For Love or Honor

by Sarah M. Eden

  This was the Stanley she had missed so dearly. Perhaps he had not changed so entirely.

  “No, I do not.” The less-than-flattering opinions of others, though they stung a bit, did not weigh too heavily upon her; she had already found what she was looking for.

  “So they are blind and stupid.” Stanley’s lips twitched upward for the briefest moment.

  Marjie smiled back at him. “Please come,” she said. “Come sit by me. I won’t be lonely with you there.”

  Stanley shook his head. “I doubt you’d wish to be seen with me.”

  “Of course I would,” Marjie said. She clasped her hands together on her lap, the temptation to reach for him growing with every passing moment.

  Stanley’s forehead creased, his eyes still on Marjie. Was he at least considering coming?

  “I daresay you would clean up nicely,” Philip said. Marjie had forgotten he was even there. “A haircut and a good close shave ought to do the trick.”

  “Please, Stanley.” Marjie’s eyes didn’t leave Stanley’s weary face. He would improve with time, she was certain of it. But when he was well again, he would leave. She wanted every moment with him she could possibly have.

  “You could wear your dress uniform,” Philip said. “It is in far better shape than the rags you showed up in.”

  Marjie could see indecision in Stanley’s eyes. Perhaps they had convinced him. Her heart flipped in her chest. She would not have to endure another evening of thinking of him in his absence.

  “Of course,” Philip continued, “you would have to wear it with knee breeches. The patronesses are very strict about that requirement.”

  “Knee breeches?” Stanley didn’t seem happy about that.

  “Yes. You know, the lovely little knickers that buckle just below the knee so we men can display our well-shaped calves in silk hose and dancing shoes.”

  “I know what they are,” Stanley muttered.

  “Come on, then,” Philip said. “Drag yourself upstairs and get cleaned up. We can wait.”

  Marjie smiled at Stanley. They could most certainly wait.

  “I don’t think so, Philip.” Stanley’s gaze moved back to the fireplace, his expression cleared of every identifiable emotion. “Give Lady Jersey my apologies.”

  “She won’t be happy,” Philip said.

  “She will recover.”

  “Then you’re not coming?” Marjie could hear her own disbelief. Stanley had seemed nearly convinced, and then he’d abruptly decided against Almack’s.

  Stanley shook his head but didn’t look back at her.

  “Because . . .” She tried to piece it together. “Because of the knee breeches?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I realize they aren’t fashionable, but—” No. There had to be another reason. “Certainly you could endure knee breeches for one evening.”

  He shook his head again. Every inch of him radiated tension. Was he upset or merely extremely opposed to the fashion requirements of the invitation?

  “I would have to sit by myself.” Marjie blinked against the sting in her eyes. “You would abandon me because of knee breeches?”

  “I’m sorry,” Stanley whispered.

  Marjie sat watching him, confused. What had happened? What had changed? Stanley had spent nearly the entire Christmas house party where they’d met sitting with her and talking to her. Now her company was not even worth the inconvenience of uncomfortable attire.

  Philip sighed quietly. “Come, Marjie. As soon as Sorrel is ready, we’ll leave.”

  Marjie nodded mutely and rose to her feet. Stanley still watched the embers in the fireplace. “Will you come with us to the theater on Friday?” she asked him.

  Stanley’s posture did not give an inch.

  “There are no wardrobe requirements.” The words broke a little as she spoke them. How had she sunk so low in his esteem as to rank below his clothing consideration?

  “I will think on it.” He didn’t even look at her.

  “Marjie,” Philip whispered. He had come to stand beside her. “Come along.”

  Marjie allowed Philip to lead her away, though her gaze remained on Stanley. His brows were pulled together, his forehead deeply creased. His expression was not dismissive nor uncaring. Rather, he appeared burdened.

  She didn’t realize she’d stopped walking until she felt Philip tug lightly on her arm.

  “Something is weighing on him,” Marjie said as Philip walked with her out of the book room.

  “I’ve noticed that myself,” Philip said. “Sorrel is nearly out of patience with him.”

  “Patience never was Sorrel’s strongest trait.” They had reached the front entryway.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She has endured a great deal these past months and has been remarkably patient through it all.”

  “Patience with other people, then,” Marjie said. “She was always the strong one in the family. Fennel was the insightful sibling.”

  “And you?” Philip asked. “You are named for marjoram. I believe Sorrel said marjoram was a soothing herb.”

  “Yes. We’ve each made a point of living up to our names.”

  “How patient are you, Marjie?” Philip suddenly turned quite serious. “I am worried about my brother.” He glanced back toward the corridor they had just walked down before returning his gaze to her. “He was prone to heavy moods after Orthez but never this severe.”

  Nervousness tugged at Marjie’s stomach. “What can I do?”

  “Help me sort out what is wrong with him.” “If he won’t even talk to me or spend time with me, how am I supposed to—”

  “Don’t give up on him,” Philip said. “He was happier in those few weeks he spent with you than he had been in the months he’d spent at home before that. He needs you.”

  Marjie shook her head. “He didn’t even want to come tonight.”

  “I know, and I am sorry for that.”

  “I’m afraid I may have misread his feelings for me. If he really— He hasn’t even spoken to me.” Marjie pushed out a breath. She hadn’t let herself think about it, let alone speak the words out loud.

  Philip watched her closely. “If he didn’t love you”—Marjie winced—“would you help him anyway?”

  “I would,” she answered without hesitation. “I would do anything for him.”

  “Then be his friend,” Philip said. “I have my suspicions that you stand a better chance of piercing his armor than any of the rest of us.”

  “I am not at all sure of that.” She did not even detect signs of friendship in him, let alone anything beyond.

  “But you will help?”

  “Of course.”

  A moment later, she stood alone in the entryway. Philip had left to seek out Sorrel.

  Marjie closed her eyes. In her mind, she could see Stanley as he’d been during those beautiful weeks of the Christmas season and again in the days before he’d been recalled to his regiment. He had suffered a shoulder injury at the Battle of Orthez and had frequently been in pain, but he had been happy. His smile had come easily; his laughter had warmed her to her very core.

  Was that Stanley—the Stanley she had fallen so deeply in love with—still there somewhere? She had seen a glimpse of him for just a moment in the book room.

  When Sorrel had been so ill at Christmastime, Stanley had listened to all Marjie’s worries and concerns. He had been an unfailing source of support to her.

  Marjie took a deep breath and solidified her resolve. Stanley had stood as her friend during her difficulties. No matter his feelings, no matter the eventual outcome, she would do the same for him.

  Chapter Four

  “I must have lost my mind.” Stanley eyed his reflection in the mirror in the entryway. The uniform he wore hadn’t seen a single day of battle and was, therefore, in remarkably good condition.

  “Lost it? Pfft. I’d say ye finally found that rattlin’ old bacon canister of yours.”

  Bacon canister? Pluck had a
n odd way of saying things. He held Stanley’s shako out to him. It was not the most flattering of hats but was a requisite part of the uniform. Thankfully, so were gloves. “Cain’t think why ye’d be wantin’ to sit around all night with nothing but your own breathing to keep you company when you’ve a right dimber mort wishin’ for a bit of your time.”

  Perhaps bringing Pluck home with him had been a bad idea. “You cannot call any of the ladies of this house a ‘dimber mort.’”

  “It ain’t an insult,” Pluck insisted.

  “I know.” Years in the army had lent Stanley a remarkable familiarity with cant expressions. “But that does not make it appropriate.”

  “Don’t make it untrue either. You’ve a fine lady wanting you to go to the theater with her. Only a man with a vacant upper story would turn up his nose at that opportunity.”

  Some opportunity. He’d probably be only half awake by the first intermission. Attending would require being out in public. He would be stared at by strangers and asked probing questions by acquaintances. He really ought to do all of them a favor and stay home.

  “We are going to make a devastating pair tonight.” Philip came down the stairs, graceful as always. He had toned down his look a little: a dark-blue jacket and matching pantaloons. If not for the orange waistcoat, he might have looked subdued. “It’s a shame the dragoons’ uniform doesn’t have a bit more dash.”

  “The hat adds a bit of interest.” Stanley placed his shako on his head, careful to center it exactly. One learned the importance of precision in the army. Perfection often kept a soldier alive.

  “True.” Philip stopped next to Stanley, their reflections side by side in the long mirror. He seemed to study them both. “You’re missing something.”

  A leg, Stanley silently thought.

  “You’re not wearing your sabre. Is that not part of the uniform?”

  “Cap’n Jonquil doesn’t wear his sword anymore, Yer Grace.” Pluck bowed so formally and low his nose nearly touched his knees.

  “You don’t address an earl as Your Grace,” Stanley said.

  “Yer Most High and Mighty Lordship,” Pluck corrected, still bent nearly in half.

  Stanley shook his head and pulled Pluck upright by the back of his collar.

  Philip grinned. “Where did you find this gem?”

  “Loading the guns.” It was the barest version of the truth and the only one he could manage without thrusting himself back into unwanted memories. “He was horrible at it.”

  “I’m a much better batman,” Pluck said.

  “That’s debatable,” Stanley muttered.

  Pluck just laughed.

  “He seems to be doing well as your valet,” Philip said. He eyed Stanley in the mirror again. “He’s turned you out nicely, even if he did forget your sword.”

  “I told ye, Yer High and Mighty—”

  “‘Lord Lampton’ or ‘my lord’ would be sufficient, Pluck,” Stanley said.

  Philip stopped him. “No, I like the ‘high and mighty’ part. I think everyone should begin addressing me that way.” Philip grinned at Stanley the way he always had when as boys he and the second oldest, Layton, had undertaken their usual mischief.

  “Cap’n Jonquil don’t wear his sword anymore,” Pluck said. “Not since—”

  “Pluck.” Stanley snapped out the single syllable. Any one of his men would have recognized his tone for the warning it was.

  Pluck didn’t even pause. “Waterloo. Lord Hill told him he was supposed to wear it, seeing as it was part of his uniform.”

  “And he still didn’t?” Philip asked.

  Pluck shook his head. “Told ol’ Lord Hill to go to the devil.”

  Stanley turned to face Pluck but wasn’t given a chance to say a single word.

  “Was this before or after Lord Hill ordered Captain Jonquil back to England?” Philip asked, suddenly as sober as a judge.

  “Before,” Pluck answered. His eyes darted to Stanley, his look clearly one of defiance.

  “And he wasn’t court-martialed?” Philip’s attention didn’t waver from the overly talkative batman.

  Pluck shook his head. “Lord Hill likes our cap’n. Everyone likes our cap’n.”

  “That. Is. Enough.” Each syllable cracked against the walls of the entryway. “You have work to do.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Pluck grinned. “Have fun at the theatre.” He snapped a rather cheeky salute and sauntered away.

  “Your valet has a great deal of nerve,” Philip said.

  “Yes, well, Pluck isn’t his Christian name.”

  “A name he earned, then.” Philip chuckled.

  “Thoroughly.” Pluck had more courage than many grown men.

  “Why did you decide to make him your personal servant if he annoys you so much?”

  “It was his idea.”

  Philip laughed harder. “I like that boy.”

  “And what boy would that be?” Sorrel asked as she made her way down the stairs toward them. She had nearly as much trouble on stairs as Stanley did.

  “Stanley’s valet,” Philip said. “The boy has a mouth like a river: it never stops flowing.”

  “Has he been telling secrets?” Sorrel’s nearly constant solemnity stood in stark contrast to Philip’s unending joviality.

  “Of course he has.” Philip took the hand Sorrel wasn’t using to hold her walking stick and pulled her arm through his own. “That’s why I like him so much.”

  “Encouraging insolence among the servants.” Sorrel shook her head. “What will you think of next?” Her gaze settled on Stanley. “You look very nice this evening. Are you joining us?” She compressed her lips and narrowed her eyes on him as she waited for his answer.

  “I thought I might.” Stanley felt like a schoolboy nervously speaking to the schoolmaster.

  “And the sight of Philip’s wardrobe disaster didn’t change your mind?”

  “Disaster?” Philip scoffed. “It’s a masterpiece, a tribute to—”

  “The dangers of orange silk?” Sorrel tipped her head and raised an eyebrow. She looked Philip over with theatrical disapproval.

  Philip’s look of feigned shock very nearly slipped into a grin. Sorrel was good for him. She had managed what none of the rest of the family had. She had broken through Philip’s dandified mask.

  “Stanley?” His heart jumped at the unexpected sound of Marjie’s eager voice. “Are you coming with us?”

  Stanley watched her practically skip down the stairs. A breathtaking smile lit her face. Her eyes shone as brightly as he’d remembered them every single night he’d been away. He’d hated himself for tainting his memories of her with the sounds and smells of the battlefield, but without her to focus on, Stanley knew he would have gone mad.

  Marjie came directly to where he stood, gazing up at him. There was something almost blasphemous about looking at her with the same eyes that had watched men blown to pieces.

  “I had so hoped you would,” she said. “This is to be our last trip to the theatre before we return to Nottinghamshire.” She watched him, uncertainty in her expression.

  He managed a small smile. His heart thudded against his ribs at the smile he received in return.

  “I think you will like the show,” Marjie said, her enthusiasm returning. Stanley had nearly forgotten how joyful she always was. That aspect of her character had drawn him to her from the beginning—his life as a soldier was nearly devoid of happiness. “Lord Devereaux will be there. He was at Almack’s Wednesday night, and when I told him you might join us at the theatre, he said he would come along too.”

  “Lord Devereaux?” Stanley looked to Philip. Who was this Lord Devereaux, and what had he to do with Marjie?

  “You may have met him,” Philip said. “He is quite close with the Duke of Hartley. Active in Lords but has an atrocious sense of fashion.”

  “Which means he actually dresses like a reasonable person,” Sorrel said, her tone dry as dust.

  “I am astounded by you
r lack of enthusiasm, my dear.” Philip pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “One cannot underestimate the importance of one’s wardrobe.” Mischief twinkled in his eyes once more.

  Sorrel simply shook her head, tilting the sides of her mouth at an amused angle.

  “Lord Devereaux is older than you are,” Philip said to Stanley. “He’s been out of Society since his wife died. A fine gentleman, though, and apparently anxious to be in your company.”

  “You’ll like him, Stanley,” Marjie said. “I am certain of it.”

  An elderly widower seemed relatively unthreatening. Perhaps Lord Devereaux had reached the age of severe near-sightedness and would not notice anything amiss in Stanley’s appearance. A certain degree of deafness would help as well. Lord Devereaux would be far less likely to ask questions if he were unable to hear the answers.

  Thirty minutes later, however, Stanley felt like the veriest fool. Lord Devereaux arrived in the Lampton box shortly after they did. The elderly widower Stanley had been expecting proved to be quite young, surprisingly good-looking, and obviously in the pink of health. He greeted them all cordially and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Stanley, insisting “Miss Kendrick” had spoken highly of him.

  Lord Devereaux was offered the seat beside Marjie as the curtain rose. Stanley found himself relegated to the seat beside Philip. He’d agreed to come to the theatre only because the idea of being with Marjie for the length of an evening had outweighed his desire to remain at home.

  “How old is Lord Devereaux?” Stanley whispered partway through the first act.

  “Thirty-two. Thirty-three,” Philip whispered in return. “His wife was very ill for quite some time. She died quite young.”

  Stanley watched Marjie lean closer to Lord Devereaux for just a moment to say something to him. He could tell from Lord Devereaux’s profile that he smiled back at her.

  “He seems very . . . friendly.”

  “Those two are like a couple of hens,” Philip said. “One would think they had been friends from the cradle the way they’ve taken to each other.”

  “Except, when she was in her cradle, he would have been”—Stanley calculated quickly—“fifteen years old, or so.”