“You don’t have to, then.” She meant it. Her father’s quest for information, and her own curiosity, could wait.
They walked a few steps in silence. “No, I think maybe I do. It’s…strange, but if I can remember and not die, I think it might help.”
My God. Abruptly the question wasn’t whether he would talk about it, but whether she could stand to listen. She’d heard so many tales and anecdotes from her father and his cronies, but none of them had been so immediately and plainly…horrific. “Tell me what you can, then,” she said hoarsely.
He looked over at her, a hundred things passing behind his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“You don’t need my nightmares, Lucinda. You talk to me like I’m human, and that’s enough.”
They passed between a tall stand of pink rhododendron and an empty coach stopped at the edge of the street, and abruptly she couldn’t stand it any longer. If she couldn’t touch him, comfort him, do something, it would cause her physical pain. Tightening her grip on his arm, she pulled him around and leaned up to tangle her fingers through his hair, drew his face down, and kissed him. Heat flooded her. Making a small sound deep in his chest, Robert pressed her back against the side of the coach.
Her mind couldn’t seem to grasp anything beyond the need to be closer to him. His pain, his frustration, his damaged pride and anger all melted into her with such ferocity that it was almost tangible. If she could have taken it all into herself, she would have.
His hands slipped down her shoulders, brushed the outsides of her breasts, and slid warm and solid around her waist. At the same time his mouth broke from hers, dipping to taste the line of her jaw and the base of her throat. Her knees went weak, and she fleetingly thought if not for the coach at her back, she would have fallen to the ground.
Robert pulled away from her. “Lucinda,” he whispered, “st—”
“Shh. Kiss me.”
She tried to pull him closer again, but she could as easily have moved a stone statue. That was interesting. Before, when she’d tugged at him and he’d acquiesced, she hadn’t realized how much he’d simply been letting her get away with.
“Carriage coming,” he breathed, setting her back from him a second time.
A heartbeat later she heard the curricle rattling down the lane toward them. Thank goodness Robert had very good hearing. Swiftly she took his arm again, and resisting the urge to straighten her bonnet, started back up the street beside him.
“You still haven’t told me about your next lesson for Geoffrey,” he said, his voice stronger, as if he hadn’t just a moment before been discussing torture and death—or half a moment before, kissing her.
Kissing her. That was why he’d brought up Geoffrey again; to remind her that she hadn’t chosen Robert Carroway for lessons, or for anything else. At least one of them remembered what they were supposed to be doing.
“I’m still planning on telling you tonight,” she returned.
“It must be bad.”
It was, for him—and maybe for her. “Nonsen—”
“Bloody traitor!”
Robert whipped his head toward the street, stepping in front of Lucinda and blocking her view. She leaned around him.
The curricle hugged the far side of the street as it passed them at high speed. “Who was that?” she asked.
“Sir Walter Fengrove and Lady Daltrey,” he said absently, watching the carriage as it bumped down the lane past them.
“Was he talking to us? Why would he say such a thing?”
He shrugged once more, finally facing forward again. “I don’t know,” he said, but his face had gone gray.
“Robert?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “We should get back to Georgie.”
Lucinda had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t fine, but she had no wish to distress him more than she already had this morning. “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “Back to Georgie.”
Chapter 14
Now all was blasted.
—Victor Frankenstein, Frankenstein
Robert had talked a little about Chateau Pagnon, and he hadn’t died. As he’d told Lucinda, that in itself was something of a success. Or it would have been if Sir Walter Fengrove hadn’t driven by.
Something had happened, something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones, and he wasn’t surprised. He’d been feeling too well, even begun thinking about a future. He’d felt himself coming alive again—some parts of him more than others, at least when he was near Lucinda.
Almost as soon as the two of them returned to the house, she took her leave from Georgie and drove off in her coach again. Hesitating, Robert went back to the sitting room. Georgiana still sat on the couch, looking uncomfortable. “You shouldn’t have gone walking,” he said, after a moment spent leaning against the doorjamb, watching her fidget.
“Yes, I should have,” she argued. “I feel like a hippopotamus, wallowing about.”
“And you feel better now?”
She made a face at him. “At least I don’t have mildew.”
Ignoring that, Robert pushed upright. “I’ll fetch you some pillows.”
Before he could leave, Georgie sat up a little straighter. “Lucinda seemed out of sorts when she left. Did she say whether anything was troubling her?”
The last thing he intended to do was upset Georgiana. “When we were on the drive, somebody rode by yelling. An escapee from Bedlam, no doubt.”
“I thought I heard something.” She smiled, the expression warming her soft green eyes. “Would it embarrass you if I said that you seem…happier these days?”
Robert forced a return smile, hoping Sir Walter had simply been out all night drinking, and that he’d been calling everyone he passed on the street a traitor. It was possible, he supposed. Fengrove did drink. “I’ll get the pillows. And would you like a book?”
“I think I left one on the breakfast table. Thank you, Bit.”
He nodded. “Happy to help.”
Georgie waved him away with a chuckle. “You see, I told you that you were happier.”
Maybe he was. And hopefully he’d learned enough to enjoy it while it lasted. He went to fetch her things for her, hoping this tense uneasiness was all just a reaction to nothing, a lingering sense of hopelessness that prevented him from believing anything could go well. Because judging by the way Lucinda had kissed him, some things were going better than he ever could have imagined.
He delivered the book and pillows to Georgiana, then headed down the hallway to the library to read. His sister-in-law claimed to be feeling fine except for tired feet, but he wanted to be within earshot in case she should need someone. She hated hovering nearly as much as he did, so the library seemed the best compromise.
An hour later he rose to look in on her, to find her dozing on the couch. As he turned back down the hall, the front door rattled and opened.
“That is not true,” Edward said loudly, marching into the house in front of his brothers. “I would have won ten quid if you’d let me wager on—”
“Hush,” Robert said, limping up to throw a hand over the Runt’s mouth. “Georgie’s aslee—”
“Tristan, did you bring me a lemon ice?” Georgiana’s voice came.
Dare pushed to the front of the group. “Yes, my dear.” As he passed, he put a hand on Robert’s arm. “Wait for me in my office,” he muttered.
Robert’s first instinct was to go find somewhere dark and quiet so he wouldn’t have to hear whatever it was that Tristan wanted to tell him. As he’d discovered in France, however, dark and quiet had nothing to do with safe.
Edward stood telling Dawkins about the boat races, but he seemed to be the only Carroway brother who didn’t realize that something was amiss. Both Bradshaw and Andrew remained in the foyer, their faces solemn and even angry. And neither of them would look at him.
With dread sinking deep into his gut, Robert went to Tristan’s office. Despite his tired knee he couldn’t make hims
elf sit still, and instead paced slowly in front of the window.
He heard Tristan come in a few minutes later, but didn’t turn around. The sound of the door closing was like the crack of doom.
“Bit, have a seat.”
“No.”
The viscount sighed. “All right. I wanted you to know that I think you should stay in tonight.”
“Why?”
“Will you at least look at me while I’m talking to you?”
Taking a deep breath, Robert turned around, sinking back against the window sill. “For three years you’ve been trying to get me to go places, Tris. Why don’t you want me at Vauxhall tonight?”
“It’s complicated.” Tristan dropped into one of the guest chairs that faced Robert and the window. “And I truly don’t want to hurt you. So I’m asking you to stay home tonight. For my sake.”
Sometimes the blanket his brothers threw over him for his own protection could smother the life out of him. “You couldn’t possibly hurt me, Tristan. Tell me what’s going on. I presume it has something to do with why Sir Walter Fengrove called me a traitor an hour ago.”
Tristan blanched. “He…God dammit.”
This was getting them nowhere. “Fine. I’ll guess. Something did go missing from the Horse Guards, and people think I’m the one who did it.”
“A few people think that. They’re wrong.”
Robert frowned. “I know they’re wrong. But why do they think it was me?”
Shooting to his feet again, Tristan began his own pacing by the door. “Because some idiot started a rumor that you’d been imprisoned at Chateau Pagnon, and everyone knows that the only soldiers—officers—who left there alive were the ones who’d turned traitor.”
Robert stared at his brother. He couldn’t think. Silence roared up and around and into him, and he dug his fingers into the windowsill to keep from being blasted away. God, he’d been wrong. Stupid and wrong. He’d finally spoken about Chateau Pagnon, and it had killed him.
“It’s ridiculous,” Tristan snapped, real anger in his voice, “and I intend to find out who the bloody liar is and beat the truth out of him. They have no idea what they’re—”
“I was at Pagnon,” Robert interrupted, his voice a rasping whisper.
It stopped Tristan cold. “No. No, you weren’t.”
“If I can accept it,” Robert returned, every word as painful as a knife stabbing into his chest, “you should be able to.”
“But—”
“I didn’t take anything from the Horse Guards.”
“Of course you didn’t.” His brother gazed at him, hurt and horror in his light blue eyes. “But I didn’t even know where…How did anyone else know about your being a prisoner?”
In the black, dying depths of his heart, Robert knew. She’d betrayed him, just when he’d begun to trust her. Just when he’d begun to see daylight again. And she’d played so innocent and concerned—and bewildered when men began shouting epithets at him. “I have a good idea,” he growled, pushing upright. “Excuse me. I have an errand.”
“Bit, no.” Tristan moved to block the door. “You’re not going anywhere until I get an explanation. How did someone else know this, when you didn’t even tell your own family?”
Growing fury screaming just beneath his skin, Robert shoved his brother aside. “Later.”
“Rob—”
Throwing open the door, he strode for the foyer. Bradshaw and Andrew were still there, but Shaw at least seemed to read his mood, because he dragged Andrew away from the door just as Robert flung it open.
His leg shrieked at the abuse, but as he stalked up the carriage drive, Robert didn’t care. He was used to pain. The clawing anger and disappointment inside him, though—that was new. And worse.
General Barrett opened the front door himself when Lucinda returned home. “Papa,” she exclaimed, taking in his flashing eyes and stern countenance with some alarm. “What’s happened?”
“My office,” he said, turning on his heel and marching down the hall.
Uh-oh. Even as a child she’d rarely been the victim of one of her father’s tirades. Acknowledging a fleeting wish that she could go somewhere quiet and think about Robert, she followed him, removing her bonnet as she walked. Robert. It was interesting that, for someone who so seldom talked, he could have such a sensuous, capable mouth.
“Door,” the general ordered briskly, making for his chair. He sat, straight-backed and rigid as a statue.
She closed the door, leaning back against it. “What’s wrong?”
“I asked you to stay in this morning,” he said without preamble.
“No, you didn’t. You asked me not to spread about anything we discussed this morning, and I haven’t.”
“Then why, on my way back here from luncheon, did three separate people stop me, all to ask whether it was true that Robert Carroway stole papers from the Horse Guards?”
Lucinda couldn’t have felt more stunned if he’d slapped her. “What? Why—why would anyone say that Robert stole anything? Much less from the Horse Guards. Is something actually missing?”
He looked at her for a moment, drawing a deep breath into his barrel chest. “Where did you go this morning?”
“To see Georgiana,” she answered, weighing her promise to Robert against her trust in her father. Judging by what he’d told her, anything and everything could be important—except for the kiss and the way it had made her feel. “And to ask Robert what he knew about Chateau Pagnon.”
“So you did go out gossiping,” he snapped. “Lucinda, I—”
“I did no such thing,” she said firmly. “Robert has told no one but me, and I’ve told no one but you—and even that was against his wishes. So no rumors about anything came from me, Papa.”
“You’re saying this is my fault, then? I think I know—”
She put out her hand. “Stop shouting and tell me what’s going on. Then maybe we can make some sense of it.”
The general rose, striding to his window to gaze out at the street. “At times your level-headedness is very aggravating,” he rumbled.
Lucinda fought the surprising urge to smile, despite her growing dread. “Yes, I know.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Very well. I suppose since I’ve bellowed accusations at you, you have a right to know the facts.”
“Thank you.”
“Firstly, yes, some items were taken from the Horse Guards. Items that would have no use to anyone except as instruments to free Napoleon and begin another uprising in Europe.”
“G…good heavens,” she faltered, moving away from the door to take a seat in one of his comfortable office chairs. Then, as she realized what he was saying, her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. “Robert couldn’t—wouldn’t—have done any such thing. Why is he being blamed?”
“I admire your loyalty to your friend, Lucinda, but I suggest that for the time being you keep it to yourself.”
“You don’t think…How could you?”
“What did he tell you about Chateau Pagnon?”
She hesitated, but under the circumstances clearing Robert’s name seemed more important than keeping his confidences. She would explain it to him tonight; she had so much to explain to him anyway—though her lessons seemed trifling compared with this.
“Papa, Robert Carroway didn’t do anything wrong. All he said was that only captured British officers were imprisoned there. They were beaten if they spoke a single word to anyone but…He didn’t tell me who.”
“That would have been General Jean-Paul Barrere. Bonaparte’s information officer, and a very…persuasive madman.”
For a long moment Lucinda sat quietly. “It must have been horrific,” she whispered, half to herself, then straightened. “But I still don’t understand why Robert is being singled out as some sort of traitor, simply because of where he was imprisoned.” Traitor. That was exactly what Sir Walter Fenley had called him.
“Nothing is for certain yet, or he wo
uld be under arrest. However, the—”
“Arrest!” She shot to her feet again. “Papa, you can’t be serious.” And if this was because of something—anything—she’d said to her father, it was her fault. Robert had told her to keep quiet. But why?
“The truth of the matter is, we’ve only found three officers who left Pagnon alive. One of them tried to murder his commanding officer, and the second was assigned to Elba just before Bonaparte’s escape. Which leaves us with Robert Carroway. Unfortunately the Horse Guards didn’t know he’d been a prisoner of Barrere’s until yesterday.”
“Until I told you,” she whispered. Feeling lightheaded, she sank back into the chair again.
“Don’t feel guilty, Lucinda. I figured it out yesterday. You claim one new ‘friend,’ a former soldier, and then ten days later you begin asking me about Chateau Pagnon. You might very well have saved a great many English lives by your actions.”
She closed her eyes, wishing everything would just go away. “But you don’t know it was him.”
“Not yet.” The general moved to stand in front of her, putting a hand on either arm of her chair. “Until this is resolved, I want to you stay away from him, from the rest of his family, and from that house. Is that clear?”
“But Georgiana is my—”
“She’s your dearest friend. I know. And I’m sorry. But whoever is guilty of this is an infamous…blackguard, and you won’t want to be anywhere near him.” He straightened. “I’m afraid we won’t be joining the Carroways at Vauxhall tonight, or anywhere else, for the foreseeable future.”
Lucinda couldn’t think. Mostly she wanted to scream, to shout that none of her friends were traitors. Two of the Carroway brothers had risked their lives against Bonaparte’s army, for heaven’s sake. Oh, God. Bradshaw would lose his command over this. And Robert…
Before she could complete that thought, the butler scratched at the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said, “but Miss Lucinda has a caller.”
“Who is it, Ballow?”
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