by Laura Parker
Friends rallied round but admitted among themselves that Sinclair was no longer the man he had been. During the voyage to England he sometimes cried out in his sleep in languages none of his fellow officers recognized. None had the heart or the nerve to mention it. His temper, always formidable, had become unpredictable.
Howe leaned back and rested a second booted foot on the brass screen by his chair. In the week since he had joined up with the Mirza’s party in Portsmouth, he had grown jealous of the way Hemphill and Winslow deferred to a man he considered half-mad. Most often he avoided Sinclair, but tonight he decided that he would no longer suffer being ignored by him.
“Diplomacy is dull stuff! No job for a real soldier.” He glanced sideways at Sinclair as he played a card. “Leave it to the aged and the unlucky bastards who can no longer pass muster.”
“I’d sell me commission in a whisker were I, like Sinclair, to inherit a viscount’s coronet,” Winslow said with a forced cheerfulness.
“I’ll not sell my commission before my dotage,” Frampton said as he played from his hand. “Better off dead than old or maimed.”
Sinclair did not give either man the satisfaction of a stare. But after a few moments he lifted his right arm and laid on the table not a hand, but a curved length of metal in the shape of a hook, which glinted in the candles’ flame.
Howe looked away with a visible shiver, muttering something profane under his breath.
“They say this Mirza keeps a harem of little boys in Teheran,” Frampton offered into the stalled conversation.
“That would explain why Sir Hartford sent for Hemphill,” Howe rallied.
Hemphill’s fair skin mottled with embarrassment and he played a card. “No reason to impugn a man’s reputation with that kind of talk, sir.”
“Ho! The lad’s offended,” Howe crowed, pleased to have struck a spark off one of the gathering. “The Persian travels solely in the company of men. If he is the delight of women that he claims, where is his harem?”
“I have read of the practices of the Mohammedans.” Frampton offered the others a smug glance. “I dare swear the eight male servants who hover about him are not there for protection only.”
Sinclair’s gaze moved with deliberation from his cards to Frampton. “The Mirza has been known to entertain half a dozen women per night.”
“Half a dozen. By Jove!” murmured Hemphill in admiration.
“How would you know such a thing?” Howe demanded.
“I was present on one such occasion.”
“I thought you had lost your memory,” Howe pressed.
Sinclair’s expression altered, as if he were momentarily as surprised by the revelation as any of them. “It is—unreliable.”
“Much, we’re told, like your past.” Having found a weakness, Howe could not resist pursuing it. “Some say you are a hero. Other rumors would have it you’re a coward and a traitor.”
“Rumor is the meat of fools.”
Howe swelled with indignation as the others chuckled. “Would you care to make yourself perfectly clear, sir?”
Sinclair did not look up from his contemplation of his cards but a muscle ticked in his jaw. “I dare say you’d not like me to do so.” He launched a card from his left hand with the flick of his thumb then moved it to the center of the table with his hook.
Winslow whistled when he saw the card. “Satan take your luck, Sinclair. You haven’t lost a hand!” The second the words were out, Winslow went scarlet. “Sorry, didn’t mean …”
Sinclair caught his wineglass in the curve of his hook and brought it to his lips. The glass shifted precariously in its steel cradle as it met his lips, yet he tipped it up and drank it dry. When he set the glass on the table again a single drop of blood-red claret hung from the wicked tip of his hook. It drew all eyes, an impressive reminder of the deadly enemy its wielder had once been.
Annoyed by the fascination with which the other men watched his adversary’s every move, Howe could not still his contempt. “I can but admire a man of parts. Even if they are not all his own.”
Sinclair stood up suddenly. “Bismallah! This is a waste of an evening!”
Seeing this as a retreat, Howe could not resist a final jibe. “But you’re not done entertaining us? Come, don’t be shy. What other parlor tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
Sinclair swung about and caught Howe’s jacket front on the prong of his hook and dragged him in close. “What do you think of this one?”
“Release me at once!” Howe ground out between his teeth though he did not try to tear away. His assailant’s cold-eyed gaze was that of a man who would act without mercy or conscience.
The other men stood up together. Winslow was the first to speak. “He ain’t worth it, Devlyn.”
Hemphill laid a restraining hand on Howe’s shoulder. “Nothing but boredom and the weather to hold accountable for the night’s incivilities.”
“Give over, Sinclair,” Frampton said in a bored voice. “Have another glass of claret.”
With his left hand Sinclair grabbed a full glass of claret off the table and flung it in Frampton’s face. “You drink it!” He turned and focused once more on the man tethered by his hook. “Do you really wish to challenge me?”
Howe snorted, his spirit rallying as he perceived the men watching them were now on his side. “I’ll not touch a cripple!”
Emotion spasmed in Sinclair’s expression. “Until you have lived as I’ve lived you will never know what I know!” He released Howe with a shove.
Howe jerked away, betraying to them both his incomplete mastery of his anxiety. To cover his blunder he said, “We’ve all heard tales of your unstable temperament.” Howe pulled his dolman straight. “But occasionally even a sepoy officer must answer for his outrages.”
“See here, sir!” Hemphill protested, for the term for a native soldier was a slur to an English officer. “You insult more than one present.”
“Allow me to show you how well a sepoy can defend himself.” Sinclair reached for the carving knife lying in a plate of bloody beef juices on the sideboard.
Alarmed, Winslow leaned in close to whisper, “Not like this, Devlyn. You disgrace yourself.”
“Stay back!” Sinclair swung out an arm. It caught Winslow full in the face and sent him flying backwards to crash into the card table, spilling wine and sending cards to scatter on the floor.
Just as suddenly, he tossed the knife away and raised both arms to his head. “Good God!”
“What is it?” Frampton asked, but Sinclair turned and stumbled out of the doorway like a man being pursued by his own special demons.
“Foxed!” Howe declared in contempt. “I do believe Sinclair’s quite drunk!”
“It’s his damnable temper,” Frampton answered. “It will one day land him in Bedlam.”
Hemphill approached Winslow as he righted himself. “What the devil was Devlyn on about?”
“Damned if I know.” Winslow’s face reflected his sense of outrage. “Though we are friends, sometimes even Devlyn goes too far.”
“Damnable head!” Devlyn Sinclair muttered as he lurched across the open road opposite the inn, pressing his forehead with the heel of his left palm. His head seemed about to burst like an over-ripe melon. The pain always came when he tried to remember some shred of his forgotten past.
Sometimes the pain built gradually until a blood-red veil rose before his eyes. At those times he voluntarily withdrew from all human company. Other times, like tonight, it exploded in anger equal to a cannon put to short fuse. The indignity of losing control of himself humbled him as nothing ever had.
When he reached the railing of Hartford Bridge on the far side of the road, he began tearing at his coat with hand and hook. The heavy woolen jacket seemed to bind his chest. Finally he managed to struggle out of it, though breaking a button off; he heard it skip away in the darkness. Breathing hard, he lifted his arms and face to the frigid n
ight. The cold helped. It numbed his senses.
He inhaled sharply and willed away the memory of the expressions of shock and mistrust on the faces of the men that he had just left. What must be clear to all after tonight was that he was not fit for the post to which he had been assigned.
The black rages, as he called the sudden fits, were often followed by headaches so horrible he wanted to beat his head against stone until it burst. Other times, phantom pains from the missing hand plagued him, awful poker-hot pains that shot up his arm until he would have gladly chopped the hand off again to be rid of the torture.
Physicians from Calcutta to Teheran had probed and clucked like nervous hens over his affliction but none could cure him. If only he could remember the past two years, they counseled him, he might be cured. To that end they offered opium and prayers. He did not trust the one and did not believe in the other.
The Governor of Calcutta believed that returning to England would give him some peace. But by agreeing to be part of the diplomatic retinue accompanying the Mirza to London, he had put himself in an untenable position. The enforced camaraderie aboard ship with men who knew him well but to whom he no longer felt any connection had driven him to the edge of his powers of control. Now, traveling to London by coach, he knew himself to be very close to the edge of an abyss.
Self-loathing roiled in his middle like pythons. What good was a man who could not hold his horse’s reins? One who could not even cut his meat or easily fasten his breeches? Once, he had been thought a bruising rider and accomplished swordsman. Today any child of five could best him in the simplest tasks. Yet to be baited with questions he could not answer was worst of all.
“Better off dead!” he repeated through clenched teeth.
The pain seared like a white-hot blade at a point beneath the scar which ran diagonally from his right temple to bisect his right eyebrow. Groaning, Devlyn thumped his forehead repeatedly with his left palm, striking almost hard enough to leave a bruise. He had made a mistake in accepting a new post. He was no longer what he had been. What he had become he could not abide.
He was not afraid of death. Death was a soldier’s constant if capricious companion, capering through the lives of friend and foe alike. No, he was not afraid of death. He feared only the unseemliness of disgrace.
Gradually he became aware of the gentle slap of waves in the darkness below him, of dampness on his lips that was not a tear. He lifted his head and reached for support to hoist himself onto the bridge railing, contemplating an action he could not quite bring himself to name.
Dark cold water. Easy enough to slip quietly down into it. Simple enough to drift away. Silent. Unseen.
An accident. It would seem so. Not unheard of. The cloak of night. An icy bridge on a night laced with snow. A misstep.
How easy to tumble headfirst into oblivion. How much better for all.
“For me …”
He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming unchecked down his face. He was not a coward. He was not sure why he clung so tenaciously to that thought. It was the one thought that stayed in his mind long after the pain had blinded and deafened him to all his surroundings. If only he were a coward he might have ended the torment. This pain that … blotted … out … everything!
He did not know how long he stayed on the bridge. When he came to himself again his shoulders were covered in a light mantle of snow and his face felt stiff from tears long since frozen by the night. He was kneeling on the road. When he rose, his breeches were stiff with frozen damp. He felt sick to his stomach, but the rage and the pain had passed.
He turned and staggered like a drunkard toward the inn, wondering if Winslow would allow him to share his bed this night. Traveling companions, even officers, often slept two to a bed. He had deeply insulted Winslow. Every man had his pride. If the quarrel was serious enough, even friends might find themselves at the business end of rapiers at dawn. So then, perhaps he would not risk another confrontation with Winslow, as he did not trust himself to keep his shaky grip on his temper.
He was in the stables before he thought better of what he was doing. Some would say he was deserting his post. Yet he had, just the morning before, asked permission to take leave of the Mirza’s party for a few days once they reached London. Personal business in London required his attention. He had decided that once his business was done, he would leave England, and the army, for good.
He ordered a horse and left directions for his belongings to be sent along with the rest of the party.
As he awkwardly climbed into the saddle his mount shied, unaccustomed to the reins being directed by a left hand. Murmuring a curse, he fought to bring the horse under control. If he were thrown and killed here and now, he would be spared the ordeal ahead but not the ignominy of knowing that his last act was one to shame any former Hussar. After a moment, he dismounted and ordered a carriage readied.
While he waited, he fretted like a schoolboy about to face the headmaster. He did not want to be a viscount. What he wanted he could no longer have, the life of a soldier, a hero. He could not imagine that anything else in life would ever again engage his passion or intellect. Better he should disappear into the desert than become a mad recluse in London.
When they were ready the coachman pulled up before him and cried down, “Where to, sir?”
Devlyn climbed in saying, “The Shrewsbury residence in Mayfair!”
Chapter Seven
The sound of crystal breaking caused barely a ripple in Japonica’s expression as she continued to ladle soup into her bowl. It was the third such crash that morning. It was quite clear to her now. She had landed in an asylum. Her stepdaughters shouted and cried and fought like lunatics at every hour of every day.
Despite her best efforts and the offer of a generous raise, Miss Willow had departed with an alacrity that spoke her feelings towards the girls.
“I shan’t be far behind her,” Japonica said to the empty dining room. The only way to achieve peace at breakfast was to refrain from coming in until they had abandoned the table.
A fortnight beneath the roof of Croesus Hall was more than enough time to convince her that she could be of no use to girls who had no wish to be other than they were. The older two belittled, ridiculed or ignored her every attempt to be friendly. Caught between their siblings’ hostility and a stranger, the younger three most often remained silent in her presence.
She had written to the Shrewsbury solicitor in London to alert him of her intention to visit his chambers, along with the Misses Abbott, this very day. If not for the illness that had kept her in bed for nearly two weeks and still sapped her strength, she would have settled the matter before this.
She resisted gazing into a mirror until she prepared herself for the day’s journey. When she did, the reflection was what she feared. The fever had left her with a sallow complexion, sunken cheeks, and eyes that seemed too big for her face. Even her hair had lost its shine, looking so dull and woolly she had chosen her deepest bonnet to conceal it.
“ ’Tis not a social event,” she reminded herself. Which was just as well. The only gown she possessed that had not been altered to accommodate her pregnancy was a black mourning frock of corded muslin with a high collar.
“The carriage is brought round, my lady.” Bersham stood in the doorway of the dining room. “And your belongings have been loaded.”
“Thank you.” She had yet to tell the girls she would not be returning to Croesus Hall. After settling affairs with the solicitor she meant to stay in London and book passage on the first ship leaving for Portugal.
She glanced up wearily as the sound of a door being slammed echoed in the house. “You may inform the Misses Abbott that the carriage leaves in a quarter of an hour. If they are late I shall go to London without them.”
Half an hour later, six ladies sat in the Shrewsbury chaise, traveling at the spanking speed of fifteen miles an hour toward London.
Behind the veil
of her lowered lashes, Japonica surveyed her charges. She had dressed for the cold weather journey with sturdy boots and her Afghan cloak. The sisters wore what seemed to her outrageous traveling gear. Over sheer gowns of white muslin they sported feather boas and silk pelisses with pointed tails dripping tassels. Their white chip bonnets trimmed with an assortment of pastel ribbons and spring flowers were at odds with the wintry season. The effect of their finery was much like girls playing dress-up from their mother’s armoire.
Unfortunately, they had not taken such pains with their toilette. Laurel’s perfume overpowered the small confines of the carriage while, Cynara, who sat next to her, had a distinctly unpleasant smell. If the day were warm, Japonica suspected she would gag from the child’s rankness, a peculiar odor combining boiled cabbage and old cheese. She tucked her chin into her cloak and tried to concentrate on the book of poems she had plucked from the library.
Thankfully the girls too brought things along with which to amuse themselves. Hyacinthe worked a piece of embroidery, while Laurel contented herself with studying the fashion plates in a copy of Lady’s Magazine. Cynara and Alyssum played Beggar My Neighbor. Only Peony slouched in her seat, clutching a dilapidated French doll with a sagging pompadour wig and one glass eye missing.
After a while, a subtle wiggling and whispering began between Peony and Cynara, who shared Japonica’s seat She ignored their gazes and whispers until Peony burst out with, “Are there really t-t-tigers that drink t-t-tea from cups?”
Japonica smiled slightly. When she had attempted the day before to draw out the child by entertaining her with a story about Persia, Hyacinthe and Laurel had quickly stifled their youngest sister’s curiosity. “I should be happy to tell you the story but your sisters believe I fill your head with drivel.”