As always, he began with his mental lists. A spy didn’t have the luxury of committing pen to paper, but over the years he’d learned to keep elaborate mental lists. He broke down each mission into its constituent tasks, every move mapped in his mind. Sifting and sorting, he rearranged the pieces until he saw the outcome he wanted.
But the lists were never enough. Eventually, his mind drifted, half awake, coming to rest as it did every night, on a battlefield across the sea, back before he’d inherited, when he was plain old Lieutenant Eric Woodley, the second son of the Earl of Blackstone.
It was the quiet he hadn’t expected. The din of battle had, for the most part, lived up to his naive imaginings. Screaming horses. The clash of steel. Shouting so frenzied one could forget who was an enemy and who was a friend. It was horrific. But not as horrific as the eerily muffled aftermath. Bodies strewn in unnatural angles. Low moaning from fallen men.
Hands grasped at his ankles, and he shook them off. He was looking for the captain, and he would have to harden his heart to the rest of these poor bastards. In polite society, people talked about the skills one acquired as a soldier. They spoke admiringly of qualities like discipline and loyalty. As far as he could see, the only thing war had taught him was the fine art of triage. Which right now meant ignoring anguished cries of his fellow men.
“Captain!” he shouted. “Can you hear me?”
It was impossible to imagine the company going on without their leader. A career soldier, he’d taken a hundred men from all walks of life—gentlemen from the ton’s highest-ranking families, farm boys from Kent, the sons of chimney sweeps who’d never been outside Southwark—and made them brothers.
The irony was not lost on him as he righted carts and kicked away spent muskets to clear a path through the destruction. He’d run off to war to escape his family, not caring about the danger he faced, half hoping he’d be killed. The last thing he expected to find, among the deprivation and violence, was a ragtag clan of brothers. The kind of family a man chose to be in—those voluntary ties more powerful than the blood bonds that had always felt like chains.
The captain was the glue. He had the ability to look at a solider and see a person. It had been unsettling at first, because no one had ever looked at Eric and seen anything besides his position. Society saw the eligible if younger son of an earl. His mother saw another son when she’d wanted a daughter. His father and brother were both too wrapped up, in their separate ways, with their own burdens, to see him at all.
He respected the captain more than anyone he’d ever met. If he were the kind of person capable of love, if his mother hadn’t drummed the ability out of him altogether, he would even venture to say he loved the man. So when their commanding officer hadn’t appeared as they regrouped that day, panic began to claw at his gut.
“Captain!”
An answering grunt made its way to his ears, sailing across the macabre, silent tableau. He whirled, trying to locate the source of the sound.
“Captain! I’m coming for you! Make some more noise!”
“Woodley,” came a quiet voice.
He turned toward it, leaping over a lifeless French soldier.
A barely audible whisper floated up from the carnage. “I’m trapped under a horse.” Heart racing, Blackstone rushed toward a fallen chestnut giant, a casualty of the cavalry that had charged ahead of them. Beneath it lay the captain and an unconscious Jasper, the company’s youngest soldier, who claimed to be sixteen.
Blood everywhere, but it was impossible to tell if it belonged to the boy, the man, or the horse.
“Get Jasper,” the captain rasped. “He’s passed out, but alive.”
Eric ignored the order. The boy was a sweet-faced Liverpudlian they all knew had lied about his age in order to enlist. He never spoke of his family. Perhaps he’d been escaping something, too. If Captain Mirren was the company’s surrogate father, Jasper was its son.
But, still, there was no question, not really.
Crouching, he braced his shoulder against the horse’s withers. With a great cry, he managed to move the beast a few inches. Blood spurted from the captain’s midsection. The weight of the horse had been acting as a tourniquet.
“No!” shouted the captain, finding his voice. “Get Jasper.”
“I’ll come back for him.”
“I’m too far gone! It’s not just the horse. I was hit before I fell. Jasper will lose that leg, but if you hurry, he’ll survive.”
“I don’t accept that, I—”
“Woodley. Look at me.” Eric met his commanding officer’s eyes. The normally blue-violet irises were tinged with blood. “You know what you have to do.”
He hesitated. The captain lifted a hand, and the men stared at each other, the hand suspended in air.
He heard the whack of skin against skin ricocheting through the silent battlefield before he felt the sting of the slap.
“Get the fucking boy, Woodley.”
He got the boy.
In the five or so minutes it took him to free Jasper, he sneaked glances at the captain, who watched him silently, his face slowly draining of color.
With a final heave, he pulled the unconscious boy out from under the animal.
“Thank you,” whispered the captain.
“I’m coming back for you.”
The older man shook his head. “It’s too late. I won’t be here.”
Eric thought his chest might crack open. “You can’t stop me from coming back,” he said, hating that he sounded angry, that, as ever, he didn’t seem to be able to marshal a tone that matched what was in his heart. “I can’t just let you die.”
“There is one thing you can do for me.” The hand came up again, but this time it couldn’t make it all the way to its destination.
Eric used his own to grasp the icy, white fingers of the only true father he’d ever known. He brought them to his cheek. “Did you want to slap me again?”
The captain smiled weakly and shook his head. “No. Woodley. This bloody war has to end. Finish it. I don’t care what you have to do—assassinate that little French bastard yourself if you have to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Three
She never could resist swimming. It was the one thing Emily missed from her life in Somerset. London, unlike the countryside of her girlhood, didn’t have much to recommend it in the way of recreational bathing.
But Clareford Manor, with its calm, deserted lake and its clear blue sky, provided the perfect opportunity. It would be her last chance. The guests would arrive soon and the estate would become a hive of activity. Glancing around to make sure the shoreline was deserted, she shed her half boots and walking dress. She sat on the dock, legs hanging over the side but not quite touching the water, her chemise her only concession to modesty. As was her custom, she didn’t test the temperature, preferring to slide completely off the edge, immersing herself quickly and fully.
“Eeee!” It was only the beginning of May, so the deep lake was still cold. Her heart speeding up, she began to kick, using her arms to part the water in front of her as she sluiced along just under the surface.
The lake was ideal, perhaps even the nicest she’d ever swum in. Though the water was chilly, it was clear. In some spots, she could see right down to the rocks that lined the bottom.
After coming up briefly for air, she dove to the bottom. She had her eye on a small, smooth, almost pink rock.
Propelling one’s body through the water was a kind of emancipation. She had no cares in the water—she was a fish, not a bluestocking. No need to worry about Sally and Billy. No columns, no petitioning. Even Mr. Manning was set temporarily aside, so there were no poisoned memories here either, only happy ones. She could almost believe that when she resurfaced, she’d see Billy, eyes twinkling as he laughed with delight just before he splashed her.
She swam back and tossed the rock onto the dock, then turned around and initiated a strong stroke, welcoming that familiar feeling
of elation. When she swam like this, sure and strong in a straight line, she always imagined she was moving toward some other, better version of herself. As a girl, she’d imagined a life of freedom, away from the Mannings. She’d imagined a life full of love.
One out of two wasn’t bad.
As she approached the far shore, her heart began making its effort known. The sun was getting higher. Soon she would be missed. She crossed the rest of the lake under water, coming up every few strokes for a sip of air. Extending her hands in front of her, she reached the edge of the dock. There was a small ladder attached, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to assist swimmers making their way out of the water. How wonderful!
“Yes,” she exclaimed, hoisting herself up on the first step, “You are a gem among lakes.” She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear some of the water from her hair.
And opened them to the sight of the Earl of Blackstone, sitting on the dock in his shirtsleeves, holding her rock in his good hand.
“My brother would have been delighted to hear you say so, Miss Mirren. This was his lake.”
…
To her credit, she didn’t panic. The only sign anything was amiss was a widening of those deep blue-violet eyes. Blackstone was a trifle disappointed as she lowered herself back into the water without a word. He’d been trying to shock her, though he wasn’t sure why. Leaving aside the outrageous lapse of manners that impelled him to watch rather than turn home and leave her to her privacy, it seemed a mean-spirited thing to do. But he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from the talented swimmer. She sluiced through the gentle waves as if she’d been born to the water.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that she didn’t scream. She was the captain’s daughter, after all. Still, he found it rather remarkable that she’d made more noise when she’d first lowered herself into the cold water—emitting that little squeal—than she did when he’d surprised her on the way out of it.
But then annoyance flared. Of course, she would be here this morning, getting in his way. If he was going to spend a week at Clareford Manor, he had to face the lake, to bow down to his demons and signal that they still ruled him. But how could he when she was always in the blasted water? And it wasn’t just anyone. It was her. The person in all the world he had most wanted to avoid.
“Can a lake really belong to someone?” Holding the ladder, she cocked her head, thinking about her own question.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said this was your brother’s lake. Did it belong to him? Truly, I mean?”
“He was my elder. The heir and, for a few months, the earl.”
“But that’s not what you meant, was it? You weren’t talking about legal ownership, about entailment.”
Damn the woman for seeing what he meant instead of what he said. “My brother loved this lake.” It was all he was willing to say, and it would have to suffice.
Apparently it did, because she nodded, sun glinting off water droplets on her eyelashes. “It’s a very good lake.” She looked around and grinned, as if the absurdity of the situation had suddenly struck her. “And I am something of an authority on the topic.”
“My brother and I used to spend hours on this dock, skipping rocks.” He flicked his wrist without releasing the rock he held, a practice stroke since he’d never done the movement with his left hand. “I haven’t had a round of ducks and drakes for years.”
“No! Stop!”
He held off, transfixed by the slender, pale arm that emerged from the water, palm toward him. He sucked in a breath. The arm snaking in his direction was just like another that had come toward him years ago in Badajoz. Perhaps this woman should slap him, too, given how boorish he was being, forcing her to stay in the water to preserve her modesty. Somehow, though, he couldn’t make himself do the right thing, so he set down the rock and turned to evasive tactics. “How did you learn to swim?”
“I spent my childhood living with the Mannings when my father was campaigning, and when he died Mr. Manning became my guardian. There were a few lakes on his land,” she said, as if the presence of lakes was a sufficient explanation for the display of aquatic skill he’d just witnessed.
“Still, it’s a trifle unusual.”
“You mean for a lady to swim?”
He detected a hint of indignation in her tone. “Does Mrs. Talbot swim?” he countered. “She grew up on the same land.”
“Mrs. Talbot and I do not share many of the same interests.”
That much was not a surprise. It was difficult to imagine the status—and appearance—obsessed Mrs. Talbot removing so much as a single glove out of doors. “Who taught you?” He imagined the captain, holding his violet-eyed daughter as she learned to float, her hair fanned out around her head.
“I taught myself. Well, I read a book.”
“You learned to swim from a book?”
“A person can learn a great many things from books.” Now she was indignant, her tone rising a little before she regained control over her voice. “If you please, I’d like to get out of the water. You can just leave that rock on the dock.”
Her cheeks were pink. He wondered if her cheeks would color like that while she was being tumbled.
Get a hold of yourself, man. He should take his leave. But he found himself irritated again. Both times he’d tried to visit the lake, he had found her in it. And now she was trying to steal his rock? He didn’t move, just tossed the rock into the air, and then caught it.
“Do not lose that rock. It’s mine.”
“I thought you said a lake couldn’t belong to someone. Shouldn’t your logic apply to rocks, too?”
“Never mind. I’ll find another.” Clinging to the edge of the dock, she cleared her throat.
“They’re all mine,” he said, knowing he was being petulant. But he did take the hint and got up and walked back to the shore, turning his back. He should have gone back to the house, left her to dress in peace. Instead, he listened to the sound of her putting herself to rights. Fabric rustled, corset lacings swished as they were tightened. The latter caused a corresponding tightening in his groin. He took a few steps farther away, trying to put himself out of hearing distance. When that didn’t work he began whistling a tune.
“What are you whistling?” Her tone was sharp, offended.
He searched his brain, trying to come up with a name for the tune that was, mindlessly, on his lips.
“Who taught you that song?” she persisted.
“It’s something we used to sing—” He stopped abruptly, realizing what had happened. The company had sung it many a night around the fire. “Your father taught us.” There was a long silence. He could only assume she was continuing to dress, but of course he could not turn until she gave him leave.
“Do you swim, Lord Blackstone?” He sensed that she’d moved closer.
“No,” he said. He spoke more tersely than was called for—she couldn’t know.
“Why not? I should think if I had grown up with such a wonderful lake in my backyard, I should never be coaxed out of it. I should shrivel, become a prune.” With that, she stepped into his line of sight and showed him a wrinkled hand. She was, aside from her hands, dressed. The only indication that she’d been in the water was that hair, a sodden curtain of curls hanging down her back.
Who did this woman think she was? She was supposed to be in Somerset, on other side of the country, doing whatever it was spinster bluestockings did. But, no, she had to be underfoot, getting in the way of everything—his mission, his penance. Saying unlikely things with no regard for propriety. Swanning around with wet hair.
“It’s rather difficult to swim when one is a cripple,” he snapped, dropping the rock and using his left hand to slide up his shirtsleeve. Propelled by a growing anger, he exposed the stump.
Her eyes widened, but she caught herself in time to transform what would have been a gasp into a long inhale. Her small breasts, pushed up by the deep breath, drew his attention. Tho
ugh her attire wasn’t particularly revealing—indeed, the sprigged muslin walking dress with its square neckline was entirely typical of the mode of the day—he wanted to throw something over her, exhort her to cover herself. Or at least to pull that goddamned hair back.
Recovering, she looked back at the lake. “The loss of a hand would make many things more difficult. But swimming, I imagine, wouldn’t be one of them. It should be easy enough to—”
“And how you would know, Miss Mirren? How can you presume to know how others have suffered?” He was acting abominably, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
She dropped her eyes, chastened. “I beg your pardon”—her voice broke and she choked out the honorific—“my lord.” Without meeting his eyes, she turned and ran.
She was gone. He’d gotten what he wanted.
He stooped to pick up the pinkish-brown stone. So why did he feel like such a brute?
…
The man was a brute. A bully disguised as a gentleman. Emily eyed Lord Blackstone as he entered the drawing room with a striking auburn-haired lady on his arm. The woman said something that coaxed a small smile out of him. Well, one corner of his mouth turned up, which was probably as close to a smile as the taciturn aristocrat ever came.
She felt anew the censure of his harsh words. How could she have thought him handsome? Earlier, when he’d lain on the dock, long limbs sprawled and features made golden by the sun, he’d seemed almost godlike. And as she’d watched him standing with his back to her, she’d grown a little breathless, taking in his unusual height, his broad shoulders barely concealed by the fine lawn of his shirt.
But clearly all the man had to do to ruin the effect was open his mouth.
And given that he was on his way over, she’d better brace herself.
“Mrs. James Burnham, may I present Miss Emily Mirren.” He turned to Emily. “Mrs. Burnham’s first husband, Charles Chambers, Viscount Cranbrook, served in your father’s company, too. Mrs. Burnham followed the drum for a time.”
The Miss Mirren Mission Page 3