The duke rose, and the captain hastily shot to his own feet and came to attention. “Major Lord Ives will appear on that date. Until then, please send word of any witnesses who come forward to me. I expect to be kept apprised of all details, including being notified the moment Sergeant Hallet returns to England, is that clear?”
The Duke of Temberlay was tall—very tall. The captain had to lift his chin to meet the man’s eyes, even though he was standing on his toes behind the desk. The captain nodded smartly, and the Duke of Temberlay strode to the door. With shaking hands, the captain sank back into his chair, and tucked the file concerning Major Lord Ives into a special drawer for safekeeping.
Chapter 15
“You’re leaving again? But you’ve only just arrived home, Delphine!” the Countess of Ainsley said to her daughter. “Your father and I were expecting you to join us for the summer at Neeland Park. He’s most anxious to see you.”
“Is he?” Delphine murmured, watching her maid repack her trunk for Temberlay. No doubt the earl would make time to see her between meetings with government ministers and political allies. It would be a serious discussion. Her mother had no doubt made him aware that the clock was ticking, the years passing, and his youngest daughter was not yet married. In her mother’s eyes, Delphine was about to slip into spinsterhood.
“Did you meet any eligible gentlemen in Brussels?” the countess asked. “Eleanor promised she would make your introduction to anyone suitable.”
Delphine felt her skin heat. “The single, rich, titled officers were all busy, I’m afraid.”
“Even after the battle? Was there no victory celebration, no ball to mark the occasion?”
Delphine opened her mouth to tell her mother exactly how it had been after the battle, but Maman preferred not to hear about the harsh realities of life. Lady Ainsley did not like blood, misfortune, poverty, or filth. She was aware of them, of course, but she did not discuss them.
“Many men died, Maman,” Delphine said gently.
The countess paced the carpet. “I’m sure some did, but not the eligible ones. Anyone with a title would have had the good sense to remain where he would not be harmed, and Eleanor would never allow you, a young lady of quality, to see anything untoward.” She stopped and clasped her hands pensively. “You didn’t, did you?”
Delphine could not deny it. “I’m afraid I did, Mama. I was helping Eleanor, and I felt—”
The countess gasped, and set a hand over her heart. “Did anyone see you?”
“I assume a good many people did. Eleanor’s house was full of wounded men.”
“You can’t mean Eleanor allowed you to mix with gentlemen—soldiers—in a state unfit for a lady’s eyes? What will people think? What will they say?”
Delphine held her tongue, and let her mother draw her own conclusion. The countess collapsed onto the chaise longue. “Oh, the scandal!”
Delphine looked at the pile of petticoats and underskirts waiting to be packed for her departure. Would she ever look at fine linens again and not calculate how many rolls of bandages they’d make? She couldn’t begin to describe to anyone who had not been in Brussels—especially her mother—how terrible the carnage was, or how honored she felt to be useful. She hadn’t been squeamish or missish or disgusted. There hadn’t been time.
“What of your father’s annual house party? People will talk of nothing else but your behavior in Brussels. You are teetering on the edge of the shelf now—the very edge, mind you—after two Seasons without a wedding. If this gets out, it could destroy even the faint hopes you have left—you, the Earl of Ainsley’s daughter, a duke’s granddaughter, sister to a viscount. It is beyond shocking, Delphine. People will think there is something wrong with you, especially after you’ve gone and—” She put a hand to her brow. “Oh why couldn’t you choose from one of the gentlemen who have offered? You would have been married by now. You never would have gone to Brussels.”
“They didn’t suit me,” Delphine said with a shrug. But Brussels had, as difficult as it had been.
The countess stared at her. “I know there were some dry sticks, and some dreadful fops, and one or two fortune hunters, but there were a goodly number of nice gentlemen as well.”
Delphine smiled. “Of course there were—and most of them have gone on to find equally nice brides who will make them far happier than I would have.”
“And what happy mothers those brides must have, all of them fulfilled in their maternal duty! This year’s house party may well be your final opportunity to find a husband with the right qualities. Your father has invited a number of eligible men, Tories all, gentlemen of fortune and title, for you to choose from. Of course if it gets about that you were in Brussels, that you stayed in Brussels after the battle, I daresay none of them will want to know you, let alone marry you.”
Delphine patted her mother’s hand. “I’m sure people are too busy talking about the victory to give me a single thought.” And there would always be gentlemen willing to overlook any scandal to get their hands on her vast dowry.
“Until you are standing before them on the steps of Neeland Park, presented as a potential wife and mother—then they’ll remember.”
“Shall I excuse myself from attending the house party? Surely without my presence, the scandal will be forgotten all the more quickly.”
The countess sat up. “Not attend? What will we tell people?”
“You may tell them that I am visiting the Duchess of Temberlay, who is a very dear friend, at Temberlay Castle in Derbyshire. Meg was in Brussels as well, and Nicholas is a hero. They are held in great esteem by the ton. Surely being in their company can only improve my connections, even in Father’s opinion.”
Her mother considered. “Will Temberlay be hosting a house party while you’re there?”
“I doubt it. It will be a quiet and relaxing summer, a chance to rest and recover—” She paused, needing to convince her mother to allow her to go. “After—well, the ordeal in Brussels, I am ready for a few peaceful weeks with a friend.”
Her mother chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Temberlay is rather near to Treholme, isn’t it? The Earl Halidon is an old friend of your father’s, and he’s sure to be in residence for the summer. His heir has four thousand a year, and he stands to inherit a much greater fortune when Halidon goes to his reward. His lordship was quite frail when last we saw him in Town. Perhaps you could visit him and his son and pay our respects.”
Delphine felt a frisson of horror race up her spine. More matchmaking. Could her mother speak of nothing else? The countess kept endless lists of eligible gentlemen, and she simply crossed off each one as he was rejected and set her sights on driving Delphine into the arms of the next man on the list. The list was annotated to include title, income, acreage, and political affiliation—Papa would never countenance a match with someone whose politics differed from his own. Better she should marry a Catholic than a Whig.
“Of course I’ll visit Lord Halidon,” she said a trifle sharply. “Shall I take him a pot of liniment or a basket of fruit?”
The countess sniffed. “Don’t take that tone, Delphine. Just be sure to spend a goodly amount of time with his heir. Wear something fetching.” She scooped a hand low over her breasts to indicate where the bodice of Delphine’s gown should fall to be truly fetching, not to mention eye-popping. Now there was a scandal!
“What’s the young man’s name?” Delphine asked.
Her mother waved her hand. “Does it matter? Viscount something or other.”
Delphine rolled her eyes. “You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lady Delphine St. James and Himself, Viscount Something-or-Other. Has a pleasant ring to it, and if I should change my mind and choose someone else, the invitations would not need to be reprinted,” she quipped.
The countess bristled. “A girl who has gone two Seasons without accepting a single offer cannot afford to be pert, Delphine. If you have a gentleman in mind, please speak his name and I shall have
your father make the arrangements.”
She thought of Stephen Ives, even now, broken and blind and accused.
When Nicholas introduced them at her mother’s ball in this very house a year ago, Stephen had met her gaze with the familiar light of masculine admiration clear in his gray eyes. That was the first time he’d taken her breath away. Her infatuation had been instant, unexpected, and deep. Not just because he was handsome, or because he sent shivers up her spine when he had bowed over her hand and smiled at her. It was the way he looked at her, as if she were an interesting person, and not merely Ainsley’s wealthy and eligible daughter. Her value to him was not measured in pounds sterling. It was measured in potential. He did not spend their brief conversation blustering about politics. He had asked her opinion. Oh, the topic was ordinary enough—a play they had both attended. He wanted to know her thoughts. That hadn’t happened before. How charming, how refreshing, how different from any of the suitors her mother flung at her. She had no idea if his politics matched her father’s. She suspected he was a man who observed each issue—political, military, or diplomatic—and made his own decisions.
When her mother stole her away from his side that evening, intent on introducing her to an eligible duke, Delphine knew Stephen was watching her from across the room. She had been aware of his eyes on her, felt his gaze like a touch. Her body had vibrated with it. Her parents had expected Delphine to charm the duke, and so she had. But as she did, Stephen had turned away and disappeared into the crowd. Her heart had dropped to her slippers. Did he not understand? It was her duty to her father, only that. Like all the rest of her suitors, the duke looked at her the way one might regard a priceless vase, or a statue of a woman. She was an object of grace and beauty, there to reflect his wealth, taste, and opinions while having none of her own. In the duke’s eyes, she had no worth at all beyond her monetary value and her beauty.
She had not understood that until she met Stephen, hadn’t known why she did not want to marry any of the men her mother selected. Not until Stephen Ives looked into her eyes and noticed her, listened when she spoke, asked her what she thought. In that moment, her whole world changed—she could be more than she was, she realized breathlessly. Stephen had made her different than she’d been.
But then he’d turned away, left the ball, left her.
She’d spent the rest of that Season and most of the next trying to get his attention back again, to find that look in his eyes once more, to understand what he’d seen in her during those first fleeting moments. But until the duchess’s ball in Brussels, he had avoided her company if possible, and when he did look at her, his eyes were glazed with boredom or disdain.
She did not understand why he did not like her. Everyone liked Ainsley’s charming, lovely daughter. Except Stephen Ives—and herself. He’d made her want more from life, made her want him, and then he’d turned away.
She thought of all that as she looked at her mother, who stood waiting for an answer to her question. Stephen’s name hovered on the tip of Delphine’s tongue.
But he was blind, and accused of dreadful crimes. He had only a courtesy title and a modest fortune. They were hardly the kinds of qualifications that would encourage her father to allow her to marry him.
Not, of course, that Stephen had asked, or was ever likely to.
But he needed someone to help him heal. She would do that, in return for the moment he’d changed her, opened her eyes, made her see. How ironic.
“I have been very busy in the past weeks, Maman. I would like to go to Temberlay and enjoy a few weeks of quiet. If you are afraid my presence in London or at Neeland Park will cause scandal, wouldn’t it be better if I went away until it all blows over, and there is some other bit of gossip for people to chew on?”
The countess brightened. “Why, I hadn’t thought of that. You could still come to Neeland in time for the party.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Go then, with my blessing. We’ll make plans for the little Season—a new wardrobe, perhaps—”
“Oh Maman, what will you do when I finally do marry?” Delphine asked, hugging her.
The countess sighed. “I suppose I will have to occupy myself with seeing that your brother is happily married too. And by then, Eleanor’s girls should be old enough to make their debuts. A mother’s work is never done.”
Chapter 16
If he had to guess—which he did—Stephen would say the luxurious guest suite at Hartley House in fashionable Grosvenor Square was furnished in tasteful shades of blue or green. The walls were clad in damask silk and the windows were draped with satin. The furniture was dark oak, and a landscape painting by a notable artist hung over the fireplace, while a small portrait of a Temberlay ancestor hung above the desk. Fresh flowers stood on the table under the window, which overlooked the garden. But Stephen could only imagine these details, save for the fragrance of the flowers.
He was appreciative, however. He might well have been arrested and consigned to a dungeon to await his court-martial. Instead, he was quartered in comfort, as Nicholas’s guest, with Browning to see to his every need, and in the care of one of London’s most esteemed physicians. He grunted as the man poked his sore ribs.
“Still tender, eh? Well, it’s understandable. You obviously took quite a beating. I’d hate to see the chaps on Napoleon’s side if all the heroes are as battered as you are. Well done, sir! All in all, you’re healing well. There’s no infection.”
Obviously news of the accusations against him had not reached London yet. He listened to the familiar sound of the doctor washing his hands. “What about my eyes? Will I see again?”
The doctor put his instruments back in his bag, the metal clinking softly. “I can’t see any problem. Both eyes are clear, and mounted correctly in their sockets. There’s no scarring or redness. I’m sure you’re hoping for more than that, but I can only say that if your sight does return, it will do so in its own time. You must wait, my lord, and hope.” He paused and cleared his throat. “You must not hope too much, however. You must forge on with the rest of your recovery, and live life to the fullest, whatever happens.”
“And how am I to do that?” Stephen asked, struggling to speak over the lump of panic in his throat. “I was a diplomat, a soldier.”
“Were you indeed?” The doctor said. “Well, in my opinion, you must get up and exercise, keep yourself fighting fit, or your muscles will weaken. You do not wish to live as an invalid for the rest of your life, do you? Unlike myself, you’re a young man.”
Stephen coiled his fists in the fine wool of the blankets. “How? I cannot see to walk across the room. I cannot ride or even walk out.”
“A cane will help. Your manservant can guide you,” the doctor said, his tone almost jaunty, as if he were coddling an elderly dowager with a slight case of melancholy. “Make sure your servants keep your furniture exactly where you’re familiar with it and you’ll soon find your way around.”
“Is there no medication? A tonic, or eye drops?”
The doctor chuckled. “No. Even the best doctor in the world will tell you that sometimes we must leave healing in God’s hands, my lord.”
God? God had left him here, in the dark, alone.
There was a knock at the door. “Come,” the doctor called. “Ah, Your Grace. Just at the right moment. We’re all finished here.” It was Nicholas, not Meg. There was no scent of perfume, no swish of skirts. He smelled whisky instead, and shaving soap.
“Is the patient healing well?” Nicholas asked.
“Remarkably so. I can see no reason why he cannot journey on to Temberlay Castle. The country air should do him good.”
Stephen tightened his jaw and stared into the blackness. Would people forever persist in speaking around him, as if he were no longer present, but had disappeared entirely into the shadows? Nicholas thanked the doctor and shut the door behind him as he left.
“Any news from Horse Guards?” Stephen asked, not bothering with pleasantries. What differenc
e did it make to a blind man what the weather was like? He knew it wasn’t raining—he’d be able to hear it rattling on the windowpanes.
Nicholas pulled up a chair. “Hallet seems to have disappeared entirely, and no one has answered Colonel Fairlie’s request for witnesses who saw you during the battle.”
Stephen swallowed. “I see. And the court-martial?”
“Set for early in October. We still have plenty of time.” The chair creaked as Nicholas leaned forward. “Can you think of anything else, Stephen?”
Stephen shook his head, rubbed his hand over his eyes again, trying to force them back to life, but the darkness remained. He swallowed panic, as familiar now as the constant pain. “You don’t by chance have any whisky about, do you?” Stephen asked, forcing a calm, unconcerned tone.
But to his ears, he still sounded desperate, weak, and afraid.
Chapter 17
Alan Browning looked in the mirror and opened his mouth wide, examining the damage caused by the lance that had pierced his cheek and tongue on the battlefield. He counted himself among the fortunate, since he’d been able to walk off the battlefield.
He’d been a sergeant, a man used to yelling orders, and now he was mute as a swan. He’d been a good leader despite the fact that he couldn’t read or write anything beyond his own name. A private in his platoon—now dead—had taught him that much, and he was grateful. He wished he could still speak, or write more, if only to tell the lad’s mother that her son had been kind, and had died a hero.
He was also grateful to Lady Delphine. She might have turned him away from her door since he wasn’t an officer, but she insisted they make room for him, had cared for him as if he was one of her own class. He saw how gentle she was with Major Lord Ives—and she a lady, with no training for that kind of thing. She was endlessly patient, despite the fact that the major was often surly and difficult. He saw the love in her eyes when she looked at Ives, love the major couldn’t see. The doctors said he might regain his sight in time, and if he did, Browning hoped the first eyes Major Ives saw looking back at him were Lady Delphine’s.
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