“Welcome, Lord Dare, Mr. Carroway,” the host said, glancing at Robert and then leading them into the club’s large dining room.
“By the window,” Robert muttered, taking in the crowded room and close tables and heavy, dark wood paneling. Breathe.
“Watson, by the window if you please,” Tristan drawled, nodding at some acquaintance or other.
A muscle in his round cheek twitching, their host changed direction. “I hadn’t anticipated,” he said, gesturing at a pair of footmen to clean and re-set a just vacated table. “Will this do?”
“Bit?” the viscount murmured.
Robert nodded stiffly, and the three Carroways took their seats. He’d done it; he’d made it inside. Now all he had to do was eat and leave.
“Carroway,” a booming male voice came from behind him, “I hear congratulations are in order.” A beefy hand reached past him in Bradshaw’s direction. “Captain, is it?”
“Not yet officially,” Bradshaw returned, shaking the hand, “but the paperwork’s in process. You know my brothers, don’t you, Hedgely? Dare and Robert? Tristan, Bit, Lord Hedgely.”
“Oh, I know Dare. So this is the other one, eh?” Hedgely removed a chair from a neighboring table and dragged it closer to settle his large frame into it. “I heard you’d lost a leg or something at Waterloo. Or was it your mind you lost? You don’t look like a Bedlamite.”
Robert lifted his gaze from his hands to Hedgely. Brown eyes in a round, soft face met his and then flicked away. If Hedgely ended up being his most imposing foe, he’d been worrying over a great deal for no good reason.
“We met several years ago at the Devonshire ball,” Robert said, his voice low but steady. “You were hanging on Lady Wedgerton, as I recall. Did her husband ever find out about your flirtation?”
For a moment Hedgely sat where he was, mouth hanging open and face growing red. A ripple of commentary flowed about the room, but Robert stayed there, unmoving, waiting for Hedgely’s next move. In an odd way it was empowering to have nothing left to lose, to have toes clawed so hard into the rock at the edge of the precipice that nothing—nothing—could make him loose his grip in the stone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hedgely finally blustered.
“And I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Robert returned. “Apparently we have something in common.”
“There’s no cause to be rude. Here I am, trying to show a cripple a bit of charity, and—”
“And you have no idea how much charity I’m showing you, right now,” Robert interrupted, aware that Shaw had started to his feet and that Tristan had motioned him to sit down. “How are your gambling debts these days?”
Hedgely shoved to his feet. “I will not sit for this,” he snarled. “Dare, I suggest you either control your brother or put him back in his cage.”
Tristan pulled a cigar from his pocket. “I’m enjoying the conversation, myself,” he returned, “but if it upsets you, well, good day, Hedgely.”
Bradshaw looked over as Hedgely stalked back to his own table and sat amid the sympathetic commiserations of his fellows. “That was interesting,” he murmured, hiding a chuckle behind his glass of port.
“It was just a question,” Robert said with forced lightness, unclenching one fist and feeling blood flow back into his fingers. His brothers had stood up for him. He hadn’t really doubted that they would, but it warmed the tiny bit left of his soul. “Sorry about that.”
“The day hasn’t been a success unless somebody threatens to ban me from a club,” Tristan said, “but that little byplay does make me wonder why you wanted to come to luncheon today. You had to know people would be curious to see you.”
Of course he’d known. “They can gawk all they want,” he grunted, suppressing a shudder, “but I’d prefer if they kept their distance. And I wanted to come to luncheon today because I wanted to. If that isn’t enough, th—”
“It’s enough. And after Hedgely, I don’t think anyone else will be approaching to insult your health, if that’s any consolation.”
“It is.”
Shaw cleared his throat. “Not that I’m asking for a punch in the eye or anything, but I didn’t mean to upset you the other day.”
Longingly fingering the glass of port Tristan had set in front of him, Robert shrugged. “I don’t always know what might…” He trailed off, blanching. Jesus. He’d almost told them about the black panic. That would send him to Bedlam faster than anything else he could imagine. “Apology accepted.” Slowly he nudged the glass away.
“I would think that might make today a little easier,” Tristan noted, snapping a finger against the glass and making it ring.
Robert’s hands trembled and he clenched them together once more. “It would, but then it’s not real.”
“Are you sure—”
“I’m not going to drink,” he said, drawing a breath. “I don’t think I’d be able to stop once I began.”
Tristan signaled a footman. “Roast lamb all around, Stephen,” he ordered, smiling at Bradshaw’s grimace. “And lemonade.”
“Very good, my lord.”
As the footman vanished in the direction of the kitchens, Tristan lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair. “I had a letter from Andrew yesterday. He’s taking the mail coach down from Cambridge, and should be in London by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good.” Andrew probably had more fun at school, but Robert always felt better when he knew where everyone was. It made no sense, but he needed to know that his family was safe, needed to feel as though he could protect them. Ah, that was amusing. As if he could protect anyone.
“Are you coming back to Dare Park with us when Georgiana and I go?”
He shook himself. “You’re taking Edward?”
Tristan nodded. “And the aunties. They insist Georgie will need their help.”
Robert shrugged. “I don’t know.” Surprisingly, a face flitted across his mind—a kind, oval face with hazel eyes and dark hair that shone like bronze in the sunlight. Lucinda would still be in London, and still be in pursuit of Geoffrey Newcombe. None of it was any of his business, but she was the reason he was sitting in the Society Club right now.
“You don’t have to decide yet.”
“I’ll be back at sea by then,” Bradshaw put in, “so I’ll comfort myself with the knowledge that you’ll name the infant after me.”
“I don’t think ‘Half-wit’ will pass muster with Georgie, but I’ll let her know that’s your suggestion.”
The food arrived, and Robert found himself calm enough that he actually had an appetite. That in itself seemed a victory—one tiny enough to require the use of a very strong magnifying lens, but a victory, nonetheless.
His first indication that he’d been far too confident didn’t come until Tristan uttered a soft curse under his breath. Robert looked up to see his eldest brother scowling, his gaze turned toward the dining-room entrance.
As the crowd shifted, he spied the reason for Dare’s frown; the Duke of Wellington, accompanied by a handful of officials from the Horse Guards headquarters, strolled in to take a table only a dozen feet from theirs. General Augustus Barrett sent a glance in their direction, nodding at Tristan, as he seated himself to the right of the duke.
Robert’s first thought was to get up and leave—immediately, before any of the over-medaled officers could begin telling tales about the glory of war. He glanced at his brothers, both of whom had gone back to eating in silence, clearly waiting to see what he wanted to do.
If he left, they would accompany him. But walking out less than a minute after Wellington’s arrival could have serious political repercussions. Just ignore them, he ordered himself, deliberately shoveling a forkful of roast lamb into his mouth. You’re invisible to them, anyway.
“Bit,” Bradshaw hissed.
“I’m f—”
“Captain Robert Carroway,” Wellington’s voice came from directly behind him. At the same time, the duke l
aid a hand on his shoulder.
“Your Grace,” he returned, the steadiness of his own voice surprising him. For the first time it occurred to him that compared to what had happened in Spain, this was nothing.
“I believe I still owe you a bottle of whiskey,” the duke said.
“No nee—”
“And the thanks of a nation,” Wellington continued, a smile in his voice. “Your contributions on the battlefield at Waterloo were invaluable.”
He didn’t know. Wellington didn’t know a damned thing. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Applause circled the room, polite and aimed more at the duke than at the recipient of the compliment, thank God. If the duke asked him to stand and shake hands, he was going to vomit. Instead, after delivering another pat on the shoulder, Wellington returned to his seat.
“Robert?” Tristan whispered.
The black panic sucked at his heels. He could fall into it, drown in it, and no one would even know. Not even his brothers. If he was going to stay afloat, he would have to do it himself. Fighting for air, he shook his head. “Eat.”
Fifteen minutes. If they stayed for fifteen more minutes, they could leave without offending anyone—Tristan and Shaw could leave without offending anyone, that was.
He counted off every second of every minute. In one-second increments, he could survive. He made it through twelve seconds, through three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, through nine minutes. He’d lived seven months of his life by the second. This wasn’t easy, but it was survivable, and while he counted, he couldn’t drown. Besides, tomorrow he was going riding with Lucinda Barrett, and she had the gift of turning seconds into minutes.
Finally he reached fifteen. “I’m leaving,” he said, pushing back from the table.
“We’ll all go,” Tristan said, signaling for the bill. He quickly signed for it to go to his account, and the three of them rose.
“That was actually a nice gesture on Wellington’s part,” Shaw said, climbing into the coach as it stopped beside them. “I very much doubt he thanks everyone for their contribution at Waterloo.”
Robert pulled the door closed as he sat, for once grateful to trade the crowd for a small space. “He doesn’t know anything,” he growled, folding his arms so his brothers wouldn’t see his hands shaking.
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Bit. If he thanked you, then you deserved—”
“Shaw,” Tristan cautioned, “leave it be.”
“I wasn’t at Waterloo,” Robert returned, then closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the shock on Shaw’s face. Ha. Now another brother could join in the general disappointment over his so-called life.
Chapter 8
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
—Robert Walton, Frankenstein
“My father said that Wellington singled you out yesterday.”
Lucinda slipped on her riding gloves, gazing at Robert from the corner of her eye while he paced her front drive. His bay walked a step behind him, gauging his owner’s turns to perfection despite the fact that the reins were looped over the saddle, and nothing connected one to the other.
“He thanked you for your service at Waterloo,” she continued, when he declined to answer. “That was nice of him.”
“Why is that?” Robert grunted, then went back to his pacing as her groom brought Isis up from the stable.
And to think, she might have been weeding her garden this morning. “It’s generally considered nice when someone thanks you for your efforts,” she returned.
Robert threw a glance at her groom, then limped forward to offer her a hand into the saddle. “He was pointing out that he was in command at Waterloo, and that the nation actually owes him thanks,” he said in his low voice. “I would imagine he’s laying the groundwork for becoming prime minister. Where I was or what I did has absolutely nothing to do with it.”
Lucinda stepped into his hands and let him boost her up into the sidesaddle. “Do you know all that, or are you just guessing?”
As he walked away from her, and then swung into his saddle in one fluid motion, she didn’t think he would answer. It didn’t matter what he said, she supposed; the most remarkable outcome of his outing yesterday seemed to be that her father had mentioned his name without scowling.
“Deductive reasoning,” he finally said, nudging his animal up beside her. “Do you want to go riding, or do you want to go to Hyde Park?”
She understood what he meant; at this time of morning, managing even a steady walk through the park would take a near miracle. A ride, though, would mean heading north, out of London—spending more time with Robert and risking being late for Lord Geoffrey’s visit this afternoon.
Dark blue eyes watched her. He probably knew about her father’s scheduled meeting with Lord Geoffrey, because he knew everything, and he was daring her to make a choice. It would make sense if he were a suitor, but he was supposed to be helping her in regards to Geoffrey. Still…
“I would like to go riding,” she said.
Something flashed deep in his eyes before he nodded. “I’ll have you back for luncheon.” With a shift of his knee he sent his mount down the drive.
“Um, Robert?”
He pulled up. “Changed your mind?”
“Did you bring along a chaperone?”
Robert looked at her blankly for a moment. Then he grinned. The change to his countenance was remarkable, with twinkling eyes that crinkled in the corners, and an openness to his smile that made her want to sigh—and to grin back at him. My heavens.
“I haven’t—” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. “My apologies. I didn’t think of it.”
She twisted to face the house. “Benjamin? Please saddle a mount and join us.”
“Yes, Miss Lucinda.” The groom hurried back around the far corner of the house.
“Not very gentlemanly of me, was it?” he offered, the remains of his amusement still dancing in his eyes.
Lucinda smiled. “In a way, it’s flattering.”
“How so?”
“Well, a chaperone would protect good little me from big bad you. I choose to think that you see us on more equal footing than that.”
“A nice way of saying that I have no teeth.”
To her surprise, he didn’t seem offended by the notion. Lord Geoffrey, if he ever offered to take her anywhere, would more than likely make some comment that she would need a chaperone to protect her maidenly virtue from his manly rakishness.
“It’s not that,” she returned. “I think you have teeth. It’s just that you also have honor.”
He looked at her for a moment, the expression in his eyes growing cool again. “You’re wrong about that, but thank you.”
Benjamin trotted around the corner of the house. With the groom following a few yards behind them, they headed down the drive and turned north.
“Georgiana always said you were a fine rider,” she commented after they’d gone a mile in silence. “I see that she’s right.” In truth, he and his mount seemed so…connected that she doubted he even needed to use the reins.
“I like to ride. When I came back from Spain I wasn’t certain Tolley would even recognize me, but he did.” He patted the bay on the neck, affection in both the motion and his tone. “Better than I did,” he continued in a quieter voice.
Lucinda swallowed. For the first time it felt as if this private, solitary man had let her inside, just a little. And abruptly she wasn’t certain whether she was worthy of being there. It made everything seem…different. She wasn’t performing an act of charity; a very private man was doing her the honor of letting her glimpse his life.
“Since we’re working on getting Lord Geoffrey to comply with your first lesson,” he said in a more conversational tone, “perhaps you might tell me your second.”
She swallowed. Back to business. It was too unsettling to think this might be somethi
ng other than a trade of favors. “Wait a moment. How are we getting Lord Geoffrey to pay his undivided attention to whichever female he is speaking?”
“Attention to you, you mean,” he countered.
Well, she’d never admitted to him that she was plotting marriage with Lord Geoffrey, but denying it at this point didn’t seem to serve much purpose. “All right, attention to me,” she agreed. “How are you doing this?”
Robert hesitated. “It’s complicated.”
“I’m fairly intelligent,” she said dryly, trying to set him back at ease. “Humor me.”
He cleared his throat. “Apologies again. I…You’d think I would be better at choosing words, with the small quantity of them I use.”
Laughter escaped her lips before she could stop herself. His sense of humor was so unexpected. She’d glimpsed it before, and Georgie had mentioned it, but she just assumed that he never showed that side of himself to outsiders. Again she felt honored. And surprised to realize that she enjoyed bantering with him. “Don’t apologize,” she said, grinning. “I’ll let you know when I’m offended. And don’t change the subject. How are we working on lesson number one?”
“Look to your right,” he murmured, maneuvering Tolley closer.
She looked. They were passing by the front entrance of Gentleman Jackson’s boxing establishment. As they crossed, Earl Clanfeld and William Pierce turned from their conversation on the steps to watch them.
“Lord Clanfeld and Mr. Pierce?”
“They’re good friends of your Lord Geoffrey, and coincidentally they happen to be on their way to meet him at White’s.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “I pay attention.”
Remarkable. She wondered whether he had everyone’s schedule memorized, and how much he managed to overhear simply because he had the ability to make himself virtually invisible. No wonder more than a few people claimed he could read minds.
“All right, so they all meet at White’s this morning. What good does that do us?”
England's Perfect Hero Page 9