England's Perfect Hero

by Suzanne Enoch

  “But you and I would be there.”

  “Yes, of course. Having a superior officer of General Barrett’s reputation in the house would be very prestigious, to be sure, but he is becoming elderly, Lucinda. Don’t you think he’d be more comfortable here? The ocean voyage itself can be quite harrowing.”

  Well, this was interesting. General Barrett’s “reputation” for honesty and fairness would also have the effect of making it more difficult for his son-in-law if said relation intended to engage in smuggling, or coercion, or profiteering, the swiftest, surest ways for an enterprising young major to make his fortune. “My goodness. ‘Harrowing?’ I’m not certain I’d be comfortable there,” she returned. “If I even survived the journey.”

  His smile tightened. “Surely this is a conversation best left for another time and another setting,” he murmured.

  “I’m merely familiarizing myself with your plans,” she said. “It occurs to me that you haven’t told me much more than the basics. If you wish us to marry, I think I have some right to know where I’m expected to live, for instance.”

  “You’re a general’s daughter. Surely you’re accustomed to a military lifestyle.”

  “I was practically a child when my father fought on the Continent. I stayed with my aunt, and at various finishing schools. He didn’t want me traveling about in soldiers’ camps.”

  He gazed at her. “So your delay in answering my proposal wasn’t in deference to Carroway’s troubles,” he said slowly. “You don’t wish to marry me at all.”

  Drat. Suspecting him as she did, he’d made her more angry with practically every sentence he spoke, and she’d stepped too far. “That’s not what I said. I merely wish to have all possible information first.”

  “Look, Lucinda,” Evelyn broke in, “that bay is gorgeous.”

  “And you chose here to have this conversation?” Geoffrey pursued, ignoring Evie.

  Oh, hang being amiable. “You’re the one who said you enjoyed breaking headstrong animals,” she retorted. “How am I supposed to interpret that?”

  He wrapped hard fingers around her upper arm. “Answer me this, Lucinda. After this mess with your good friend is concluded, do you intend to accept my proposal? Or are you merely baiting me to amuse your friends and waste my…”

  This time she didn’t want to interpret what flashed across his eyes. Closing his mouth, he turned on his heel.

  “Geoffrey!” she called after him. “Where are you—”

  “Damnation,” Saint hissed. “A little hard on him, weren’t you?”

  “If I’d fluttered and giggled he would have known something was wrong,” she returned, turning her frantic gaze toward Bradshaw. He’d vanished as well, hopefully to warn Robert that Geoffrey was most likely on his way home. “Blast it. I’m so stupid.”

  “No, you’re not,” Evie countered. “You’re right. Once this began, one way or another he was bound to realize we were delaying him here for no particular reason. That’s why Bradshaw was keeping an eye on things, as well.”

  “What vehicle did you arrive in?” Saint asked, taking one of the ladies’ hands in each of his and heading away from the pens.

  “A curricle. My maid was waiting for us there. Oh, goodness. He wouldn’t hurt Helena, would he?”

  “I don’t think so. It would take him a moment to remove her, though. Shaw’s on horseback, so he should end with a five-or six-minute lead on Newcombe. I hope.”

  “What do we do?” she asked, still cursing herself. If she’d held her tongue for just a few more moments—oh, what if they hadn’t had time to find the documents? She might have just condemned Robert.

  “You said your father had a meeting this morning,” Saint prompted.

  “Yes, at the Horse Guards.”

  “Then we go to the Horse Guards and find him. If Robert has the evidence, he’ll need someone to show it to.”

  “It’s not here, either,” Robert growled, shoving the mask up on the top of his head. Damnation. The office had been immaculate, as if no one had ever done a minute’s work inside, though they’d left it in less than pristine condition. Likewise the books in the library didn’t look as though they’d ever been opened. The fact that most of them now rested in haphazard stacks on the floor didn’t bother him in the least. Lord Geoffrey had made far more of a shambles of his life than they were making of the bastard’s house.

  “Not in the cabinet either,” Tristan seconded. He straightened from his crouch, glancing at Wycliffe as the duke went through the scattering of books and papers on the oak credenza. After a moment, Wycliffe shook his head.

  Robert cursed. “It’s here somewhere. It has to be. If you had papers which could either make you a great deal of money or get you thrown in prison, you would want them somewhere close by, so you wouldn’t have to worry about someone stumbling across them. At the same time, you wouldn’t want your servants to be able to find them, and you wouldn’t want to hide them somewhere you’d look conspicuous retrieving them or checking on them.”

  “That still leaves a great many hiding places,” Tristan noted, brushing his hands across his thighs.

  Pacing around the room, Robert ran the floor plan through his mind. It was a small house, a rented lodging. That in itself pointed to the fact that Geoffrey was not plump in the pockets. He was, however, a self-professed war hero with a great deal of pride in his looks and his reputation. A war hero. One who would either marry to become a major, or start a war to receive a battle promotion.

  “His uniform,” he said, heading out the door and toward the stairs. “Where do you think he keeps his uniform?”

  “His uniform?” Tristan repeated. “Why—”

  “He’s still in the army,” Robert said over his shoulder. “He would have had it pressed and put away—ready for whichever special occasion could give him the most use out of it—with no one else allowed to touch it. It’s his pride and joy; his future, one way or the other.”

  “But the papers would make him a traitor,” his brother protested, topping the stairs behind him and striding down the hallway toward Geoffrey’s private rooms. “Isn’t keeping them with his uniform a bit odd?”

  “Not if you’re him. They’re his way to a promotion. How does that make him a traitor?”

  Wycliffe gave a low whistle. “You’re turning me into a believer, and we haven’t even found anything yet.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit.” Robert shoved open the bedchamber door.

  Considering what he’d deduced to be a modest income, the number of wardrobes in the large double suite bedchamber was startling. Obviously this was where the majority of Lord Geoffrey’s money went.

  “And I thought Georgiana had too many clothes,” Tristan muttered, heading for the wardrobe farthest to the right.

  Robert flung open the one next to it, rifling through jackets and waistcoats, trousers, and breeches. Apparently shirts were located in a different section of the room altogether. Kneeling, he yanked open the bottom drawers to find stockings and neckcloths, but no uniform.

  Quiet as the house was, the sound of the front door opening sounded as loud as a pistol shot. He jerked to his feet, striding for the hallway. Bradshaw’s suggestion of beating the truth out of Lord Geoffrey was beginning to seem like a good idea.

  “Any housebreakers here?” Bradshaw’s voice came, a loud, whispered yell.

  Robert leaned over the balcony railing. “Upstairs.”

  “He’s left Tattersall’s,” Bradshaw panted. “And he didn’t look happy.”

  “What about Lucinda?”

  “He left her there,” Shaw returned, climbing the stairs as he explained. “It looked as though they were arguing, and then he rode off. He was heading straight for his carriage. He can’t be more than five minutes behind me.”

  “I found something!” Wycliffe called.

  Robert sprinted back for the bedchamber. The duke dragged a small oak trunk from beneath the raised bed.

  �
�It’s locked,” Wycliffe said, pulling it further into the open. “And I don’t suppose we’ll find the key anywhere in the house.”

  “No, if that’s his uniform, he’ll have the key with him,” Robert said, squatting down to examine the mechanism. By the time he’d made his accidental escape from Chateau Pagnon, all he had left of his uniform were torn mud- and bloodstained shreds of his trousers and a ripped undershirt. If he had somehow returned with a wearable jacket or boots, he would have burned them.

  Geoffrey, though, was proud of his uniform, proud of the prestige it gave him, and the money it would eventually earn him. The lock was good quality, better than the chest demanded. “This is it.” It had to be.

  “Can you pick it?” Bradshaw asked, joining them.

  “I’m a recluse, not a burglar,” Robert returned with a half smile. In truth, he probably could have picked it, but with Geoffrey on the way, he didn’t want to take the time. Instead he pulled a pistol from his pocket.

  “Robert,” Tristan said, his expression startled. “What did you bring that for?”

  “Unforeseen circumstances,” he answered, pulling back the hammer. At least his hand wasn’t shaking; it had been when he’d retrieved the thing from Bradshaw’s room and loaded it.

  “Fire in the hole,” he muttered, and pulled the trigger.

  In the closed room the roar and spit was louder than he remembered, and he couldn’t help flinching from the explosion. He hadn’t fired a weapon in just under four years, but at least his aim hadn’t faltered. The front of the trunk had splintered, and the lock had been obliterated.

  “I don’t think anyone outside heard that, do you?” Bradshaw said sarcastically, scowling. “For the devil’s sake, Bit.”

  “We’re in a hurry.” Robert shoved open the lid. Inside, marred only by a bullet hole through the left side of the jacket, lay a neatly folded, perfectly pressed, captain’s uniform.

  “Good shot,” Wycliffe noted, grabbing the jacket and shaking it. “Right through the heart.”

  A flutter of folded papers thunked to the floor. For a brief moment, Robert closed his eyes. Thank Lucifer. He’d been right. “Check them,” he barked, digging deeper into the trunk. Maps were supposed to be missing as well, and they needed to find everything—not just to convict Geoffrey, but to ensure that England didn’t end up having to go to war against Bonaparte again.

  “I’ll be damned,” Tristan said slowly, anger dripping from his voice. “These are the lists. Englishmen with sympathies for Napoleon. It’s a shame we can’t hang onto these for a few days and make a few visits.”

  Robert barely glanced up as he dug through the trunk. “They can sympathize with whomever they want, as long as they don’t do anything about it.”

  His fingers touched a rolled parchment, lodged in the deepest corner and covered by Geoffrey’s dress sword. He pulled it free, opening it across the top of the trunk. St. Helena Island spread out before him, with notations of elevation and distance, and detailed blueprints of the fortress there.

  “The maps,” Tristan said, gripping Robert’s shoulder. “You did it.”

  “And now let’s get out of here, if you don’t mind,” Bradshaw suggested. “I would enjoy being a hero, but I could do without being arrested for burglary and doing something nefarious with the household staff.”

  “They’re locked in the storage closet,” Tristan supplied, stacking the papers and tucking them under his arm.

  They headed down the stairs and out the front door. No sign of Geoffrey yet, but he wasn’t going to be happy when he arrived. They’d left Tolley and the other horses around the corner, but Robert stopped Tristan before he could mount.

  “I need those papers,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I’ll get them to the Horse Guards,” the viscount said, frowning. “Don’t worry about that. I want you somewhere safe.”

  “They aren’t going to the Horse Guards.”

  Wycliffe went very still. “Beg pardon?”

  “Lord Geoffrey got these by going through General Barrett. The general’s career could be destroyed if we go straight to his headquarters and announce that his prospective son-in-law is the traitor everyone’s been looking for.”

  “Um, Bit, I was under the impression that you weren’t overly fond of General Barrett.”

  “I’m not,” he answered, taking the papers from Tristan and folding them into his worn livestock handler’s jacket. “I am fond of his daughter.” Hurting Barrett would hurt her, and he wouldn’t allow that to happen. In addition, the animosity he felt toward the general was entirely personal; he’d begun to realize that he had no real wish to ruin a man who in everyone else’s estimation was honorable and honest.

  “So we’re going to Barrett House?”

  He swung up on Tolley. “No, I’m going to Barrett House. You’re going to Carroway House and be prepared to either tell the authorities I left for America or attest to the fact that we found these things in Geoffrey’s uniform trunk.”

  “This is your play, Bit,” Tristan said reluctantly. “But for God’s sake, be careful.”

  “I will be,” Robert answered, clucking to Tolley. Of course his health would depend on how General Barrett received the news, but he was willing to take the risk. The stakes were much higher than Geoffrey’s future, or his own, anyway. The stakes were Lucinda’s future, and her happiness.

  Chapter 24

  The tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe.

  —Robert Walton, Frankenstein

  Lucinda could tell from the looks on the sentries’ faces that they were none too happy to see Evie calling at the Horse Guards, even in the company of General Barrett’s daughter. Having St. Aubyn there had to make them even more nervous, and truth be told, she was somewhat relieved that her father had been there and gone already. He certainly wouldn’t have been pleased to see her in the company she was keeping, either.

  “He must be home, then,” she said, as Saint handed her back into his curricle. “That’s probably better, anyway. I can talk to him and try to make him see reason. If we all jump in at once, he’ll just become defensive.”

  “You shouldn’t confront him alone,” Evie said, the worried lines of her face deepening.

  “It’s not so much confronting him as making certain he keeps an open mind,” she returned, hoping that in this grand scheme of Robert’s, someone had been assigned to let her know that he’d found the papers and gotten away from Geoffrey’s house safely.

  “You’re taking quite a risk, Lucinda,” Saint said, his gaze on the street ahead. “Once you level an accusation at Geoffrey, you can’t go back. And Robert…isn’t the most likely man in the world to stand by anyone. Are you sure you—”

  “Michael, she knows,” Evie interrupted, putting a hand over his.

  Lucinda was thankful for the vote of confidence. She did know what accusing Geoffrey would mean. It was Robert who left her feeling uncertain—not about whether he could stop Geoffrey, but about whether he would vanish back into the shadows, back into himself, when he’d finished.

  “Are you certain you don’t want us to stay here with you?” Evie asked.

  Blinking, Lucinda looked up. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her home. “I’m certain.”

  “If the others find what they’re looking for,” Saint added, “they’re likely to run them straight to the Horse Guards. Your father will be called there to see the evidence.”

  Lucinda nodded as she and Helena stepped to the ground. “Perhaps I can prepare him a little for it.”

  “Good luck, then. We’ll head to Carroway House. The rest of the excitement’s likely to happen there.” With a cluck, Saint sent the team back down the drive.

  Ballow opened the door as she reached it. “The general is in his office,” he stated as she handed over her shawl. “Something seems to be…amiss.”

  Oh, dear. Nothing should have happened yet—it was too soon. Gathering
her skirts, she hurried to his office, only to find his door locked. “Papa?” she called, knocking. “Papa, I need to speak to you.”

  His heavy tread approached, and the door rattled and opened. The expression on his face—hard, set, and angry—stopped her for a moment. “I need to speak to you, as well,” he grated, stepping aside so she could enter.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, and then her breath caught. Lord Geoffrey leaned in the window sill, gazing at her. “Geoffrey?” she asked, faltering for something to say. “Why did you abandon me at Tattersall’s? And why are you here? Papa, what’s going on?”

  “I was just leaving,” Geoffrey said, giving her a stiff nod as he passed her on the way to the door.

  The first thing that occurred to her was that if he was here, then Robert would have a few more minutes to finish searching his home. “Did I say something to offend you?”

  In the doorway he faced her. “I am disappointed,” he murmured. “I had thought better of you.”

  Frowning, she watched him make his way down the hall and out the front door. When she turned back, her father’s gaze was on her. “You went behind my back,” he said quietly. “After you asked for my patience, you used that time to attempt to hurt someone else—someone I consider a friend. Someone I had hoped you would see as more than a friend.”

  “What in the world has he been telling you?”

  Geoffrey couldn’t know everything; if he did, he would have headed straight home instead of detouring to carry tales to her father. A thought turned her heart cold. He would have headed home unless he didn’t have the papers there, or had them hidden so well that no one would ever find them—unless he had figured them out and had already taken steps to protect himself.

  “What he told me,” the general returned, raising his voice and not bothering to close the office door, “is that you’ve been conspiring with your so-called friends in an attempt to put the blame for the Horse Guards theft away from Robert Carroway. And that you and your friends have settled on him as your scapegoat.”