by Gaelen Foley
That would not have been exactly fair.
After all, they were only civilians. Civilized civil servants, who could not understand why he did not grovel and placate. Why should he? He had little respect for their kind. In his world, respect had to be earned.
And besides, he prided himself on his ability to tell the flat-out truth to anyone, so in a way, he was perfect for this assignment. He had always preferred blunt honesty to sparing people’s feelings and he had never once danced around anyone’s rank.
Somehow, though, he refrained from bellowing and did not resort to banging heads this time. Instead, he merely summoned up his blandest, lordliest smile—for indeed he was of aristocratic descent—and answered the question patiently, one more time.
God knew he wished he were elsewhere, preferably with his men in the thick of the fight, but alas, this dismal mission to London was his penance, his punishment. Some months ago, he had managed to vex his commander, Colonel Montrose, and now, for his “impertinence,” the only way to get his old post back was to succeed in this horrid low mission of money-grubbing in London.
Damn it, he should have been sitting astride his horse right now at the head of his glorious cavalry squadron, his troops, whom he had personally drilled and trained to perfection. His elder brother, Major Gabriel Knight, had a matching squadron, and often they had used their might to squeeze the enemy between their forces, a classic cavalry wedge.
But now everything was changed.
Good God, to think of their boys out there without them, temporarily under the command of other officers who could not possibly possess the Knight brothers’ own degree of expertise—well, it was best not to contemplate it too much, for such musings seriously darkened his amiable nature.
Just get the money, a silent, savage part of himself advised, the ferocious side that had grown strong through years of battle and helped him survive. You’ll be out of here soon. You’ll get your chance to pay those Maratha bastards back.
Aye, as if slaughtering some of his regimental fellows wasn’t bad enough, in his last run-in with Baji Rao’s henchmen they had nearly killed his brother, and this was a wrong that Derek could never forgive. Yes, serious wounds happened in warfare, but this had been different.
He wanted blood.
The sooner he made the Sub-Committee unhand the army’s funds, the sooner he’d be restored to his old command. Once he was back where he belonged, at the head of his men, then he could hunt those Maratha bastards down and carry out revenge.
Eastern-style.
You touch my brother, I’ll have your head on a pike.
Some hours later, when he walked through the door at the Althorpe, the fashionable address where he and his brother had taken bachelor lodgings, the familiar scent of the spices their Indian servants had brought along in the Knight family’s migration to England infused Derek’s nostrils. The familiar scent of home offered unexpected comfort after a decidedly trying day. Black pepper, cumin, coriander—the scents wafting through the five-room apartment informed him that dear old Purnima must be cooking up her famous chicken curry. He let out a low sigh and shut the door behind him.
“You’re back! How was it?”
Derek glanced across the sitting room and spotted his elder brother reclining on the sofa by the fireplace, reading the London Times. As the wounded warrior slowly and gingerly raised himself to a seated position, Derek sauntered in, tossing the files from Horse Guards onto the demi-lune table nearby. “Remember that time we got lost in the desert west of Lucknow?”
“Yes. Why?”
“This was drier. God, I need a drink! I’ll get it,” he told his trusty servant, Aadi, who had just come padding out, barefoot and turbaned as always.
“Yes, sahib.” Aadi removed Derek’s coat smoothly from his shoulders, whisking it away to hang it up for him.
Tugging his white shirtsleeves back down about his wrists, Derek strode across the sitting room in his waistcoat and made his selection from the liquor cabinet.
“Join me?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at his brother.
Gabriel declined with a wry shake of his head. “Purnima has forbidden me from drinking spirits yet. She’s made me a pot of tea instead. Some ayurvedic business.”
“Ah, well, you’d better do as she says. Purnima knows,” Derek said sagely. “For my part, I find myself in need of stronger stuff.” With that, he tossed back a large swallow of French brandy.
Perhaps no English officer was overly fond of that nation on the whole, but such fine liquor was rarely to be found on the other side of the world. Derek intended to enjoy all of Europe’s pleasures while he could.
Especially those of the female variety.
“Went that badly, eh?” Gabriel prompted.
“Actually, no.” Derek turned to him, lifting his glass to offer himself a deserved toast. “Damned vexing, but I am happy to say the mission is accomplished.”
“What, already?” his brother exclaimed.
Derek nodded, a grin breaking across his face. “The vote was taken, the measure passed. The army will soon have its haul of gold.”
Gabriel stared at him in amazement. “Well done, little brother!”
“Ah, those chaps just needed a bit of persuading,” Derek said modestly.
“I can’t believe you got it done in one day!”
“I can’t believe they only have one man on the committee who has any damned military experience,” Derek countered with a snort. “Edward Lundy, nabob of the East India Company. He was once a field officer in the Company’s forces, but now he works behind a desk. Fairly high-placed, I understand.”
“So, they’ve got Company men on this panel, then.”
Derek nodded. “Three. There are nine members in all, three from the House of Lords, three from the Commons, and three from the Company’s upper echelons, like Father used to be. Far as I can see, the Lords are the ones who are really in charge. I’m supposed to check in with the chairman, Lord Sinclair, in a day or two to find out when the money will be ready for transport.”
“God knows the army will be glad to finally have it. Three million pounds sterling, you say?” Gabriel mused aloud. “It must be killing them to hand it over.”
“I know.” Derek flashed a grin. “Of course, it’s not like they have any right to keep it. Parliament merely put them in charge of doling out the army funds. I imagine they would’ve liked to hold on to it as long as they could. Probably hoping everyone would forget they had it,” he added cynically.
“Let’s just hope their tardiness hasn’t needlessly cost too many of our men their lives,” Gabriel muttered.
The brothers exchanged a grim, knowing look.
“It isn’t real to them somehow,” Derek remarked after a moment, swirling the contents of his crystal goblet. Then he shook off his brooding. “Bloody civilians.”
“God knows,” Gabriel agreed, and Derek poured himself another splash of brandy, blocking out the hideous memory of his last battle and the arrow that had gone through his brother’s torso. The one that had been meant for him.
In the thick of the fight that awful day, Derek had been engaged with three other swordsmen, heedless of the archers. Gabriel had seen the threat but had been unable to push Derek away fast enough. Instead, he had done the only thing that there was time to do to shield him, and had willingly stepped into the arrow’s path.
Derek was not sure he could ever forgive himself for not seeing it coming, for not being fast enough. Gabriel was not just his brother and fellow officer. He was also his closest friend, and as his big brother had always been, secretly, something of an idol to him.
Derek had spent months tending him day in and day out, especially after infection invaded the wound, praying as he had never prayed before and wondering how he’d go on if Gabriel died for his sake. God knew he did not give a damn about inheriting his father’s fortune in his elder brother’s stead.
In the ensuing months, thank God, iron-willed G
abriel had gradually made it clear that he had no intention of crossing the River Styx quite yet, but the whole ordeal had raised dangerous questions in Derek’s mind. Was it worth it, this soldiering business? What was it really doing to him at the end of the day?
They were questions he refused to ponder in any greater depth, now that the whole ugly business was behind them.
Best forgotten.
Ignoring his doubts with a vengeance, he took another big swallow of the velvety libation, then turned to his brother. “How are you feeling today?”
Gabriel shrugged.
Derek waited, tilting his head expectantly.
His brother gave him a flat look. “As well as can be expected for a man who shouldn’t be alive.” Then he changed the subject, as unwilling to admit to physical pain as Derek was to admit to the mental sort.
“So, what happens next?” Gabriel asked.
Fair enough.
“The navy will assemble a flotilla to escort all that shiny silver off to India, where it belongs.”
“Then that means you’ll be leaving us soon.”
Derek gazed at his brother, saying nothing.
“You do still plan to be aboard one of those navy transports when they set sail, don’t you?”
Why was he asking? Derek wondered. He already knew the answer perfectly well. Same school, same regiment. They had barely been apart a day in their lives. Uncomfortable was discussing their impending separation.
“You know, we all wish you’d stay,” Gabriel mumbled. “Father and Georgiana and I.”
“Can’t.”
“It’s a bad business, man. We were lucky to get out of it alive.” Gabriel paused with a mild wince, pressing a hand vaguely to that section of his middle where the arrow had gone in.
“Are you all right?” Derek asked quickly.
“Fine.” Gabriel ignored the twinge. “It seems to me we’ve been given a second chance. Why risk it?”
Derek studied him. If it were any other man, he’d have suspected that the brush with death had made him lose his nerve, but with Gabriel Knight, that was impossible. His brother had long been known as one of the most feared warriors in India, rather famous for his motto of “No mercy.”
Derek was considered the nice one.
“Need I remind you, brother, that you are the firstborn?” he finally answered, adopting his favorite breezy tone to deflect the seriousness of the question. “You will inherit Father’s fortune. As the mere younger son, the soldier’s life is my only route to fortune and glory. Surely you would not have me doomed to obscurity?”
“Better doomed to obscurity than just—doomed.”
“Have you lost all your ambition?”
“I’m just glad to be alive.”
“Naturally. All the same, let’s not forget who we are. You and I were not made for mediocrity, brother, and that is all civilian life can offer.”
“Hang your ambition!” Gabriel started forward, a flash of the old temper darkening his rugged countenance. “There is more to life, Derek, than fortune and glory.”
“Pardon?”
“You always blame it on the fact that you’re the younger brother, but we both know your trust fund is perfectly adequate for you to try some other mode of life, if you were so inclined.”
“Like what?” he retorted.
“I don’t know—you could buy land. Farm or something!”
Derek laughed none too kindly at his brother’s advice. “Me? In a cow field? Sorry, mate, you’ve got the wrong man. Good God, oats and barley! I am hardly the agrarian sort.”
“How do you know for certain? You’ve never tried anything else.”
“I cannot turn my back on the men.”
“But you’ll turn your back on your family?”
Derek flinched and looked away.
“Father’s old, you know,” Gabriel said. “He won’t be around forever. And what about our sister? Aren’t you the least bit curious about meeting your future niece or nephew when her child is born? And what about Griff’s little boy? Matthew, you know, he adores you.”
“It’s not as if I’m never coming back!”
“Well,” Gabriel said slowly, “you might not.”
Derek looked at him for a long moment, his expression darkening. “I’ve got a score to settle in India, brother. I will not rest until it’s done.”
“Not for me you don’t,” Gabriel warned him, shaking his head. “Hell, no. Just let it go.”
“Let it go?” Derek’s face flushed with anger.
“It was a fair fight. You only want revenge because you blame yourself for what happened to me, but I don’t blame you, Derek. I did it willingly. You’re my brother. Of course I’d give my life for you.”
“You are so irritatingly noble,” Derek muttered, studying the ceiling as he fought for patience.
“You’d do the same for me.” With a low laugh, Gabriel leaned back against the couch, beginning to look tired again. “I didn’t save your arse just so you could go back to the battlefield and get yourself blown up. But there, no more. I’ve said my piece. Do what you want.”
Derek just looked at him. “Has the mail come yet?” he asked, firmly changing the subject.
“Over there.”
Derek took another swallow of brandy and strode over to the demi-lune table by the door, where he had buried the mail on its silver tray beneath his files from Horse Guards. He set the files aside and picked up the pile of new invitations and bills and half dozen prettily written notes in fine pastel papers scented with various blends of expensive perfume.
He frowned, ignoring the lot. Damn it. Nothing yet from Colonel Montrose. He wanted word of his men, but news was slow to travel between England and India. He would have to be patient a while longer, it seemed. Well, he could certainly find other ways of amusing himself in the meanwhile.
Leaving the bills and invitations on the salver, he took the candy-colored letters from all his new lady friends in Town and fanned them out in his grasp like a hand of cards, sauntering back toward his brother and feeling a bit more cheerful again as he inhaled their enticing fragrances with a sardonic smile.
“What, more of your bloody love letters?” Gabriel asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Love?” Derek laughed. “Not exactly.”
He offered the fanned spread of notes to his brother. “Pick one. Go on.”
“Why?”
“How else am I going to decide who to sleep with tonight?”
“You know you are incorrigible, right?”
“Life is short,” Derek said.
Gabriel gave him a droll look and made a random selection, pulling a light green letter from the middle. He handed it to him.
“Ah, an excellent choice,” Derek said mildly, reading the name. “Lady Amherst, then. Good enough.”
“What about the others?”
“Oh, I’ll get around to them before I leave Town, trust me.” With an irreverent smile, he tossed the others carelessly aside for now. They fell like pale confetti and he dropped lazily into the chair across from his brother, where he cracked open the short but scandalous letter from the ravishing Lady Amherst.
He laughed softly at her clever innuendoes as he read, stretching his legs out before him.
“Oh, damn,” he said after a moment as he reached the last paragraph. “I forgot about that masked ball I said we’d go to. It’s tonight.”
“We?”
“Didn’t I mention? You’re coming, too.”
“The hell I am.”
“Gabriel, you can’t lock yourself alone in here forever,” he informed him. “Besides, we have to celebrate my victory over the cheese-parers! I’m not talking about going in costume if that’s your worry. It’ll cheer you up.”
“On the contrary, I’m sure it would annoy me exceedingly. Costume ball?” He scoffed. “No, thanks. You go without me. I trust you’ll manage to have enough fun for us both,” Gabriel added, nodding toward the scattered love notes fro
m Derek’s latest crop of feminine admirers.
“That’s hardly the point. Tell me, brother.” He leaned forward with a wicked sparkle in his eyes. “Did you know there was a census taken a few years back? They counted over a million souls living here in London.”
Gabriel eyed him suspiciously. “So?”
“Figure half of them are female, and half of those of an age to be wooed. That leaves two-hundred fifty thousand ladies out there waiting for us.” He nodded toward the door, then sent his brother a lazy smile. “That’s over a hundred thousand girls apiece. I say we had better get started.”
Gabriel shook his head at him, looking half annoyed and half amused. Derek knew the look well.
“Oh, come on!” he protested, laughing. “Honestly, if I were you, I would want to make sure that everything still worked properly, if you take my meaning.”
Gabriel’s stern, elder-brother look turned to a scowl.
“Ah, never mind.” Derek waved him off and rose to get himself another drink. “But I’m not going to let you sit around in here and rot all by yourself. You know what I shall do? I’ll hire some gorgeous wench with no morals to take care of you. Now that would be amusing! An obliging little nurse to cater to your every whim. I am a most kind and thoughtful brother, am I not?”
Gabriel gave him a formidable stare from across the room and did not smile.
Derek laughed but did not press the issue. He took another swallow of liquor. “Killjoy.”
“Derek, I nearly died,” Gabriel said. “I did die, as a matter of fact. For several minutes, I tell you, I was gone—”
“Gabriel, that’s impossible! How many times have we been through this?”
“The army surgeon told me that I didn’t have a pulse!”
“Well, he must’ve been mistaken!”
“No, he wasn’t. For God’s sake, I saw you all around my body from several feet up in the air—”
“No, you didn’t! Obviously, it was a dream.”
“This was no dream.”
“Whatever it was, I don’t want to hear about it anymore. It gives me the gooseflesh, damn it. Dead is dead.”