“Can you believe he came out of seclusion to attend this evening?” a woman at the other end of the table queried.
A few mumbles and murmurs followed the statement. It seemed seeing Nathan about Town was something of a miracle.
“Fat lot of good his presence made since he left almost immediately,” Captain Forsythe said on her left. “He’s never been the same since he came back from Spain.”
“His nephew mentioned in passing Lord Ravenhurst was in the military, but he didn’t expand the conversation.” Any man worth his salt or longing for adventure had gone away to fight Napoleon and leave their mark with patriotism for king and country. “I assume it’s something Ravenhurst wished to keep secret since I’ve not heard the tale.”
“Only a few of his trusted acquaintances know it.” Henry, at her right, snorted. “But like anything else, nothing is sacred, and over the years, portions of the story leaked out, at least among the male segment of the population and members of White’s. He was of a mind to make a lifelong career out of it, and would have done it since he was a fearsome leader on the battlefield.”
“So, what happened?” Charlotte took another spoonful of soup then pushed the bowl away. “And how did he come to be such a recluse from Society?” Her heartbeat quickened. Finally, she’d discover the answers to the enigmatic marquess.
“I don’t suppose there’s much harm in the telling of it now since he’s apparently hell-bent on re-entering Society with flair.” The captain wiped his bushy mustache with a linen napkin. “Three years ago, Ravenhurst was taken captive by a bloodthirsty French regiment while in Spain. The bastards shot him off his horse. They tied his wrists and ankles then drug him behind their supply wagon for two miles to their camp, regardless that he’d dislocated his shoulder in the fall.”
Charlotte gawked at her dining companion. “How awful.”
“It gets worse,” Henry interjected. When she trained her attention on him, he continued the tale. “Rumor has it the French took pity on the marquess. They popped the shoulder back into place, but that’s when the torture began. You see, Ravenhurst had been entrusted with troop movements and other intelligence he needed to relay to Wellington. Stubborn man that he is, he slipped the notes from a hollow heel of his boot while his captors were sleeping and swallowed every last scrap. When his tormentors discovered he had no paperwork on his person, they tortured him with hot pokers from their campfires as well as using a whip on his back, renewing their efforts when he wouldn’t give up England’s defense secrets.”
“Beyond that,” Captain Forsythe continued. “One of his closest friends had betrayed his position to the French to begin with. The man sold out in exchange for his life.”
“Oh my goodness.” Charlotte’s stomach tightened. “Poor Nathan.” No wonder he strove to avoid everyone. Perhaps he felt he couldn’t trust people. The betrayal had to hurt worse than the torture, at least mentally. Silence descended on the dining room as every eye was trained on Henry. Obviously, no one else in the room had heard the marquess’ tale. “Did they eventually let him go?”
Captain Forsythe dropped his spoon into his empty soup bowl. It clamored against the china, harsh in the silence. “Oh no. Ravenhurst held out for five months. He bore whatever the frogs dealt out, but then they brought a new prisoner to camp—his sister’s husband, Grantley.”
Charlotte gripped her napkin. She alternately wanted to hear the rest but feared the outcome. “They killed Grantley, didn’t they?” Try as she might, she couldn’t remember any scuttlebutt surrounding Nathan’s sister. Perhaps she’d been selfish over the years and had only concerned herself with her own situation and suitors. Sour bile hit the back of her throat. Never again would she be that person.
“Shot him right in the back, in front of Ravenhurst as punishment. The stories say the wound didn’t kill him right away. That particular group of French soldiers was reviled and feared for their violence and horrid treatment of prisoners.” Henry paused while the butler and his staff replaced the soup bowls with plates of apple-stuffed quail and roasted root vegetables in a rich gravy. Once everyone was served, he resumed. “It’s said his sister never forgave Ravenhurst for failing to protect her husband and bring him back alive. She reminds him of the fact at every chance she gets.”
“It was hardly his fault!” Charlotte exclaimed. When a few questioning glances landed on her, heat infused her cheeks for her vehement outburst. “I mean, the man was a prisoner. His options were limited.” She couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through in that situation, to have to watch his relation die a horrifically slow death. Then, to finally come home and have his sister bedevil him for circumstances beyond his control must have induced rage and madness.
“Indeed.” The captain popped a large bite of potato in his mouth then chewed furiously. “They tied the body to a tree near Ravenhurst’s as a reminder. The man had no choice but to watch his kin rot in the sun and be picked apart by animals at night for weeks.”
“Good God, Forsythe, you are much too graphic for the digestion,” a woman farther down the table complained. “Must you continue with such a grim story?”
“Please allow him to finish.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “I suspect the tale is nearing its completion. Perhaps we all needed to hear it tonight if only to understand him better. Or as a reminder to ourselves that there is more to life than the trivialities we regularly complain of.”
“Quite so,” the captain rejoined. “The man has more fortitude than anyone I’ve seen. We always said he’d be too obstinate to die.” He sliced into his quail with gusto. “It took Ravenhurst a month, but he finally escaped one moonless night while the bulk of the regiment was out on patrol. The stories say he staggered out of camp, weak from hunger and loss of blood, his wounds infected, with his hands still tied, stole a horse then rode until both he and the horse were nearly dead. By the time he tumbled from the saddle, he’d reached a British outpost and was sent back to England’s shores shortly thereafter, clinging to life but none the worse for wear unless you count the mental anguish.”
Henry nodded. “They said the rage Ravenhurst strives to control kept him alive and silent throughout his ordeal, but it is also the rage that keeps him apart from Society. Such a man should be alone.”
“Can you blame him?” Charlotte stared at her untouched dinner. She had no appetite left, and the thought of trying to eat caused her stomach to heave. “That ordeal would make a man reluctant to trust, don’t you think? Of course he’s angry! Who would expect another human being to do such things to their fellow man?” None of the company answered her. Perhaps they didn’t care. It was, after all, merely one story that made up a small corner of Society. “He’d question every person’s motive and the wounds he’d incurred… Dear God, he probably didn’t want anyone to touch him for some time after returning to England.” Not to mention what the scars on his soul had done to him. No wonder he didn’t want sympathy; it made a man weak. In a way, he wished for acceptance regardless of what had happened. And not many gave it to him.
“Perhaps.” Henry sighed. “It also makes a man too damaged for much of anything else, regardless of the admiration his tale elicits.”
She glanced at him. “There is hope for every person as long as they’re given understanding and kindness.” She thought back over her dealings with Nathan and tears sprang to her eyes. He’d been so brave, so courageous. He’d never uttered a word for excuse. And now he was pitied in Society. It must grate on his nerves and add oil to an already raging fire.
A frown pulled at Henry’s thin lips. “Some men are not fit to live with let alone be seen within Society. You’d do well to steer away from him, Charlotte.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “There are much better men to set your cap for.”
“I haven’t set my cap for anyone.” Though she wanted nothing more than to push away from the table and storm from the room, she resisted. Once word made its way to her mother, she’d never let Charlotte forget her appal
ling manners. “I merely think it’s ridiculous to avoid a man simply because he’s a bit prickly around the edges.”
Henry scoffed. “Prickly, you think? The man’s a monster. Any woman who aligns herself with him should have our prayers, for it’s only a matter of time before his temper lands on her.”
“Good luck if that is your wish,” Captain Forsythe added. “I sincerely doubt Ravenhurst is capable of love or affection, even if Amherst hadn’t promised the marquess to his daughter. But then, in that situation, no love could bloom anyway. That union is merely for position and coin.”
One of the men down the table snorted. “Perhaps we shall place wagers on the match at White’s.”
Charlotte stewed beneath the gay laughter, railed silently when the conversation turned to other members of the ton, but the ridicule didn’t sway her mind. Now, more than ever, she wanted to befriend the marquess, and if not bring him up to scratch, then show him he was worthy of her regard, worthy of friendship and trust. He didn’t need to accept her overtures; he merely needed to know someone cared. Perhaps that would soothe his savage soul.
Damn and blast. Nathan stared out the parlor window at Brook Street. Snow, again. Granted, it was light and comprised of fluffy flakes, but he didn’t wish to be out in it, and especially not for the express purpose of listening to yet another elderly lord drone on about a law that had little hope of passing. He glanced at his sister. “Some days are more of a trial than others. If it weren’t for Parliament I could be in the country right now.”
Alexandra set her teacup on the table in front of her. “Doing what? Riding through your snow-covered acreage? Hunting? Tucking yourself away on some quiet corner of the property to reflect on how terrible you think your life is?”
He turned fully and pinned her with a look. “You think it’s not?” Why was he forever at odds with his sister? When they were children, avoiding their father’s wrath had bonded them close. It was only after she’d married and he took the title that they drifted apart. “After the torture and maltreatment, after being forgotten from my own country, after constantly struggling to keep the rage in check once I came home, haunted by nightmares and the sting of betrayal?”
“You’re alive. It could be worse.” She stared back, uncowed. “Sitting in Parliament is your lot in life. It does no good to complain. If you do not care for it, give up your title and let Jamie try his hand.”
Nathan snorted. “Jamie is far too immature for the task. The older lords would eat him alive.” Especially once his sexual preference got out. “I’d like for him to remain in training for a few more years, or to at least enjoy his life before he must take up this one.”
“Pish posh.” She narrowed her eyes. “For whatever reason, you have changed your mind about letting him have a go at it. If I were a stupid woman, I’d say it was because of your imminent announcement concerning Lady Sophia, but you’ve avoided her since returning to London. There must be another reason.”
“The only reason is my dislike of the world in general.” It was vastly overrated and disappointing. Besides, he didn’t like her scrutiny by half. “I have told you before. I don’t wish to court Lady Sophia.”
“You must. Plans are in the works and they hinge on your making a match with her.” Alexandra rose smoothly then shook out her skirts. “Don’t you think you owe me this since you didn’t bring my husband home?”
His chest tightened. Of course she would mention that again. “So, that’s your game? You intend to bedevil me, guilt me, until I do your bidding all because of Grantley’s death?” How much badgering could he take before the anger took control?
“I have every right.” Her voice sounded as chilly as the world outside.
“You are a candidate for Bedlam if that’s what you think. I couldn’t have saved Grantley if I’d wanted to, and I did. You have no idea. You weren’t there. You were spared the ghastliness of seeing him, day in and day out, while unspeakable things happened to him.” The horror of the situation hurtled into his mind and graveled his voice. “You weren’t there watching helpless when every fiber of your being wanted, strained to help but couldn’t. In some ways it was worse than the physical torture they gave me.” He’d never be free of those images.
“You could have tried harder.” Bitterness laced her voice. “If you’d truly wanted to, you could have saved him as well as yourself.”
“Right. Forgive me for not striving for perfection while being beaten.” The familiar heat of anger spread through his insides. “Thank you for reminding me of my mere mortal status.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your debt to me is not yet paid, brother dear.”
“Do not think to guilt me into matrimony.” He couldn’t spend one more moment in her company. “I may prefer my life at the country estate to living in Town, but that doesn’t mean I’m anxious to set up housekeeping with any woman, least of all someone you’ve selected for me with little more thought than how that union will benefit you. I grow weary of living my life for everyone else when what I want is impossible to obtain.” He stopped short of blurting it out.
“Ah. There is another who has occupied your attention.” Alexandra’s laugh was forced. “You wish to align yourself with the Darrington woman. That is folly, Ravenhurst.”
Botheration, his sister was shrewd. “You’ll be pleased to know I haven’t seen Lady Charlotte since the Armenstout soirée days ago, and even then I’m afraid I cut her rather publicly. In fact, I left within minutes of arriving.” Shame for his treatment of Charlotte in front of her friends burned through him. He hadn’t needed to resort to such, but he’d sunk low.
“I heard you made quite the impression. The women were confused as to your purpose and the men were asking for wagers on whether you’ll wed Lady Sophia. One could say you enjoy turning Society on its ear for all your reclusiveness and now the daftness you persist in showing when you are out in public.”
“Yes, well, we cannot all be the paragons of virtue you are.”
“No need to come the crab.” She leveled an assessing stare on him. “Besides, I’ve heard your wonderful Lady Charlotte enjoys playing the field. She has so many men dancing attendance on her, no doubt her own announcement will be in the offing before the month is out.”
Annoyance stabbed at his chest. “Is that right?” He’d been under the impression she didn’t care for courting and didn’t have her cap set for anyone.
“Yes, and Henry Armenstout is a front runner. I think they’d suit admirably.” She took a sip of tea before abandoning the beverage altogether. Alexandra cocked an eyebrow. “Why were you at his soiree if you didn’t stay long enough to accomplish anything? I was told by a friend you nearly came to blows with the man.”
“It’s none of your concern.” He stormed to the door. She didn’t need to know he went looking for Charlotte then almost had a fight on his hands to find her conversing with an unsavory gentleman. It didn’t matter anyway if Charlotte would encourage attentions from the pup anyway. “Good day.”
“If I don’t see you before retiring tonight, do remember we have the opera tomorrow with Lady Sophia and Amherst.”
“How can I bloody well forget when you harp about her every damn day?” He didn’t care if she heard it. By the time he reached the foyer, his anger had reached a boiling point. The heat of it blazed through his veins and made his heartbeat throb in his temples. There was no time to set aside for meditation or chaste calm. He didn’t want to spend another minute under the same roof as his sister, so when Sanders handed him his greatcoat, gloves and top hat, Nathan whipped them on as fast as his fingers would allow.
The butler hovered nearby. “Will you require a carriage, my lord?”
“No, Sanders. I shall walk, thank you. I welcome the chance to stretch my legs and clear my head.” Nathan wrapped a woolen muffler around his neck. “Don’t expect my return until long after midnight. I suspect the Parliament session will run long this evening.”
“Very good, sir.” S
anders held the door open then closed it once Nathan cleared the stoop.
Devil take all the women in my life. Why must they be so obstinate? Nathan followed the steps to the street below then set out down it. Perhaps when he reached Bond Street, he’d stop at a particular chocolate shop and indulge in a coffee before he needed to continue on to the Parliament buildings. Why couldn’t women be placid, sweet, angelic counterparts that made life around a man better? He snickered at his incongruous thought. One of the things he admired about Charlotte was that she most certainly was not placid or angelic. He respected that she stood up to him and didn’t run screaming from him when the worst of his moods gripped him.
Not that she’s seen me at my worst.
Her words from their meeting weeks ago on his estate came back to him: A man can be strong and assertive without allowing his temper to harm the people around him. He knew, in his heart, she was correct. He only needed to stop trying not to follow in his father’s footsteps. Perhaps overthinking the problem made it worse. Fixing Charlotte’s image in his mind went long ways to promoting calm in his person. The time to lay bare his soul to her drew near, and once he made that confession, there would be no returning to his safe existence. She’d either judge him for his history or she wouldn’t. That was if she was even interested in him what with her alleged social calendar so full.
Snowflakes fell thick and furious around him, covering the ground and clinging to his coat. Before long, the scents of baking bread and pastries filled the air the closer he came to a bakery near the end of Brook Street. His stomach rumbled. His annoyance of the weather faded. Perhaps a jaunt inside for a scone would be just the thing to pull him from the doldrums. With renewed determination, he strode toward the bakery regardless of the people moving in the opposite direction. The second his attention wavered to brushing the snow from his sleeves, he collided with a pedestrian.
To Bed or to Wed Page 10