Not Forgotten

by Elizabeth Johns

  Not Forgotten

  Elizabeth Johns

  Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Johns

  Cover Design by 17 Studio Book Design

  Edited by Heather King

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7339587-1-4

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Brethren in Arms Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Preview Gentlemen of Knights Series

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Elizabeth Johns

  Brethren in Arms Prologue

  Vitoria, Northern Spain, June 1813

  The Allied Encampment

  The grief was so thick in their throats, none could speak. They had been together for only two years, yet the bonds of the battle were forged stronger than any created by blood. It was not something that could be explained, only experienced.

  When they had set sail from England for the Peninsula, each had felt invincible, ready to conquer evil and save England. Now, it was hard to remember why they needed to be brave any more.

  There was a chill in the air as they all sat huddled around the fire. James shivered. The silence the night before a battle was eerie, but afterwards, it was deafening. Watching the campfire’s flames perform their blue, gold and orange dance, it did not seem real that one of them was gone. They had survived Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Salamanca, yet Peter had fallen before their eyes today. His sabre had been raised and his eyes fierce, ready to charge when a shot had seared through him. He was on his horse one moment and gone the next. The scene replayed over and over in their minds in slow-motion. Memory was a cruel, cruel master. The same battle had left Luke wounded when a shell exploded near him. He had insisted on joining them tonight, eschewing the orders of the sawbones and hobbling out of the medical tent on the arm of his batman, Tobin.

  Now, there were six of them left, if Peter’s widow was included, and all wondered, Was this to be their fate?

  Someone had to speak and break the chain of their morbid, damning thoughts.

  “Peter would not want this.” Four pairs of morose eyes looked up at Matthias. “We all knew this was likely when we signed up to fight Napoleon.”

  “How would you want us to feel if it were you?” James asked.

  “I would want you to keep going and give my life meaning.”

  “Precisely. We mourn this night and move forward tomorrow. His death shall not be in vain,” James said with quiet conviction.

  “I still do not understand how we were caught unawares. Unless…” Colin was replaying the scene over in his mind.

  “Someone gave our position away.” Luke voiced what they all suspected.

  “We were ambushed,” Matthias added. In the end, England had emerged the victor, but it had been a near thing.

  “What about Kitty?” Peter’s wife followed the drum and felt like one of them.

  “We see what she wishes to do. I expect she will wish to return home,” Matthias answered. He had known her and Peter from the cradle and was the most devastated by the loss.

  “The French are worn down; this cannot go on much longer,” Luke said, though he would be sent home. No one else dared voice such hope.

  “We are worn down,” James muttered.

  Philip, the quiet, thoughtful one, spoke. “If anything happens to me, will someone look to my sister? She has no one else.”

  “I swear it,” Colin said, leading the others to do the same.

  “Pietas et honos.”

  Philip nodded, too affected to speak.

  “Loyalty and honour.” Another swore the oath in English.

  They returned to silence, each brooding over what had happened and what was yet to come.

  Chapter 1

  Spring 1814

  Kill them all if they are not already dead,” a distant female voice said in French.

  Philip felt as though he were dreaming and struggled to pay attention. He wanted to go to sleep, but years of military training was telling his instincts that he had better be on alert. Where was he? He tried to remember. There was sand beneath his cheek and he felt very, very wet. Remaining as still as possible, he attempted to look through his lashes; there was a thud nearby and a spray of sand splattered him. He fought to maintain absolute stillness.

  “It is a pity,” the female voice said again, much nearer this time. “He was an excellent source of information, but could no longer be trusted.”

  Philip knew that voice, but he could not place it at the moment.

  “Hawthorne was your puppet,” a male voice spat, “and had become a liability.”

  “Oui, but a very useful one.” She sighed. “It had to be done.”

  “Not a moment too soon,” the man grunted. “He did not approve of our plans and would have eventually betrayed us.”

  “Perhaps. Has there been any sign of the Englishman?” she asked.

  The hairs stood on the back of Philip’s head. He was an Englishman.

  “Non. He could not have survived the blast. He will eventually be washed ashore.”

  “I suppose you are correct. Take care of the bodies. I will send news of their deaths to the Duke.”

  “Which Duke?” the henchman asked.

  “Both, I suppose. Wellington and I understand each other. Captain Elliot was one of his favourites, and Waverley is my niece’s husband. I owe them that, I suppose.”

  “Very good, Madame.”

  After he thought they had gone, Philip waited a few more minutes before moving. He looked around slowly, then stood, taking stock of the scene around him. He was hidden behind an outcrop of rocks, which was why he had not been seen. The unfortunates on the ship had apparently been washed up on the shore not far from where they had set sail. Remnants of a boat lay scattered along the sand and floated in the water. Dead bodies had been spat out of the great deep, including that of Hawthorne—the English prisoner and traitor Philip had been escorting to the West Indies, after which he was supposed to go on to America to help with the war there.

  “Cursed luck,” he muttered as he knelt down to ensure the man was dead. The man’s eyes stared lifelessly at the sky, and no heartbeat could be felt at his fleshy neck. Scars marked his body, presumably from the splintering of the wood, and he was already growing cold and bloated from being drowned.

  Looking at the wreck, Philip could understand why they assumed no one had survived. Clearly, he needed to find shelter and hide. Quickly searching the pockets of the nearby bodies, he found a few items that might come in handy later—Hawthorne’s watch, a knife, a few coins and wet paper bills. Then he took some water and erased any signs of his presence before following the tracks the others had made in the sand. Hopefully the workers brought back to deal with the bodies would not realize he had been there.

  He returned to the outcrop in the rocky cliff to hide and be protected from the elements. Crouching down, he waited, hoping to gather more information about who he had heard on the beach. At first glance, it appeared a storm cou
ld have done this, but the couple had spoken as if they had taken care of Hawthorne deliberately. He could not have survived the blast.

  What should he do next? Somehow he would need to get word to Wellington, but first, he needed to know who these people were and exactly what had happened.

  The sun was beginning to lower in the evening sky, and Philip wondered if the men would return before morning. He wanted to remove his wet boots and clothing, but did not dare leave himself exposed and vulnerable until he had more information.

  He seemed to be intact, he thought, surveying himself. There were no serious wounds that he could discern and no pain worth the mention. Although he felt exhausted, and could not remember any details of the shipwreck, he did recall Hawthorne and his mission, so that was something, at least. They must still be in France, since the woman and her companion had spoken in the language. The coast looked similar to where they had set sail, with a small beach and rocky cliffs.

  After more than an hour by the sun’s movement, a few men returned in boats and collected the bodies. Philip frowned. He was certain there was something important about that.

  It was difficult to make out much of what they were saying as they gathered up remains and loaded them into the dinghies. One man looked around in confusion. He was tall and dark with an air of command. Philip assumed he was the man who had been there before with the woman and then realized something was wrong. The man shook his head as though he had imagined something. No doubt they were to bury the bodies in the water, and never mention it again.

  “Madame Lisette will not be pleased,” the man said to himself before walking to the boat and climbing in.

  Madame Lisette. La Glacier.

  Everything began to make sense. Philip knew he recognized the voice he had heard before. The man looked around one more time and threw up his hands, yet whatever concerned him was not enough to delay their departure. The boats pushed off from the shore and rowed away around the cliff’s edge.

  As the sun began to set, Philip removed his boots and decided to rest for a couple of hours. Then he could decide what to do with a clear head. One thing he knew, he wanted nothing to do with Napoleon’s mistress. She was as conniving as she was beautiful, and probably did have ice running through her veins. Philip distrusted her completely. However, she was the Emperor’s confidant, and he should probably do his best to learn her secrets.

  There was nothing else to do but establish himself here and try to discover the plan, but it would be best if La Glacier never discovered he was alive.

  He was a master of disguise, but so was she. Would she recognize him? They had interacted closely when negotiating Tobin’s release. A woman who survived on her beauty and wits never forgot a detail. She had made no secret that she was attracted to him, but could he use that to his advantage? Sometimes it was a necessary evil. Remembering Hawthorne’s dead body, he cringed, even though the man had deserved a much harsher death for his treason. Philip had to find a way to discover the plans mentioned. She would not hesitate to kill him if she discovered he was alive and attempting to spy on her. Philip shuddered as an idea began to form in his mind.

  He surveyed his wounds as he removed his wet clothing and stockings. A few substantial gashes were the worst, so he cleaned and bandaged them as best he could, then he settled down for an uncomfortable sleep amongst the rocks, to the sounds of the waves that hours before had almost killed him.

  Late Autumn 1814

  Lady Amelia Blake watched the dancers across the overly warm, crowded ballroom as she sipped her lemonade. It was a brief reprieve. Finding a moment alone was something to be cherished. Her first London Season had been as grand as she had imagined, and she had more suitors than she could count. She had been a glorious success by all accounts. However, London had been one thing which she had not imagined—suffocating. Her time was not her own, and she felt smothered. There had been many offers for her hand, but none of them was the one she wanted. Now they had moved into autumn and she could not wait to get away from the crush and into the country.

  “Why the long face, sister?”

  Amelia sighed. Her sister had made a love-match with a duke and was deliriously happy. How could Amelia tell Meg what she really thought?

  “I am tired. Town is fatiguing.”

  “I thought you were indefatigable. You have more élan than anyone I know,” the Duchess said with a sceptical look, those pale eyes boring into her.

  “Alas, I am human after all.”

  “Are you any closer to choosing a suitor? Ashford, Wadsworth, and Blankenstyn are all waiting for answers. Perhaps once you decide, you will feel some relief.”

  “I do not think I can, Meg,” Amelia said softly. Her sister directed her out to the terrace which was of grey stone and guarded by marble statues devoid of heads.

  “You cannot wait for him, Amelia,” Meg whispered with determinedness. “We do not know where he is or what he is doing. He made you no promises in the five minutes in which you were acquainted with him,” Meg said harshly. “I am sorry to be so frank, but you are leading all these gentlemen to believe they have a chance of securing your affections when you have no intention of accepting them, and for what? A girlhood infatuation!”

  Amelia crossed her arms and turned away. What her sister said was true. Captain Elliot had made her no promises, but he had made her heart sing. No one else had come close to affecting her the way he had.

  “What you say is true,” she admitted, “but in good conscience, I cannot accept any of my current suitors.”

  “Then you had best refuse them all and stop deceiving them. Your reputation will not survive playing fast and loose for long, my sister.”

  “I do not mean to play with their affections. I thought to flirt and laugh and pray one of them would touch my heart.”

  Amelia could see the disappointment on Meg’s face and her eyes pitied her. “You have made no false promises?”

  “No, none. I would not do such a thing!”

  “Perhaps you have been burning the midnight oil, as Luke would say. Some time in the country might do you good.”

  “That will start vicious rumours,” Amelia warned.

  “Not if we blame it on my condition,” her sister said as her fingers travelled over the slight bulge in her stomach.

  “I suppose not, but will it make any difference?” Amelia threw up her hands.

  “I cannot answer that for you.”

  Meg directed Amelia to a stone bench down the steps in the garden and farther from the crowds. It was a cool evening and neither had a shawl to cover their shoulders from the chill breeze.

  “Sister, there has already been much talk. You must forget Captain Elliot. No one has heard from him since that cryptic message Luke received at Adelaide’s wedding. We do not know when it was sent, nor from where. I am sure he would have made an appearance by now if he were alive.”

  Amelia blew out a breath of frustration and sadness. Looking down at her hands, she swallowed hard.

  “I know what you say is true. I know it is not realistic to pine for Captain Elliot, but I want someone to make me feel the way he did. I do not know what I am hoping for.” She shook her head to fight tears. Meg put her arm around her and gave her a hug.

  “I am sorry, Amelia. Finding a mate is hard, especially when you hope for more than an alliance. There are some very good men wishing for your hand. Are none of them a possibility? What about Captain Frome? You are always smiling and laughing with him. You could do much worse than someone you have fun with.”

  She looked to the captain, who cut a dashing figure in his dark blue uniform which set off his ginger curls to perfection. His dimpled smile and unruly charm had undoubtedly reduced many a fashionable miss to sighing and dreaming…not unlike another captain she could think of.

  “For one, he is the last person to want to settle down. He has made that clear. For two, he is easy for me to be myself with because he feels like a brother. He does not take anything se
riously and who would want to marry someone like that?”

  “I think there is much more to him than he reveals. Come, it is growing cold.” They stood and walked back to the terrace. “I will speak to Waverley about retiring to the country early before Christmastide. I think a holiday would benefit all of us.”

  “Very well,” Amelia said in resignation.

  Meg kissed Amelia on the cheek before returning to the ballroom. Amelia watched through the windows as her sister went back inside to the Duke. He was the tall and dark contrast to her small, light beauty. He greeted her with love in his eyes and Amelia felt a pang of jealousy. How desperately she wanted what they had.

  “Is that too much to ask for?” She looked toward the stars in the sky for an answer.

  “Whatever you are asking for, I will gladly give you,” a voice whispered into her neck, sending shivers up her spine. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was Captain Elliot coming to rescue her from this whirlwind of madness she had been caught up in. Instead, it was Lord Wadsworth, trying to catch her in a compromising position.

  Amelia jumped back towards the door. “Lord Wadsworth! You should not sneak up on people,” she said, lifting her hand to her chest.

  “That was not the response I was hoping for,” he murmured seductively, stepping close enough that she could see his blond whiskers move with his breath.

  “Sir, forgive me. I feel a headache coming on. I should seek my sister and return home.”