The Enigma of a Widow

by Linda Rae Sande

  “What are you doing here? How... how did you get in this time?” she asked in an urgent whisper, sure the lock on the back door had been repaired that day.

  Or had it?

  Lydia had a mind to threaten him again with the gun she kept beneath the pillow next to hers, but thought it a bit late to be pulling it on him now. She considered claiming she would scream if he didn’t take his leave immediately, but the thought of how the servants would gossip—who would believe she hadn’t invited the man for a liaison?—had her resisting the urge.

  When the edge of the mattress depressed, Lydia knew he was sitting next to where she sat. As her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, she was able to make out his face.

  “The lock on the back door is still broken,” he replied quietly. “And it is exactly because of it that I am here.”

  When she realized how close he was, Lydia clutched the bed covers to her neck. Goodness! She could reach out and touch him!

  “I made a promise, you see. I am here to keep that promise.”

  The words were familiar. Or perhaps it was merely the sentiment, for he had intimidated he was to provide protection for her when he had come to fetch her for the ride the day before. “You will tell me once and for all, to whom did you make such a promise?” she asked, not bothering to whisper just then. Her voice sounded loud in her ears, though. Beneath the covers, she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Tucked into a ball, she felt a bit safer given how close Adonis was. Why, he was so close, she could feel heat emanating from his body! “And why?”

  For a moment, she wondered why she hadn’t simply begun screaming at the top of her lungs when she realized he was in her room.

  A man was in her bedchamber.

  A man she barely knew, and yet, he obviously meant no harm.

  And had no intention of bedding her.

  The last thought had her feeling a bit of disappointment before she remembered how he shouldn’t even be in her bedchamber.

  What is wrong with me?

  * * *

  Adonis regarded her for a time, rather pleased to find she wasn’t wearing a white mob cap with her virginal white nightrail. The lace and lawn ruffle decorating the neckline had him wondering what she might look like in a ballgown. What she might look like in nothing at all. “My commanding officer,” he replied, struggling to fight the sudden arousal he felt at being in her company.

  He hadn’t expected to feel an attraction to the widow. Indeed, he had thought his duty to keep his promise would be tedious. Trying. But the afternoon ride and the walk along the Serpentine had been rather pleasant. He could understand how it was Jasper Barrymore felt affection for his wife.

  I never said the words.

  “He was near death and knew it. He... he wanted to ensure your safety. He... he had regrets,” he stammered before allowing a sigh of frustration.

  Lydia sucked in a breath. He was speaking of Jasper. He had to be. But how? How could he know her husband? Jasper had been an officer in the British Army, but until the year prior, he had never left Britain. Never fought against Napoleon’s forces. Probably never shot a man nor used his sword to draw blood.

  Spy craft rarely requires violence, he claimed when he first admitted he wasn’t a typical English army officer. I report to the War Office and, when the occasion requires it, to the Foreign Office, he had explained shortly after they said their marriage vows in front of a vicar in the small church in Kent. He had spoken the words in a whisper whilst he held her the first night of their marriage. The first night she realized she had married a man she barely knew in exchange for his protection.

  What had compelled Jasper Barrymore to marry her in the first place, though?

  They hadn’t courted in the usual sense. Jasper simply appeared at Parkhurst House in Wickham and asked for an introduction—they had only shared a dance at Lord Huntington’s ball—his reason being a recommendation from a friend who knew of her status as an unmarried daughter of Harold Grandby. A few visits later, he presented her with a simple gold band and requested her hand in marriage.

  Her father claimed no foreknowledge. Her much older brother, William, claimed never to have met the man. Although she found the officer’s company pleasant enough, she was more surprised than anyone that he proposed marriage given her dowry wasn’t as much as it should have been for a daughter of a viscount. Her father had never been good managing his funds, and she rather doubted her brother was any better now that he had inherited the viscountcy.

  On the morning of their wedding, Lydia finally broached the subject, thinking she would give the man an out should he have changed his mind about wanting to marry her. The last thing she wanted was to marry a man who didn’t wish to be her husband.

  Remember, it was I who sought out you, Jasper had replied as he bestowed a kiss on the back of her hand. He turned her hand over then and placed a kiss in the middle of her palm, allowing his lips to linger before he finally straightened. Mayhap, have you changed your mind?

  Blinking at the sensation his lips had created in the palm of her hand, Lydia had simply given her head a quick shake. I have not, she had replied. Indeed, I look forward to being your wife.

  They were wed a half-hour later. After a fortnight of marriage, Jasper took his leave of her for nearly a week, explaining he had business in Newmarket. When he returned, he announced they would be living in a townhouse in London. My work requires my presence there, he explained. I do hope you won’t miss your family too much.

  Truth be told, she didn’t miss her father or her brother at all. Excited for the opportunity to live in the capital, Lydia had packed everything she owned, joined her husband in a rented carriage, and made the move from Kent the following week. It was then she learned how little she knew of her husband’s profession, for the man was rarely home for dinner and left London for weeks at a time. It was during one of those extended absences when Lord Chamberlain requested she pay a visit to Whitehall.

  His proposition had seemed preposterous. And yet, she had agreed without a second thought.

  Read the reports from operatives who spy for your King and country, Chamberlain had said, one of his bushy eyebrows arched up. After you’ve decoded them. Provide analysis. Are you interested?

  Of course she was interested. It was a way to fill the boring days waiting for Jasper’s return from wherever duty took him.

  When Jasper was home, she resumed her life as a viscountess, hosting parties and playing wife to a man who seemed to adore her more each time he returned. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, he had murmured one night after a spirited night of lovemaking.

  Lydia thought she had never heard more welcome words. She learned to appreciate the time they did have together, joining Jasper in his bed on the nights he didn’t pay a visit to hers. And then Jasper announced he would be leaving for the Continent for a campaign against Napoleon.

  Three weeks later, he was gone.

  She never saw him again, although she received letters from him every few days, their crumpled state a testament to the distance they had traveled to reach her. And probably to those who had read them as they made their way to England.

  The fourth letter had her finally understanding just why he was on the Continent. The revelation had been somewhat profound. My horse is a magnificent bay, he wrote in that letter. Proud and powerful, with a mane that reminds me of your beautiful raven hair.

  Mounted on that war horse, he had probably seemed rather larger than life. Lydia could just imagine him, sword raised in the air, his other hand holding the reins of his black horse as it reared.

  I shall do what I must to see that the emperor is dethroned and that France can no longer wage war on its neighbors. This has become my newest mission, one in which my closest associates are involved. I am determined we shall prevail.

  Lydia shook her head, aware that Adonis was regarding her with what she could barely make out as an arched eyebrow.

  “I loved him,” she st
ated, a sob threatening to rob her of breath. “I would not have married him had I not felt at least a bit of affection for him. It was I who was never sure if the feeling was reciprocated.” She swallowed and struggled for a breath. “Jasper wasn’t one to speak of such things...”

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Her hand was suddenly covered with another, the larger hand’s warmth permeating her skin in an instant. She gave a start and raised her eyes to meet those of Adonis.

  “He did, though. I assure you,” Adonis said in a quiet voice.

  Lydia shook her head. “Had he truly loved me, he wouldn’t have left me behind at every turn of his career,” she whispered hoarsely, struggling to fight another sob. She wouldn’t cry. She was done crying over Jasper Barrymore.

  “If you were a man, I would strike you for saying that,” Adonis claimed in a clipped voice.

  Lydia inhaled, visibly recoiling at hearing his harsh words, at sensing how his hand tightened atop hers. “For speaking the truth?” she countered, daring him to do his worst.

  Adonis’ eyes darkened as he angled his head. To whose truth was she referring? How could it be any other way but how he remembered it?

  “Viscount Barrymore’s only regret before he died was that he couldn’t be with you. To tell you of his affection. Of his regret that he never got a child on you,” Adonis countered in a harsh whisper. He paused a moment. “He thought you would make a wonderful mother.”

  Lydia couldn’t help how her body jerked in response to the words. A sense of overwhelming guilt gripped her. It was true she had never been with child. She simply thought herself barren, despite her monthly courses. “He was so rarely in residence,” she murmured. “I would have gladly borne his child,” she added in a whisper, her burst of anger having passed as quickly as it had come.

  Before she was quite aware of what was happening—when had the tears begun to fall?—she felt his arms wrap around her shoulders, felt herself being pulled so her head fell against his chest. Felt his chin rest on her head as he murmured something comforting. Something reassuring.

  Within moments, she fell asleep, her body finally settling against the front of his.

  * * *

  Adonis slept soundly for the first time in over a year, his last thoughts of Lydia’s first word when she realized there was someone in her bedchamber.

  Jasper.

  That her late husband’s name would come to her lips before words of fright or suspicion had him so surprised, he couldn’t help the feeling of relief that washed over him. He had spent an entire year imagining what she might be like, at least on the few days he had the full use of his faculties and wasn’t losing entire hours spending too much time in his head.

  He imagined her cold-hearted. Warm-hearted. Cruel. Kind. Demanding. Easygoing. Ugly. Gorgeous. Large. Small. Round. Tall. Short.

  He never imagined her to be what she was—a complex, beautiful, wounded woman who had no idea how it was she ended up married to the likes of Jasper Barrymore.

  Perhaps she didn’t want to know. At least she knew Jasper Barrymore was a spy. How many wives of spies could admit to knowing their husband’s profession?

  How many spies are even married? Adonis wondered instead.

  A year ago, Commander Jasper Barrymore, bleeding profusely and struggling to catch his breath, had professed to love his wife. To feel regret at having left her in London whilst he led a small contingent of Wellington’s men to what would be their almost total demise. “I never spoke the words, nor did she, but I go to my death hoping... believing she loved me,” he struggled to get out as Adonis tried to make him comfortable on the ground of the battlefield on which most of their small band of soldiers had perished.

  The words.

  Men are such fools, Adonis remembered thinking that day, and again later that evening as the smoke cleared and the evidence of a battle lost made itself completely apparent. The impact of what he had promised his commander hit him harder than the Frenchman who had attempted to kill him. The one he had dispatched with a single bullet to the head.

  “Promise me you’ll look after her,” Jasper whispered, his gasps for air more labored now that he seemed to be choking on his own blood.

  “I will, of course,” Adonis had replied, his words meant more to placate than to promise.

  “Provide protection,” Jasper Barrymore ordered. The commanding officer coughed several times, the spasms becoming weaker as he bled out. “Promise me, Truscott. There’s a knighthood in your future, you must know.”

  Adonis remembered thinking he didn’t give a rat’s ass if there was a knighthood scheduled to be bestowed on him. The pain in his leg was so severe, he was sure he would pass out at any moment, probably die from his wound.

  Making the promise had been easy, for at the time, he didn’t think he would live to see the next day, let alone the shores of Britain.

  To see her.

  “I will, I promise,” he repeated, hoping his words would allow the commander to simply give up and die properly.

  But, then, Adonis didn’t die as he should have. Anyone who paid witness to his wounded leg would think he should have perished the moment it broke. Seeing part of a bone jutting out from beneath the skin should have made him physically ill, but he was so spent—so exhausted—he couldn’t muster the necessary response. It was as if he was seeing someone else’s fractured leg. Someone else’s limb stretched out in front of him.

  His commander, leaning heavily against his left side, wasn’t aware of the blood that dripped down Adonis’ right cheek, making it appear as if he cried tears of blood.

  The commander finally took his last breath just as the sun appeared on the eastern horizon. A few minutes later, another group from Wellington’s contingent—those left from the battle closer to Brussels, found Adonis and loaded him onto a stretcher. The pain had been so excruciating, he found he had to retreat into his head to tolerate the agony. He remembered a Dutch doctor saying he would be taking the leg, while another argued it could be saved. Another round of agony, another visit to the inside of his head and pleasant thoughts that helped him keep what little sanity he had left.

  Was it any wonder he still preferred to retreat into his head when he sensed the need for safety? When he needed a blissful state of existence without pain?

  So why did he tend to revisit that afternoon on the battlefield? That night? The following morning?

  Or the week before? When he had discovered the lifeless body of the only woman he had ever loved?

  For when his thoughts took him from the here and now, they tended to drift to a time when he felt exhaustion, pain, despair, hunger, and thirst. To a time of his greatest loss. To a time when he held up Jasper Barrymore during his last hours.

  Was the weight of a promise made to a dying man really so crushing?

  Now that he’d had a chance to converse with Lady Barrymore, Adonis wondered if Jasper Barrymore had known exactly what he was doing. By making Adonis promise to provide protection for his widow, Lord Barrymore was ensuring Adonis would be forced to meet her. Spend time in her company. Stay with her every night.

  Did the man also know Adonis would come to feel affection for her? For what else could explain why it was he felt compelled to kiss her the very first moment he was alone in her company?

  But what had compelled her to kiss him?

  Adonis hugged Lydia a bit closer and finally settled her onto the bed. For the first time in a year, Adonis found himself thanking instead of cursing Jasper Barrymore.

  “Go to sleep, my lady,” he murmured.

  But Lydia Barrymore was already sound asleep.

  Chapter 19

  A Puzzle Proves Puzzling

  The next morning, June 21, 1816

  Despite having cried herself to sleep the night before, Lydia awoke feeling rather refreshed, a feeling of calm having settled over her at some point during the night.

  Perhaps it was because a year had passed since Jasper’s d
eath and it was time to move on with her life. Her year of mourning was over, even though she would be considered a widow for the rest of her life. Or perhaps it was because she’d learned more about Jasper’s fate. About his last hours of life.

  Yes, that was it, she decided. Just knowing how he died provided some closure. Knowing he was in the company of Adonis Truscott certainly explained why the knight felt compelled to spend time in her company—far better it was someone she now knew than some stranger she could never hope to meet.

  Rachel opened the drapes and was about to head to the fireplace when she realized her mistress was awake. Lydia had already started pulling on the wool stockings the maid had left on the edge of the bed.

  “Good mornin’, milady,” Rachel said as she bobbed a curtsy. “I’m to tell you a footman just delivered a new puzzle. Jenkins put it in the parlor,” she added as she picked up the empty coal can from the hearth. “I’ll be back to help you dress,” she said, turning to leave the bedchamber as Lydia frowned.

  A puzzle? But I haven’t ordered one, she thought before she realized from just where the footman might have come. She had her chemise and wool stockings pulled on before Rachel returned with the coal. “No need to start another fire,” she said as the maid set the coal bucket on the brick hearth. “I’ll be heading down to the parlor just as soon as I’m dressed.”

  Rachel blinked. “So, will you be taking your breakfast in the parlor then, milady?” she asked as she set a cup of chocolate on the vanity.

  “Yes, that will do,” Lydia replied, not having thought about breakfast since Rachel’s news of the delivery. She set about getting into a corset while the maid helped with the ties. “Has there been any word from the locksmith?”

  There was a pause as Rachel pulled the corset strings tight and hurriedly laced them. “Jenkins says the man is due this mornin’. Not a moment too soon, if ya ask me, seein’ as how someone was in the gardens last night.”