For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  “And was your rescue of me an effort at manipulation?” she said, frowning.

  “Of course,” he answered. “Not aimed at you, of course. You had nothing that could bring me any advantage.”

  “Then who…Lord Wetherald,” she said as realization struck.

  He raised that supercilious brow again. “You are far more clever than I was led to believe,” he told her. “Bravo. You see what he cannot.”

  “Why are you here today?” she asked. “I will not help you manipulate Lord Wetherald further.”

  “Got a tendre for him, have you?” he asked.

  She was stung by his tone, as if he thought it quite amusing. “I do not,” she said. “But I do know that he is a kind and honorable gentleman, and I will not be party to hurting him in any way. He did rescue me.”

  “So did I,” Sir Barnabas said. “And then I left you alone to lick your wounds in private. But he tells me that you are being a recalcitrant, spoiled brat who is biting the hands that feed you.”

  “He would never say such a thing,” she shot back, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

  “Of course he wouldn’t. He’s far too nice and far too well bred. But I thought I’d summarize our conversation for you, for expedience.” He smiled again and she had the desire to bring him down a notch.

  “I am being a brat,” she agreed. She’d hoped to shock him, but he merely fixed an unreadable stare on her. She sighed. “I don’t mean to be. But they all treat me as if I’m made of spun sugar, liable to dissolve at any moment. Your forthright appraisal may sting, but at least you’re being honest with me.”

  “If honesty is what you desire, then I shall serve it to you,” he said. “But be advised I do not normally make a habit of it.”

  “Serving others?”

  “Being honest,” he admitted without a trace of regret. “I came to talk to you today about your husband.”

  “I do not wish to speak of him,” she said, agitated. She stood and began to pace.

  “I do not blame you,” he said. “He’s a thoroughly disgusting human being. If I didn’t have to I would wish to never speak of him, either.”

  “Why do you need to then?” she asked, spinning to confront him.

  “Because I’m going to ruin him,” he said. “And then I’m going to kill him. And I rather thought you might like to be there when I did.” He met her shocked stare with a coldly calculating gaze, and she realized he meant it.

  “Yes, I would,” she said.

  “Excellent,” he said, pushing to his feet. “You certainly seem to have regained your health. Have you learned how to be a housekeeper? I am in need of one.”

  She blinked, her mind whirling. Here was her opportunity to make a place for herself, independent from her family and even from the well-meaning friends she’d made since her rescue. She was suffocating under their kind but misguided care. This Sir Barnabas did not seem like the suffocating kind. He would leave her alone, expecting her to do the job she was given, she was sure of it. And if she didn’t, she was just as sure that she’d be shown the door.

  There were a great many reasons she should decline. She was alone in the world and he knew it—he could take advantage of her. She had no experience working for a living. Her dependence on the opium was a thing of the past, but there were nights she woke from horrible dreams and she craved it more than air. She’d never been on her own. She could go on.

  “I need to pick your brain,” Sir Barnabas said impatiently. “I need your knowledge of your husband’s life, both personal and business, in order to accomplish our goals,” he urged. “Although, I actually do need a housekeeper as well. The last one gave notice. She claimed I was impossible to work for.”

  Mel gave a reluctant laugh. “Imagine that,” she said mockingly.

  “You shall have to curb your sharp tongue if you come to work for me,” Sir Barnabas warned.

  “Only if you do,” she promptly told him. “I may not be able to help you. He rarely discussed business in my presence.”

  “You would be surprised how much you probably know,” Sir Barnabas told her. “It’s just a matter of asking the right questions, to make you remember. What seemed unimportant to you could be the very information I need.”

  “What is it you do, exactly, Sir Barnabas?” she asked suspiciously. “Where would I be working?”

  “I live in London,” he said. “I work at the Home Office.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Whatever I please,” he said. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, before she could have second or third thoughts. “But what if someone recognizes me?”

  He shrugged. “It is immaterial. I have no intention of concealing your identity.”

  “But he could demand my return,” she said breathlessly, spots dancing before her eyes. She stumbled over and sat down again. “Surely that is not your intent. I will not go back.”

  “Fine. You are now Mrs. Jones. But rest assured, I have no intention of giving you back,” he promised firmly. “Make no mistake, this is war. And de Vere has no idea who he is going up against.” He smiled grimly. “I will make him regret the day he was born.”

  Mel took one look at his face, and she believed him.

  Chapter 5

  “Are you sure, Melinda?” Lady Vanessa asked, biting her lip as she looked around at Mel’s new lodgings. The housekeeper’s suite at Sir Barnabas townhouse was actually quite spacious and gorgeously appointed.

  “Mrs. Jones,” Mel corrected her. “If the last housekeeper quit, leaving this behind,” she added, ignoring Lady Vanessa’s trepidation as she indicated the room, “then he must be truly terrible to work for.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lady Vanessa said, a frown furrowing her brow as she looked around. “I shall send a servant with a note every day to check on you. We should come up with a code of some sort. If all is not well, tell me it’s raining in Mayfair.”

  “What if it isn’t raining in Mayfair?” Mel asked, amused.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Lady Vanessa said impatiently.

  “I think that if it is a sunny day, Sir Barnabas will figure out it’s a code,” Lady Vanessa’s friend Mrs. Tarrant said sarcastically as she picked up a fine porcelain shepherdess. “He’s not an idiot. Good God, who houses their housekeeper like this? He must have been shagging her.”

  “I heard she was at least sixty if she was a day,” Lady Vanessa’s other friend, Mrs. Witherspoon, said, shock in her voice.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Mrs. Tarrant said flatly. “He seems like the type to have unusual sexual appetites.” Mel turned away and placed a hand on her queasy stomach at the other woman’s words. “I mean, of course, you’re right,” Mrs. Tarrant said quickly. “Too old, I’m sure. Silly me.”

  Mel pretended that she didn’t know Lady Vanessa was glaring daggers at Mrs. Tarrant. Obviously they all knew her shameful circumstances.

  “I think we should just pay a call on Mel…Mrs. Jones every now and then,” Mrs. Witherspoon said logically. “After all, we know her and we know Sir Barnabas, so it won’t be all that unusual.”

  “And it will drive him absolutely mad,” Mrs. Tarrant said, laughing in delight. “Can’t you just see his face when we show up at his house for tea every few days?” She laughed again, a loud, exuberant peal. Mel used to laugh like that. Suddenly, despite the fact that she knew they were there to support her as she entered this new chapter in her life, she couldn’t stand to be around them. She felt ungrateful, angry, and disgusted with herself. But mostly she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  “Oh, you can’t do that,” she said quickly. “It isn’t proper for you to call on a housekeeper. You probably shouldn’t be here. I’m sure I don’t know what the servants are thinking.”

  “You’re not really a housekeeper,” Lady Vanessa assured her earnestly. “No one expects you to drop your previous acquaintances simply because your situation has changed.” She
blushed as she said it, because really, they all knew that’s exactly what people would expect.

  “I had better be a housekeeper,” Mel declared. “Or else Sir Barnabas will show me the door. His exact words, I believe.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Mrs. Tarrant advised her glibly. “He’s all bark and no bite. Well, all right, he bites, but only on rare occasions when his minions are busy with other tortures.” She laughed again, and Mrs. Witherspoon shoved her unceremoniously. “What?” she asked, rubbing her shoulder. “What did I say?” She turned back to Mel. “As for what’s proper and what isn’t, well, I don’t bother with that at all. I do what I please when it pleases me. I find it so much better for the digestion.”

  “That’s what Sir Barnabas said,” Mel told her. “When I asked what exactly he did at the Home Office, he said ‘whatever I please.’” She was trying to get information out of Mrs. Tarrant, who seemed to know Sir Barnabas best. Some new insights into her new employer and co-conspirator would be quite helpful.

  “Well, that’s the truth,” Mrs. Tarrant said. “I’m not sure he answers to anyone but the king, and then only if he feels like it. Wolf, my husband, says Sir Barnabas knows too many dirty little secrets and everyone is too afraid to try to rein him in. But then, Wolf hates him. Personally I like him. We understand each other.”

  “Clearly,” Mrs. Witherspoon said drily. “But I must concur with Very,” she said to Mel. “Sir Barnabas isn’t a bad sort. Just misunderstood, I think. And of course, Daniel chose Harry and that had to hurt.”

  “What?” Mel asked, her attention caught by Mrs. Witherspoon’s offhand remark. “Who are Daniel and Harry?”

  “I don’t really think we ought to be gossiping about Sir Barnabas,” Lady Vanessa said, looking about as if she expected spies to leap out of the corners.

  “Daniel Steinberg,” Mrs. Tarrant said, as if Lady Vanessa hadn’t spoken. “He worked for Sir Barnabas during the war and they were lovers—for a long time, I think. But Daniel fell in love with Harry Ashbury when he was just a young lieutenant, and when Harry returned from America the two were reunited. It was all very romantic, I suppose. But I was rooting for Sir Barnabas, frankly. I mean, Harry left Daniel in the first place without telling him he was to be married. I’m not sure I could forgive a lie of that magnitude.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Vanessa said with a sigh. “You forgave Kensington when he returned from America married.”

  “That was an entirely different situation,” Mrs. Tarrant said with a sniff.

  Mel had no idea what or who they were talking about. But if she understood correctly, Sir Barnabas preferred men, and his longtime lover left him for another man. She was shocked to hear of his predilection. He didn’t seem the type, and with such an important post in the Home Office, too. But she was relieved. In the back of her mind had been a nagging worry that she was setting herself up in another dangerous situation. Many men would feel that she was fair game now after what she’d been through at de Vere’s hands.

  “Ladies.” The object of their indiscrete conversation stood in the doorway of the small private parlor. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like my new housekeeper to keep house.” He raised his brow and gave them each a stern look. Lady Vanessa and Mrs. Witherspoon blushed and stood in a flurry of flustered apologies. Mrs. Tarrant seemed annoyed.

  “Well, it is too much trouble,” she told him acerbically. “She’s only just unpacked her meager belongings. Don’t you think she should get the evening off to settle in?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “My house is in disarray. Good afternoon, ladies.” He stood aside, clearly waiting for them to leave.

  “Yes, thank you so much,” Mel told them, eying him uneasily. “I appreciate your kind concern in helping me today, but duty calls.”

  “We shall see you in a day or two,” Lady Vanessa said calmly as she pulled on her gloves.

  “You really needn’t bother,” Mel told her, trying to be polite. “If I need anything I’ll be sure to contact you.”

  “I’d feel better calling on you personally to see how you’re getting along,” Lady Vanessa said. “I promised Kitty.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Tarrant said. “You’d better do what Kitty says or she’ll be on the next coach to London. You know how she is.”

  “Thursday, then,” Mel said, giving herself a reprieve of three days. “If that’s all right?” she inquired of the silent, brooding Sir Barnabas.

  “Are you actually asking me about what can or can’t be done in my own house?” he asked sarcastically. “Do I have a say?”

  “No,” Mrs. Witherspoon said, holding her hand out to him. He bowed over it perfunctorily. “You shall just have to accept that we’ve taken her under our wing.”

  “God forbid,” Sir Barnabas said.

  Mrs. Tarrant kissed him on the cheek as she left, and he scowled. “Just in case you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be kissed,” she told him glibly.

  “If that is how you kiss I am astounded that you have borne three children in four years,” he drawled. “Kensington and Tarrant have very low standards.”

  “I’m going to tell them you said that,” she called over her shoulder. “Expect angry visitors tomorrow.”

  “I always expect angry visitors,” he said under his breath. He turned and met Mel’s stare. “It’s why I’m still alive.” She fought a smile.

  Lady Vanessa ignored Mel’s distraught expression and clutched her hands and kissed her cheek. As soon as Mel was able she pulled away and retreated several steps, feeling Sir Barnabas’s gaze boring into her. “Take care,” Lady Vanessa said. “Don’t hesitate to contact me. You have my address.” She turned to look at Sir Barnabas for a second and turned back. “Come straight away to my house if anything happens,” she said firmly, ignoring him and speaking frankly.

  “I will,” Mel promised, willing to promise anything to get her out.

  When they were gone, Mel took a deep breath. She turned to Sir Barnabas, who was still standing in her parlor door. “What needs attention, sir?” she asked, ready to spring into action even though she had no idea what she was doing.

  “Nothing,” he said, and then he smiled smugly. “I simply couldn’t stand their chatter echoing through the house anymore.” He turned to leave, but then turned back, as if he’d just remembered something. “The butler, Soames, has the last housekeeper’s notebook. She threw it at me as she left. I’ve arranged for you to meet with him at three o’clock. Is there anything else you require before assuming your new duties?”

  There were a great many things she required, such as a manual since she had no idea what she was doing, but she didn’t tell him that. “No, sir. That should be adequate.”

  “Tomorrow morning we shall meet at six a.m. in my study,” he told her, “before I leave for the day. Any questions you have can be dealt with then. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

  He’d started to walk away but stopped at her farewell. “Don’t do that,” he snapped.

  “Do what?” she asked, equally exasperated and anxious.

  “Call me ‘sir’ all the time,” he said. Before she could answer he’d walked away, his long strides taking him out of sight in moments.

  “What the bloody hell am I supposed to call him?” she muttered under her breath.

  “I don’t know,” he called back, startling her. “But not ‘sir’.”

  Chapter 6

  Mel silently paced from her bedroom to the parlor and back again. Her path was lit by one lone candle sitting on the mantle in the parlor. The clock struck three a.m. and she groaned. She hadn’t slept a wink.

  It wasn’t her new quarters—she’d been at Sir Barnabas’s for five days and she’d slept relatively well since her arrival. At least for her. She hadn’t slept a full night in at least two years. Hard to sleep when you have to keep one eye open. But she didn’t have to here.

  Still, she was overset with a case of nerves ton
ight. She was jittery and not only couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t sit still. She was so high-strung her hands were shaking. Dr. Peters had told her it was her body craving the opium. That at odd times the desire for it would overwhelm her. She hated it. She hated the reminder of what had happened to her, hated how weak she’d been and still was. She didn’t want the opium. Just the thought of what it meant made her sick to her stomach. And yet here she was, unable to outrun the shame of her past.

  She pulled aside the heavy drape in the bedroom and looked out at the still and quiet street. Sir Barnabas lived on Downing Street, an odd address. But Soames said he liked living close to his office in case an emergency arose. Poor Soames. He was utterly appalled at her arrival here. She could tell he considered her a lady and not a housekeeper, and he treated her accordingly. When she tried to defer to him or to assume tasks that by right ought to be hers, he stubbornly refused to accede to her wishes. In frustration Mel had gone to her new employer, who obligingly had a firm talk with Soames. But it seemed that Soames, much like his employer, did what he pleased when he pleased. And, unbelievably, he got away with it simply because he was efficient and took care of things without bothering Sir Barnabas, which seemed to be the main objective of every servant in the house. They were all terribly efficient and discreet and they followed Soames’s lead, treating her like the lady of the house and not the housekeeper. She’d given up. Eventually they would have to accept her role here. Until then, she would do what she could and learn as much as she could.

  She tucked the curtain behind the gold hook on the wall and let the moonlight illuminate the room. She breathed a little easier then. Enclosed spaces made her horribly uncomfortable now. She pressed her back against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor, staring up at the sky. Reaching up, she lifted a small notebook and a pen down from the night table. Writing in the journal helped when she couldn’t sleep. She taken to writing poems lately, although she wasn’t sure anyone else would consider her scribblings poetic. They were rather dark and angry, her soul howling uselessly in the night, like Don Quixote tipping at his windmills.