by Emily Larkin
Bernard made no mention of the latest report during dinner, but he took her aside once they’d repaired to the drawing room. “This Major Reid is an interesting development. No title, of course, but a respectable fortune. I hope he may offer for you.” That was the truth.
“I don’t think he’s looking for a wife.”
Bernard frowned, creases furrowing on either side of his nose and pinching between his eyebrows, giving him a bird of prey look. “Then why did you add him to the list?”
Because I wanted to find out more about him. “Because I’m not certain.”
Bernard grunted sourly, and looked across the room to where Lord Stapleton stood. Stapleton was a man of moderate height, moderate build, moderate good looks—and an expensive gambling habit.
“I view Stapleton favorably. His debts are manageable. You’d do well to encourage him.”
“I’d rather have Sir Henry,” Letty said. “At least his debts are none of his doing.”
“Then I suggest you accept his offer,” Bernard said coldly. “He asked my permission to pay his addresses.”
“You gave it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And Stapleton?”
“Him, too.”
Letty repressed a tart comment. Bernard had been wanting to be rid of her since the day his father had married her mother. Of course he’d given his permission.
* * *
Letty sat down to a game of Speculation with the younger members of the house party—a Kemp tradition. The game rapidly degenerated into noisy merriment. Time blurred. Tonight could be any one of a hundred similar nights over the years: Tom telling jokes, Lucas laughing quietly, people slapping down counters, slapping down cards. For a moment Letty’s eyes told her that Julia sat across from her, giggling—and then she blinked and saw it was Almeria’s eldest daughter, Selina.
Letty looked hastily away. She fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose.
“I win!” Lucas said—and Letty looked at him, golden-haired and laughing, and made a discovery. Lucas was only laughing with his mouth, not his eyes.
After that observation, Letty found herself unable to recapture her pleasure in the game. She played her cards, offered up her trumps for sale, added counters to the pot, even won a round, but all the while she was more aware of Lucas than anything else. Lucas, who no longer wore black for his dead twin. Lucas, who was pretending to be happy.
Towards the end of the game, Letty became conscious that she wasn’t the only person watching Lucas. Tom’s seen it, too. He’s worried by it. “Come riding with me tomorrow morning,” she said to Tom when the game was over and they were putting away the counters and the cards. “Before church. I need to talk with you.”
Tom grinned. “An assignation, Tish?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Tom laid his hand to his breast. “I’ll be there, dear heart.”
Chapter Fifteen
November 13th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
Tom Matlock was good to his word. He strolled into the stableyard at eight the next morning, very smart in a military-cut riding coat and gleaming boots. “This may be the most exciting morning of my life,” he confided, once they were trotting along the oak avenue. “Trysting with an heiress! Is it to be a special license, Tish, or do you want the banns to be read?”
“Tom, do be serious.”
“But,” Tom said, ignoring this request. “I feel it’s only fair to tell you that my heart belongs to another.” His tone was bantering, but there was a ring of pure truth to his words.
“I want to talk about Lucas,” Letty said.
Tom dropped his lightheartedness. “What about him?”
“How is he? Truly.”
Tom looked away from her, down the long line of leafless oak trees.
Letty waited.
“Let’s canter,” Tom said, abruptly.
Tom chose a route that took them along the River Kennet and up onto the Marlborough Downs, to a wooded height that commanded a sweeping view. Here, he halted. Whiteoaks lay spread before them: the parkland, the folly peeping from the trees, the smooth, green expanse of lawns, the palatial house. Mist lay in the hollows and along the river.
“Have you seen much of Lucas this past year?” Tom asked.
Letty shook her head. “He’s been dealing with his godfather’s estate. He only came back to town last month. He seemed . . . I thought he seemed happier. He wasn’t wearing blacks.”
“When did you see him last?”
“The beginning of October. I asked him to dine with me on his birthday, but he’d already accepted an invitation elsewhere.”
“Had he?” Tom looked down at Whiteoaks. “He didn’t go. I arrived in London the evening of his birthday, went round to his rooms, found him sitting in the dark with the fire gone out, so drunk he couldn’t even stand up.” His lips compressed. “He’d been crying.”
Letty stared at him. It was several seconds before she found her voice. “But he seemed almost his old self!”
“He’s not,” Tom said flatly. “He puts on a good act, but he has days where I don’t think he’d even get out of bed—let alone shave or dress—if not for that man of his.”
Letty’s horror grew. How had she missed seeing this?
“You know how wounded animals hide themselves away? That’s what he did after Julia died—and I understand he needed to be alone afterwards—you don’t have to tell me how close they were—but he needs to crawl out of his cave and learn how to be happy without her.”
“I thought he had,” Letty said, troubled. When she’d asked how he was, Lucas had said “Better,” and it had been the truth.
But better doesn’t necessarily mean happy.
“No.” Tom shook his head. “I asked for an extended leave of absence. Wellesley gave me until the end of the year.”
“For Lucas?”
“Of course, for Lucas!”
“Can I help?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know that I can help.” Tom gazed down at Whiteoaks, and his lips thinned further. “I don’t know that coming here was a good idea. This place is full of Julia.” He shook his head. “Come on, let’s ride.”
* * *
They galloped on the downs, and came back through the park, dropping to a slow trot when they reached the avenue. Letty’s mood was somber. Tom had been correct; Julia was everywhere.
Everywhere, and nowhere.
But if Lucas had lost his twin, he still had his best friend, and if anyone could help Lucas, it was Tom. Tom, with his grin and his banter and his dog-eared sketchbooks. Tom, who was mercifully still alive despite six years as a soldier.
“How are you enjoying soldiering?”
Tom gave a shrug. “Oh, I like it well enough.”
Letty considered this ambivalent answer. “You’d rather sell out and be an artist?”
Tom laughed ruefully. “You know me too well.”
“Could you sell out?”
“Only if I marry an heiress.” He gave her a cheerful leer. “What do you say, Tish? Want to marry a youngest son with not a penny to his name?”
“Your heart belongs to someone else,” Letty reminded him.
Tom’s grin faded. He looked almost sad. “So it does.”
They rode in silence. Letty’s thoughts grew even more somber. Lucas wasn’t the only person at Whiteoaks pretending to be happy. And then she straightened in her saddle. “Tom, if you had twenty thousand pounds, would you sell out?”
“Yes, but I don’t.” He turned the subject: “There’s to be a ball this week. Did Almeria tell you?”
“Tom . . . I can give you twenty thousand pounds.”
“What?” Tom looked startled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. Let me give you twenty thousand. Then you can sell out!”
“Thank you, but no,” Tom said firmly.
“Why not?”
Tom reached over and
took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles. “Tish, I love you dearly, but I won’t take your money.” Truth rang in his voice.
“But—”
“No,” Tom said. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Tish. Soldiering suits me well enough. I’m better off than a lot of younger sons.” He thought for a moment, and added: “And heirs, for that matter. I’m a thousand times better off than m’ brother, saddled with Father’s debts. Or Henry Wright. Poor devils.”
“Yes, but if I give you—”
“Lord, Tish, you’re like a terrier at a rabbit hole! I don’t want your money.”
Letty sighed.
They reached the end of the avenue. Whiteoaks came into sight. Tom glanced at his watch, and tucked it back in his waistcoat pocket.
“Tom . . . will you tell me about the Battle of Vimeiro?”
“Vimeiro?” Tom lifted his eyebrows. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Tom looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head, and then shrugged. “The battle was straightforward. We outnumbered the French. Not many casualties.”
“Did you fight?”
“Me? I carried orders, mostly.”
“Carried orders?”
“The general can’t be in more than one place,” Tom explained. “So his aides-de-camp relay his orders. Vimeiro was pretty busy—we were down a couple of officers—one drunk, the other missing—I went back and forth a score of times. Quite wore out my horse!”
They dismounted in the stableyard. Grooms hurried forward to take their mounts. Letty looped the long skirt of her riding dress over her arm.
Another horse clattered into the yard behind them. A liveried servant leaned low over the horse’s withers and passed something to one of the grooms.
“Lieutenant Matlock, sir?” the groom called out. “A message for you.”
Tom’s eyebrows flicked up. “For me?”
The groom hurried over, holding out a letter. Tom broke the seal and read swiftly. He crossed to the mounted servant. “Tell him yes. Two o’clock.”
The man touched his forelock, turned his horse, and trotted from the stableyard.
“Yes, what?” Letty asked.
“Major Reid’s in Marlborough. He’s coming to visit this afternoon.” Tom shoved the letter in his pocket. “Hurry up, Tish. We’ll be late for church!”
Chapter Sixteen
Icarus reached Whiteoaks a little after two. The big gray he’d hired was a handsome Roman-nosed beast, but it had a hard mouth and recalcitrant nature and had already tried to unseat him twice.
Whiteoaks was built in the style of Palladio, with white marble and tall columns and perfect symmetry. Icarus didn’t particularly care for it. He preferred rambling, red brick manors with ivy growing up their walls and odd turrets and strange staircases and no symmetry at all—buildings that looked as if they’d grown, not shining, hard-edged, white monoliths.
“Major Reid!” someone called cheerfully, as he trotted into the stableyard.
Icarus swung down from the saddle. “Matlock. How do you do?”
Matlock strode over, grinning.
They shook hands. Matlock’s grip was strong. “Lord, Major, you look like death warmed over!”
Matlock was closer to the mark than he realized. What would he say if Icarus told him the truth? I am dead. I’ve been dead since Vimeiro.
“Fever take you again, sir?”
Icarus shrugged. “You know how it is.”
Matlock took this as a Yes. Miss Trentham wouldn’t have. “Let me introduce you to m’ host, Major, and then we’ll have a chat about old times.”
Icarus met half a dozen Kemps in a green and gold salon, bowed and shook hands and exchanged commonplaces for ten minutes, and then Matlock slid them out of the room and he found himself outside again, strolling in the shrubbery.
“I haven’t seen you since Portugal, Major! Seems so long ago, now.”
“A lifetime,” Icarus said. He cast a frowning glance around. Where the devil was Miss Trentham? She’d promised—
“I don’t need to introduce you to Miss Trentham, do I?” Matlock said, as they rounded a hedge and came upon a lily pond and fountain.
The tension in Icarus’s shoulders eased. “No.”
Miss Trentham sat on a stone bench carved with acanthus leaves. She wasn’t alone. A tall man with guinea-gold hair was leaning over her, one booted foot on the seat, a smile on his fatuous, good-looking face. One of her damned fortune-hunting suitors. Icarus’s jaw clamped tight, and he quickened his step—and took in Miss Trentham’s posture. There was nothing remotely stiff or uncomfortable about her bearing. In fact, she was laughing at something the man had said.
Illogically, Icarus’s irritation increased.
Matlock made the introductions. The Adonis was Miss Trentham’s cousin, Lucas Kemp. Icarus bowed punctiliously.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Major.” The Adonis’s handclasp was strong, his smile friendly. “Tom’s told me about you. Sang your praises, rather.”
The compliment caught him like a kick in the stomach. Icarus felt his face stiffen. “Don’t believe a word of it,” he said, trying to make his reply sound like a joke.
“Nonsense!” Matlock said. “You weren’t Wellesley’s favorite for nothing!”
Icarus tried to smile, but his mouth felt as if it was carved from stone. He glanced at Miss Trentham. She was watching him.
“Is it true you used to go behind enemy lines in British uniform?” the Adonis asked.
“Yes,” Icarus said flatly, almost curtly—and caught himself. This was the direction he wanted the conversation to go in. He tried to relax, to smile more naturally. “Yes, I did.”
They strolled in the shrubbery. Miss Trentham hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d claimed to know Matlock well; there was no formality between them at all. They talked to one another as if they were brother and sister. Icarus had seen Miss Trentham aloof and cool in a sea-green ball gown. He’d seen her aloof and poised in riding dress, aloof and mysterious in a cloak and veiled hat, aloof and sober in traveling dress. Today, she wasn’t aloof at all. She was approachable, friendly, relaxed—another woman altogether. The shape of her face altered when she smiled—not a small, polite society smile, but a genuine smile that did something to her cheeks, so that her mouth didn’t seem too wide, or her nose too long.
Tish, the two men called her, and she did look like a Tish, not a standoffish Miss Trentham.
Icarus told two of his more amusing reconnaissance tales, trying not to be irritated by the way the Adonis walked arm in arm with Miss Trentham—and then said, “By the by, Matlock, I ran into Dunlop in town last week.”
“Dunlop?” Matlock’s lip curled contemptuously.
“He mentioned . . . I don’t know if you recall, but he said you were present when he told Wellesley where I’d be meeting my scouts. I wondered whether perhaps you’d told anyone.”
“Me? No.”
Icarus almost didn’t bother to look at Miss Trentham—he knew it wasn’t Tom Matlock—but he did look, and Miss Trentham nodded.
“How long are you on leave?” Icarus said, turning the conversation.
“Until the end of the year,” Matlock said. “Wellesley’s got that dashed court-martial—cross as a bear!—said he doesn’t want me under his feet.”
Icarus lifted his eyebrows. “Two months? You’ll fill up a few sketchbooks. Has Matlock shown you his Portuguese sketches, Miss Trentham? They’re first rate.”
“I’ve seen ’em,” the Adonis said.
“I haven’t,” Miss Trentham said. “Did you bring them with you, Tom?”
Matlock grinned. “You’ll be sorry you asked.”
They strolled for the better part of an hour. The Adonis wasn’t fatuous at all. He seemed a pleasant man—quiet-voiced and sensible—apart from his annoying habit of walking arm in arm with Miss Trentham, or with his arm around her shoulders, or once—which made Icarus grit his teeth—
holding her hand.
His irritation annoyed him. Am I a dog guarding a bone? He didn’t even particularly like Miss Trentham. She was bossy and despotic and interfering and nosy, and the way she had of ignoring his wishes was infuriating—but he’d actually missed her at the table, watching his plate and insisting that he eat more dinner, insisting he eat another egg for breakfast, and last night when he’d finally clawed his way back to consciousness, he’d wanted nothing more than to find Miss Trentham in his bedchamber, holding out a glass of brandy, measuring out a teaspoon of vile brown liquid, and then sitting cross-legged on his bed and reading Homer until her voice lulled him to sleep.
He missed her, damn it, and that was profoundly annoying. Missed her not because he liked her, but because of the way she treated him.
An unwelcome moment of insight came as they wandered through a knee-high boxwood maze: Miss Trentham treats me as if she’s my nursemaid.
Icarus halted. Miss Trentham treated him as if she was his nursemaid—and he liked it?
“Are you all right, Mr. Reid?”
And there she was, doing it again, watching him with those damned nursemaidish eyes.
“I’m fine,” Icarus said, curtly. He was thirty, not five. A soldier, for Christ’s sake! He didn’t need a nursemaid, and he most certainly didn’t want one.
Miss Trentham ignored this comment. “Shall we turn back? I confess, a pot of tea and something to eat would be nice.”
You don’t need refreshments, Icarus thought sourly. But you think I do.
“It’s the macaroons you want,” Matlock said, with a sly grin. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how many you ate yesterday, Tish. Six!”
“They’re extremely tasty,” Miss Trentham said, unembarrassed. “I’m sure Mr. Reid will eat six, too.”
Icarus saw the glint in her eyes and realized that this wasn’t a comment; it was a command.
* * *
Icarus ate six macaroons in the green and gold salon. Quite a number of other people ate macaroons, too, and honeycomb cake and seed cake and a dark, rich plum cake. The salon was cheerfully noisy. He counted eighteen people and five different conversations and one lapdog yapping to be picked up.