For the Love of a Soldier

by Victoria Morgan

  The room was stifling. Why did men wear cravats? Like a noose around one’s neck, they choked. She glanced up and noted Kendall appeared to have once again read her mind, for he removed his black evening jacket.

  The man proceeded to brazenly roll up his sleeves and bare his forearms. She was riveted to every movement of his crisp white dress shirt sliding back to reveal his muscular, bronzed arms. She swallowed. Good Lord. It was indecent. He cocked a brow at her, and she stiffened. It was her move and all eyes rested on her.

  She was suddenly grateful for the hateful cravat, as it hid the burning flush stealing up her neck. She met the bet and turned to await Richmond’s play, avoiding Kendall. Why did his return to town have to coincide with hers? Like an ominous shadow, he darkened her mood and her hopes.

  “Have you received news from the front?” Richmond addressed Kendall.

  Alex turned, surprised by the question but glad for the sobering distraction. News of the Crimea should help her regain her focus, cool her burning cheeks.

  Kendall’s hand paused in placing his bet, but then he shrugged. “Nothing the papers haven’t covered.”

  Linden leaned forward, his expression thunderous. “That bloody Russell should be fired for his libelous dribble. He’s—”

  “Accurate,” Kendall cut the viscount off, his eyes hard. “Pity Lord Raglan’s command wasn’t as competent as Russell’s pen. It might have saved a lot of bloodshed.”

  A taut silence stretched over the table.

  Alex was stunned. Kendall hadn’t served up the usual loyal drivel glorifying hard-fought campaigns or extolling a long life for the empire. Kendall voiced the dark and bitter truth.

  She had heard murmurs of William Russell’s reports in the Times publicizing the troops’ suffering from shortages of food, clothing, and medicines, but she didn’t need to read his accounts. She had heard from the soldiers themselves, and her heart had bled for them, for the carnage the Light Brigade had left after its disastrous charge at Balaclava last October.

  She swallowed and glanced up to see Kendall’s enigmatic eyes resting on her. She dropped her gaze and blinked furiously, cursing her momentary lapse and his words for touching her. But they had. Contrary to the opinions of some, she was not made of stone.

  “Yes, well, to those who fought with courage.” Richmond broke the silence, raising his glass in a toast, the others following suit. “Their glory will not fade.” He echoed the poignant line of Lord Tennyson’s tribute to the fallen men.

  Kendall’s hand tightened on his glass before he lifted it in response, but he set it down without drinking and turned to Chandler. “I believe it’s your bet.”

  Frowning at Kendall’s untouched brandy glass, Alex’s head shot up. For a span of time, she had forgotten the game. That had never happened to her before. A bad omen.

  She shook off the thought. She had a good hand, a solid hand. Her last card had completed her full house. The Langdon luck had come through.

  Chandler sighed and tossed his cards onto the table. “My glory has faded. I fold.”

  “No more prized bloodstock to throw into the pot?” Filmore quipped.

  “Not tonight. This evening my sights are set on the fillies downstairs, but I won’t be riding them if I waste my time and money here with you gentlemen.”

  Inwardly, she cringed at the vulgarity.

  “I’m out as well.” Richmond folded his hand and leaned back in his chair. He withdrew a cigar from his jacket and waved a passing servant over for a light.

  “Gentlemen, shall we call this hand?” Kendall asked.

  Alex edged forward in her seat, heart pumping. She would win.

  Fillmore tossed down his cards. “Pair of kings.” At Linden’s snort of laughter, he shrugged. “Worth a bluff. But I believe I’ll join Chandler downstairs.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s hope you have more luck with the ladies than at cards,” Kendall said, spreading his hand on the table. A straight flush.

  Linden whistled, shaking his head. “Christ, Kendall, tell me you’re joining the others downstairs. Leave a man something to hope for in the next round.”

  “There’s still hope. Daniels hasn’t laid down his hand,” Richmond said. “Alex, any chance you have a royal flush?”

  Alex jumped as all eyes locked on her. She concentrated on drawing a steady breath as the room spiraled around her, a whirlpool sucking her down.

  She had lost. Lost everything.

  One hundred pounds; her meager fortune gone. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. She blinked at the cards. Heat flooded her body, and the smell from Richmond’s cigar gagged her. In a flash, she knew what ran through the condemned’s head before the noose tightened and their feet flailed beneath them in those final seconds of life. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  It took all her strength to spread her cards over the table rather than grip the edge of it and hold on for dear life as the room spun. After she ceded victory to Kendall, Filmore slapped him on the back, but their words and laughter barely penetrated her dazed fog. She had never seen a straight flush. Hoped to never see another.

  Chandler and Filmore shoved their seats back and rose.

  It took her a moment to realize Filmore had addressed her. He had to repeat her name and his invitation to join him and Chandler downstairs.

  She moistened her lips, not trusting herself to speak. Willing her legs to support her, she slid back her chair and stood.

  Yes. Escape. Flee the scene of her ruin. Find a private place to think or curl into a ball and will the world away.

  She cleared her throat and managed to voice an appropriate parting to the table. Her feet followed Chandler and Filmore while she marveled at her body’s ability to function when her mind could no longer.

  Voices and masculine laughter floated through the room, a river of life flowing by without her. She jumped at the explosive clatter of billiard balls, the noise shattering her daze. In a flash of clarity, she sent her companions ahead under the auspices of getting a stiff drink to drown out the bitter taste of her loss.

  She had faced ruin before. It had not beaten her, and it would not beat her now. The Langdon well of luck might be bone-dry, but the Langdon spirit will revive. She heard her father’s words and closed her eyes.

  She wished he would shut the hell up.

  He had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She slid a finger underneath her cravat and tugged at the tie.

  A waiter carrying a tray of drinks passed. Alex summoned him over when suddenly a steel grip curled around her upper arm and she was dragged to the side of the room. Speechless at the audacity, she stumbled, gasping when the hold tightened to steady her. Before she could recover, her captor reached across her and shoved open the adjacent window. A blast of cool air whipped in, fanning her flushed cheeks and shattering her shocked immobility.

  “Still going to pass out?”

  Her head jerked back at the words. Enraged, she yanked her arm free and whirled around to confront her assailant. Her words died in her throat and she staggered back a step. Steel gray eyes bored into hers.

  Kendall.

  Why had he followed her? What more did he want?

  His eyes narrowed on her. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Indignant, she met his gaze before her eyes strayed to the pulsing beat in the column of his throat, mesmerized by the strip of golden skin. He had discarded his cravat and opened the top buttons of his shirt. It was scandalous. She smelled Richmond’s cigar on him. His linen shirt stretched over broad shoulders and clung to a rock-solid body standing intimately, dangerously close. Too close.

  Towering over her, he was formidable. She stepped away until the wall braced her back and cut off further retreat.

  “Christ.” Kendall spun her around again to face the window, prodding her toward it. “Breathe.”

  She cursed the man but sucked in deep, calming breaths of the cool air. She damned him for being right and herself for
being a fool. She couldn’t afford to pass out or lose her wits. Thanks to him, she had lost enough this evening.

  The urge to faint passed along with the fleeting hope that Kendall would disappear. Collecting the shattered remnants of her dignity, she planted a hand on the windowsill and braced herself to face the man, ignoring the staccato rhythm of her heart.

  His brow furrowed, the now-familiar frown curving his lips. Minus the scowl, the man was striking. She noticed he was thin, not gaunt, but pure sinew, hard angles and whipcord strength held in tight rein.

  Confused at her train of thought, she pressed her hand to her temple. Suddenly aware the gesture made her appear as if she still planned to faint, she jerked it down.

  She drew in a steadying breath before meeting those eyes. “Thank you.” The words nearly choked her, but years of ingrained etiquette forced them out.

  “Christ. You fools get younger every year. How old are you?”

  She stiffened and thrust her chin up. “Old enough.”

  His lips pressed into a firm line, but he did not question her further. After an interminable silence, he spoke. “I’ve ruined enough men’s lives, but I draw the line at boys. Here.”

  She stared at him blankly until she realized he was shoving something at her. She nearly gasped at what he held. Her notes. Blood rushed to her face. He was returning his winnings to her.

  “Take it,” Kendall demanded.

  Her hand lifted, then snapped back to her side where she curled it into a fist. No, she couldn’t. If she accepted it, she could never show her face in a card room again. She bit her lip. She felt like the fox fleeing those hunters, wondering if the escape route before her led to safety or another trap.

  She needed to think, but he never gave her the chance.

  Swearing, he caught her hand and dumped the notes into it, curling her fingers around them. He wore no gloves, and she shuddered at the touch of his bare skin against hers. His hand was hard, his fingers calloused.

  “Next time, don’t bet what you can’t afford to lose.” He turned away.

  “I’ll pay you back.” Finding her voice, her words bounced off his broad back.

  “Don’t bother.” He didn’t break stride as he answered. “I don’t want it.” He was clearly done with the matter. Done with her.

  Stricken by his response, she stared at his retreating figure in silence. His gracious gesture burned to ash under his scorching dismissal. The transaction meant nothing to the man. To her it meant everything.

  Everything.

  To Kendall she was simply a prick at his conscience, a blister he felt compelled to lance. While surprised he possessed a conscience, she hated him for it. She recalled his comment about the men he had ruined. His words disturbed her, but envisioning his cold, slate gray gaze, she believed them. After all, he had nearly ruined her.

  Realizing she stood blankly staring at Kendall’s back, she searched her surroundings. She feared facing censure for not honoring her bet. But no one glanced her way. Only Kendall was privy to her loss of face.

  All the more reason to detest the man.

  She blinked away the moisture blurring her vision as she shoved her notes into her trouser pocket, hiding the incriminating evidence. She withdrew her gloves and shoved her hands into them. Damn him. He wouldn’t make her cry. She never cried.

  She needed to get out of here.

  Ducking her head, she fled the room, suppressing the urge to run. Why bother? There was no escaping the man. Storm gray eyes were branded in her memory. No matter how fast she fled, they would follow.

  Chapter Two

  LIGHT from the sconces flickered over the hallway outside the gaming room. Alex’s stomach churned and she feared losing its meager contents. She needed to find a ladies’ parlor room and recompose herself. Stopping short, she nearly caused the gentleman behind her to collide with her. She murmured an apology, her cheeks burning under the man’s curious regard as he passed.

  For goodness sake, she couldn’t enter a ladies’ room. Rattled, she pressed a hand to her stomach. She needed to get out of here, preferably without encountering anyone with whom she’d be forced to converse with a modicum of intelligence, for she had left hers in the card room.

  Changing plans, she whirled to retrace her steps. She had visited the Duke of Hammond’s estate before, thus was familiar with its layout. Once upon a time, she had been a guest of the duke’s daughter, Lady Olivia, and she recalled a side patio along the back entrance to the estate. There she should find little traffic to hinder her flight.

  With renewed purpose, her steps quickened. The duke housed many guests during the ball and some throughout the Season, so the servants paid her little heed.

  She traversed the portrait gallery. The click of her boots on the hardwood floors reverberated throughout the empty chamber while the eyes in the portraits appeared to follow her flight with disapproval. She opened a hidden door to descend a dimly lit back stairway. Her tension didn’t ease until she crossed the parlor and flung open the French doors leading to the deserted patio.

  Alex closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. A towering oak abutted the patio and blocked the moon, veiling the area in ink black darkness. The back of the estate opened to an award-winning garden lined with sculptured topiaries, mazes, and a rainbow of flowers. It was an oasis in the midst of London’s fog-blanketed environs. A cool breeze ruffled the hairs of Alex’s wig and brushed free the heavy yoke that had settled over her shoulders.

  The ballroom was on the opposite side of the house. Laughter and voices from guests strolling into the garden and its maze mingled with the distant sounds of the orchestra. Alex listened to the soothing melody of a waltz. She would be all right. She had not won her fortune, but neither had she lost one thanks to Kendall. More important, she had escaped her uncle’s sordid plans for her. She had eluded his greedy grasp, and she vowed to continue to do so no matter the cost. Her stomach growled, reminding her that sometimes the price was dear indeed.

  She strolled toward the massive oak tree and removed her gloves to slide her fingers over the immense trunk. The gnarled bark was a solid comfort beneath her touch. In another lifetime, her brazen behavior would be considered scandalous. She stood under a cloak of darkness where dangers to an innocent, unchaperoned young woman could lurk in hidden corners, like wolves ready to pounce.

  Predatory gray eyes invaded her thoughts and Alex grinned ruefully. She had met the beast and survived the encounter, bruised and battered, but still alive. As for social etiquette, she had breached those boundaries years ago.

  With a sigh, she leaned against the trunk and struggled to collect her thoughts. As she contemplated her present plight, the French doors swung open. Instinctually, she ducked behind the oak, out of sight from the intruders. While cursing the interruption of her solitude, she peered around the oak.

  Two men stormed outside, the taller of the pair groomed in uncompromising black. He blended into the night with only his pale features, snow white cravat, and silk gloves outlined in the darkness. He turned to pace the patio, anger etched into his impatient strides.

  The second man, a footman, was shorter and wore the maroon-and-gold jacket of Hammond’s livery. His lighter jacket and the white stockings beneath his formal knee breeches carved his stout silhouette into the dark backdrop.

  “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in? It’s invitation only, and I know damn well you don’t work here.” The tall man broke stride, his voice, low and nasal, hissed with barely restrained fury. “Need I remind you that we shouldn’t be seen together? I’m not paying for idiocy. I’m—”

  “I know wot yer be payin’ me for,” interrupted the shorter man, unruffled. “A few quid greasin’ the right ’ands opens most doors.” He glanced around. “Least those downstairs.” His coarse speech was of the East End or Seven Dials. “An’ thot’s why I’m ’ere,” he added.

  The tall man went deathly still. After a prolonged silence he sputtered, “What?
Why?”

  “I’ve reconsidered me fee.” The would-be footman thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  “What?” his companion breathed. Alex could almost hear the man swallow before continuing, his next sentence forced out between clenched teeth. “Christ. What the hell are you talking about? I’ve paid you. My terms are nonnegotiable.”

  The shorter man grunted. “Murder’s always negotiable. ’Less yer be takin’ me ter the magistrate o’er the terms of our agreement.”

  Silence met the brazen words.

  Alex dared not breathe. Her fingers dug into the bark.

  “Not likely, eh? Magistrate’s not partial to gents ’irin’ killers, particularly when their target’s a wounded war ’ero, survivor of Balaclava and all.” His words became more heated. “Yer ferget to mention thot, guv’nor? Didn’t yer be thinkin’ it might increase ’is value? After all, ain’t no ordinary bloke we be dealin’ with.”

  Pinned to the tree, Alex’s eyes widened, her heart thundering. They discussed murder. Murdering a soldier. A Crimean War hero! She bit back the protest that sprang to her lips.

  Another lengthy silence ensued. Only the distant sounds of the music dared interrupt it. A light nocturne drifted to them until the taller man sliced into it with his curt response. “Forget it. There’s no more money.”

  The stout man stormed over to his companion, crowding him. “Then get yer bleedin’ wounded war ’ero to sell ’is commission. There’s money to be ’ad there, and the poor sod won’t be needin’ it no more. My price went up ’nother five ’undred quid. Find it. Thot’s if yer wantin’ the bloody job completed.” The man spun away.

  A wounded soldier. Alex’s heart squeezed. To survive the carnage in the Crimea only to be killed through this sordid arrangement. She closed her eyes. Faces of the men for whom she had cared loomed before her.

  This man, this nameless man they planned to kill, was one of them. A survivor when but a third of the soldiers had walked away from the suicidal charge that marked that tragic battle at Balaclava.