that you would call me ‘uncle.’ ”
“ ‘Uncle’ is what I called Mama’s friends,” Poppy said, coming closer to his desk. “I know you are not my true papa. You are Major David Lindsay of the 28th Regiment of Foot. You fought Napoleon and beat him. But the war is over and you are the one who takes care of me and Billy. That makes you my papa.”
Her papa and not her uncle. Now he understood the difference. How many men had she called uncle? The answer to that question would tell even strangers all they needed to know about her mother. If only he could afford a decent nanny for her; but Billy needed a wet nurse far more than Poppy needed to learn what to say and what to keep to herself. He wanted any number of things for them, some a deal more urgent than a teacher for this sweetheart of a child.
He pushed his chair away from the desk and gave her the only thing he had to give. His smile drew a grin from her. She came closer and, with a nod of permission, climbed into his lap. She tried to put the coin in his hand.
“No, Poppy. I appreciate your generosity but you must keep it. For an emergency.”
She made a small sound of acceptance, wrapped her fingers tightly around the coin and leaned against his chest. “Tell me a story, Papa.”
“You tell me one, Poppy.”
“All right,” she said, biting her lip, the way she did when she was thinking hard. Storytelling came as naturally to her as smiling.
“Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in”—she paused—“in a little village. Her mother had lots of parties and the little girl was always sent to bed before the guests came and told to pray before she went to sleep. It was hard to pray when there was a party, but she closed her eyes tight”—Poppy leaned away and demonstrated how that was done—“and prayed for a brother.” Opening her eyes, she added, “Not for a papa. She never prayed for a papa.”
Lindsay knew he was not her father. He had spent the year of her conception as part of the expedition to Copenhagen and the rest of 1807 in a convent recovering from a leg wound. Until last year he had not been in England for ten years. He was not Poppy’s father, but it was possible that her brother, Billy, was his son.
“God sent a brother, but then he took her mother to heaven and she knew better than to pray for anything ever again.”
The little girl paused and leaned against him with a deep sigh that brought tears to his eyes. They were quiet a while, the only sound the drip of rainwater from the gutter.
Poppy had not prayed for him to care for her. It was her mother who had made that arrangement. It had not been that odd a friendship. Lindsay could see now that they had a lot in common, the war-weary soldier and the fading courtesan, both tired of the work they were growing too old for and not at all sure that there was another choice. They had consoled each other in the only way they could.
There had, after all, been a price to pay for the sex she gave him for free. He would never forget the last time he had seen her. It had been months since her bed had been used for anything but sleep. Death was close, the room cold with it. He could still hear her asking him, begging in a hoarse whisper, to be the guardian of her children.
Of course he had taken them in, praying that their lives would be better with him than they would be in an orphanage.
“Since prayer did not work the way the little girl wanted,” Poppy continued, “she decided she would make a wish instead. For you see, Papa, she had a magic coin. A coin that one of her mother’s friends had given her. He’d told her to make one wish and then to pass it on.”
Poppy leaned back to look at him and handed him the coin. “I want to give you the magic coin, Papa.” She held it out to him, again. Her stubborn gaze was a command.
“Was your wish granted?” Lindsay asked as he took the coin, not looking at it, but God help him, wondering if it was worth enough to pay for something other than the butcher’s leftovers.
“But yes, of course my wish was granted. I wished for a papa. Now close your eyes and think your wish. You will know it is the right one when the coin turns warm.”
So much trust, so easily given. The least he could do was play her game. Lindsay closed his eyes as ordered. A way out of this hell.
But wait; if he was the answer to her wish for family, then he had best be careful with the phrasing. He thought a moment. I wish for the profitable sale of my commission.
“Keep trying, Papa. When it is the right wish, you will know.”
“Very well.” What kind of magic coin was this if you had to make the “right” wish? With his eyes closed tight, Lindsay wished again for the prompt sale of his commission and that it would provide enough money to invest and live on.
The coin still felt cold in his hand. This was no more than a game. He smiled a little and wished for work that was satisfying and that paid an impressive wage. Even as he had the thought, the coin warmed his palm. Lindsay opened his eyes with a jerk and then opened his hand.
Poppy straightened, and at that very moment the sun broke through the clouds. A beam of sunlight found its way through the front window, falling directly on the coin. It glowed as golden and warm as the Mediterranean sun. “Very good, Papa. It must have been a very fine wish.”
“I was always good at following orders.” Lindsay kissed the top of her head. “Now I give the coin away?”
“No, Papa,” she said with the long-suffering tone of women everywhere. “You keep it until you are sure your wish is granted. You will know.”
“How? Will the coin glow again?”
“No.” She snuggled closer.
That was reassuring. He had handled death and war and now poverty, but Lindsay was sure that he would find magic more unsettling than all the rest combined.
“At first I was not at all certain that you were the answer to my wish. You see, I had wished for a papa and a mama. The night before we came here, I was in the kitchen eating a syllabub that Cook had made as a treat. I took the coin out, laid it on the table and asked quite out loud if you were the answer to my wish. At that very moment, Mama’s friend who had given me the coin came through the door. He told me he was sorry that Mama was gone and yes, indeed, you were the answer to my wish. Then he bowed and left.”
She turned her head so she could see him as she explained. “And Papa, the man was right. It was my mistake, you see, for I did not think to ask for a papa and a mama both at the same time.”
She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. In one minute she was fast asleep. Lindsay examined the coin.
Ah, from the East India Company. He used his thumb and fingers to turn the coin and found something in Arabic. There was the Roman numeral X at the bottom and the word “CASH.” Ten of whatever. How convenient, but of no use to him at all. He would hold the coin to please her, even though he was sure it was no more magic than his shirt button.
Two
Lindsay made his way down the crowded street. “Sorry,” he said to the flower seller he nudged with his arm. She merely shrugged at his clumsiness. “Beg pardon, ma’am.” He bowed to the woman who bumped into him. She made her own apology with a gap-toothed smile. Did the sun send rays of good humor as well as light? Or was it that after a week of rain, the people of London felt nothing but gratitude for even half a day of dry, fine weather?
Stepping aside, Lindsay watched a bunch of street urchins race from an alley. No matter the age or station, half of London had the same idea he did. Walking cost not a shilling and after days of rain was pure pleasure.
Or would be if he could lose the feeling of impending financial disaster. He could barely support himself, much less his new family,
and it would take time to sell his commission. He could borrow against the sale, but the cost of the loan would seriously reduce the money that came his way. And he needed every guinea far more than the moneylenders did. Lindsay walked on as though time and distance were the key to his problems.
He might wish for employment every minute of every day, but it would hardly fall into his arms. Not without some effort on his part. But where to start? Lindsay looked up as if he would find the answer wherever his random walking had brought him.
Bond street. Far from his Chelsea neighborhood, in more ways than one. For all that the exalted streets of Mayfair had been his milieu until ten years ago, he felt a trespasser.
It did not seem to matter whether it had been ten years or ten days. The same well-dressed men and women made their way in and out of shops, pausing to bow, stopping to chat. Maids and footmen moved with more purpose than their betters, laden down with parcels.
Lindsay noted that dresses were more elaborate, with ruffles at the hem, and that the spencers had more trim. The subdued color and cut of the men’s clothing made the red of his uniform stand out all the more. His shako looked as out of place here as a mob cap would have at Waterloo. No matter—he was entitled to wear his uniform until he sold his commission. It was all that stood between him and clothes from a secondhand stall.
The smell of sugar and molasses made him think of Poppy, and he made his way to the door of the confectioner’s. He had the door open before he recalled that he had no real money with him. He could not spend Poppy’s coin, and not only because the shop owner would throw it in his face.
Instead of going in, Lindsay held the door for two women who were leaving, a lady and her maid. Judging from their laughter, the maid was as much friend as servant.
“But, my lady, he should he giving me sweets.”
“Kitty, some rules are made to be broken.”
Kitty had no answer for that. She flashed him a smile of thanks for both her and her lady. Her mistress never even noticed that someone had held the door for them.
Lindsay noticed her. Her laughter embodied a joie de vivre he envied. Everything about her was as fresh as the spring day. Her perfume, the pink in her cheeks, the golden hair, the delicacy of the lace fichu that framed the curve of her neck. Her pelisse, the blue-green of her gown. Every single element of her perfection embedded itself in his mind in that one moment. He had yet to see her face, but was sure he would know her again, if only by the sound of her voice, for the smile that echoed in her words.
Lindsay’s steps took him in the same direction as them, and he followed her progress as she made her way toward Hanover Square. She paused at least three times to exchange greetings with other shoppers, two gentlemen and another woman. Not friends, mere acquaintances. And how did he know that? The way she stood. The way she moved, with self-conscious grace. The camaraderie she shared with her maid was absent. A natural caution, or did she have no friends in London?
Lindsay watched as she and Kitty considered the merits of a shop specializing in leather goods. Something for her husband, perhaps? For surely she was married. No one this lovely would remain unattached.
They took so long in consideration that by the time they moved on, Lindsay was only a few steps behind them. If he had been less of a gentleman he could have overheard their conversation.
Her laughter drifted back to him, and Lindsay decided that when he sold his commission . . .
He was distracted from his fantasy by the sound of a horse, moving at unsafe speed, racing down the crowded street. A moment later a rider came into view, mud-spattered and determined on losing not a moment.
Lindsay moved forward quickly, the battlefield instinct for survival still with him even if now it meant no more than protecting a lady’s gown from ruin. He took her by the shoulders, her back pressed against his chest, and placed himself between her and the mud that the idiot rider was casting up as he raced by.
He felt the delicacy of her bones beneath his fingers, the way her head would fit just below his chin, the orange spice scent of her perfume. And he felt her stiffen under his grip. Lindsay loosened his hold immediately. Even as she turned to him, people around them cried out in consternation. In that instant the woman realized that she had been rescued and not assaulted. While the rest of the street muttered, cursed and cried over mud-damaged clothes, his lady turned to him.
“Thank you for the gallant sacrifice, Colonel.” Even as she spoke, the practiced artifice disappeared, banished by a laugh that lit her eyes and touched his heart.
He bowed to her. Those eyes, he thought; I could lose myself in them forever. “It is major, my lady. Major David Lindsay of the 28th Foot.”
“Of the 28th Foot.” She spoke the words as he did, and he nodded.
“My cousin is in the 28th. He joined for the uniform, I think.”
He looked down at the red jacket with the bright yellow facings.
“I am afraid, Major Lindsay, that your uniform will never be the same. Do turn around.”
Lindsay obeyed her order, and she made a small sound that confirmed her suspicion.
“Quite ruined, I’m afraid.”
He turned back to her, shaking his head. “Not at all, my lady, merely injured in your service. It has seen action for ten years and not failed me yet.”
“Oh yes,” she said, her smile fading, “I am sure it has survived far worse. I am sorry. I did not mean to make light of it.”
“Not at all.” Lindsay could have kicked himself for erasing her smile. She’s flirting with you, you dolt. Think of something to say, so she will remember you when you meet again. “I am sure my coat will fully recover.”
“I wish I were convinced of that. If it cannot be made like new, then I will buy you a new one.”
That gave him pause. Not that he wanted a new uniform, but that she would offer something so personal to a complete stranger chance met on Bond Street.
“Will you come and show me that it is still wearable?” she continued with a smile that hinted at conspiracy. “On Friday. I am hosting a small party to announce my arrival for the Season. I would be pleased if you would join us for some music and a light supper before we all make our way to the evening’s entertainments.”
“Thank you.” Her arrival for the Season. Did that mean no husband?
“Eight o’clock, then? I am on Norfolk Street, just off Green. My house is the only one on the street with a bright blue door.”
She turned from him before he could agree. He watched her out of sight. She was as fresh as the spring air, for all that she was not a young girl. More than lighthearted. Less than brazen. Unconventional, he decided.
A bright blue door? The only one on Norfolk Street? More like the only one in London. It was as odd as extending an invitation and neglecting to give him her name.
Three
“Her name is Lady Grace Anderson, Major.” Nancy came into the study with Billy asleep on her shoulder.
How was a man to find out a lady’s name and situation when the usual options were no longer his? His club memberships were long gone, his contacts among society nonexistent. Lindsay thought asking Nancy’s help had been rather clever, like the old days on the Peninsula when he would have Jesseck check the status of grain for the horses. Jesseck spent most of his time in the kitchen these days, but Nancy was out daily with the children.
“She is a widow and this is her third Season since her husband died. The house was part of her settlement, but she rented it out all during her marriage.”
“And she was married to . . . ?”
“Viscount Anderson, heir to the Earl Draycott. He was fifteen years older than she and died from a heart ailment.”
“No children.”
“No children, sir, but, this Season her aunt and the aunt’s son are staying with her.
For propriety or company? Or was the cousin courting?
The conversation played back in his head as he approached the three front steps. The ho
use was narrow, only about twenty-five feet wide, but it rose four stories, and that didn’t count the basement. Comfortable but unremarkable, except for the blue door.
The butler greeted him with genuine warmth, took his shako and told him that the gathering was meant to be informal and to please join the guests unannounced. Lindsay found the large salon filled with over thirty people and no sign of Lady Anderson.
Several people smiled and nodded. A moment later an old gentleman approached, introduced himself, thanked him for his service and then began a monologue on his hopes for England at peace.
And so it went. His uniform was the only invitation people needed to make an introduction or start a conversation. And the Waterloo medal drew the curious. It named him hero and victor. No one ever asked how it felt to wear a medal that represented suffering as well as victory.
One or two of the guests asked meaningful questions: How long before the troops of occupation would be withdrawn from France? Would Napoleon stay put this time? He had no sure answers, but it made for a break from the misplaced hero worship.
For the most part he enjoyed it. He enjoyed it tremendously. It had been years since society had found favor with him.
Through the whole he never spoke to his hostess. He would look up and find her watching him with a pleased smile, the one that lit her eyes. Lindsay returned the attention with a slight bow, but every time he made to move toward her there was another man or woman anxious to speak with him. He might not have been able to speak to her, but he would occasionally hear her laughter, the very sound making this party memorable.
When the clock struck ten, the guests began to drift away. Even as he made to join them and finally speak to his hostess, a footman came to him and asked if he would wait in the library.
The footman showed him to a room at the front of the house. As he heard the sounds of farewell, he took stock of his surroundings.
Lady Grace Anderson’s house was all that was fashionable. And proper. With the occasional touch that kept it from being dull. He examined the fireplace, admiring the fairies that were carved into the molding that held the mantel, the same fairies that decorated the fire screen, though these were painted gold and green.