For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  This poetic, dramatic turn was new, too, like so many things about her now. Perhaps others would say it was an improvement. She’d never been prone to reverie or introspection when she was younger. She’d been vivacious and giddy and had a devil-may-care attitude that mocked anyone who bothered to follow the rules. She’d been extraordinarily pretty and well connected and so she’d been overly indulged by her family and the ton. How she longed to be that vain, shallow, spoiled girl again. Reverie and introspection were highly overrated.

  * * *

  Pull back the curtain

  Throw open the window

  Try to suck in a mouthful of fresh, clean air

  Only to swallow the fetid breath of the past.

  * * *

  The moonlight washes memories

  In a red bath of blood and pain

  And Abandonment.

  * * *

  Sleep still will not come.

  * * *

  Mel put her pen down. Lady Vanessa had come to check on her with Mrs. Tarrant two days ago. Soames had put them in the front parlor and he’d made her serve tea as if she were the mistress here. Neither Lady Vanessa nor Mrs. Tarrant had found it odd. Mel had felt like an imposter, an interloper sure to be dismissed in disgrace when Sir Barnabas found out. Her discomfort had Lady Vanessa inquiring several times if everything was all right until Mel had simply told her the truth. Unfortunately both women had summarily dismissed her worries and overstayed their welcome. Once again it was only the arrival of Sir Barnabas that had prompted them to say their goodbyes.

  She turned the page in her journal and wrote:

  * * *

  Unwelcome visitors are as pleasant as the pox.

  * * *

  She stabbed the page as she punctuated the sentence, as if she could convey her feelings to the appropriate parties with the force of her pen.

  She was suddenly tired, and the sleep she’d been seeking seemed a hopeful possibility. She set aside paper and pen and pulled a blanket and a pillow from the bed. The thought of sleeping in the bed tonight was abhorrent. So she curled up on the floor in a shaft of moonlight and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Sir Barnabas opened the door before Ambrose even had time to knock. It was the middle of the night and yet Sir Barnabas was dressed, albeit casually in shirtsleeves, and looked wide awake.

  “Wetherald,” he drawled. “How unexpected.” Ambrose got the impression his visit was very much expected. Sir Barnabas and his constant lies and dissembling.

  “What is the meaning of this, James?” he demanded. He’d determined on the way here that the best way to deal with Sir Barnabas was to adopt his methods and use them against him.

  “You knocked on my door,” Sir Barnabas said. “Almost knocked,” he corrected with a polite smile. “How can I be of service?”

  “You can hand Mrs. de Vere over immediately,” Ambrose said, genuinely outraged. “You have insulted her by forcing her into such a demeaning position in your household and quite possibly ruined her.”

  “I am not the one who chose to make a midnight”—Sir Barnabas paused and checked his pocket watch—“four a.m. visit to stand on my doorstep discussing the woman as if she were a common doxy. And might I remind you that you came to me asking for help with the girl, who was not responding to your indulgent and entirely ineffectual entreaties to make some decisions about her future? I went in with a plan and a firm offer of employment, not to mention the enticement of seeing her husband ruined and dead. I accomplished what you could not, and now you are here complaining like a thwarted schoolboy.”

  Ambrose stood there fuming in silence as Sir Barnabas delivered his set down in a calm, impassive tone. “You are correct,” he said tightly. “We should not be discussing this on your doorstep. Are you going to let me in? Or shall I return with the authorities tomorrow?”

  “Don’t be an imbecile,” Sir Barnabas said impatiently, finally showing some emotion. “I am the authorities.” He stepped out of the way with a sigh. “Keep your voice down unless you wish to wake the entire household, including Mrs. Jones, which is the name my new housekeeper is using.”

  Ambrose had stepped inside as soon as Sir Barnabas moved out of the way, but he stopped cold at that. “Mrs. Jones?” he asked in frosty tones.

  “She does not like to be called Mrs. de Vere and she is no longer Miss Dorsett. Surely you noticed that in your many visits?” Sir Barnabas said smoothly, clearly trying to shame Ambrose.

  “Of course I did,” he snapped. “But it was grossly inappropriate to call her anything else.”

  “Nonsense,” Sir Barnabas said, walking past Ambrose. “Wasn’t the point of all this to enable her to live her life freely and without the constraints laws or society put on her, which landed her in a brothel? Which is beside the point. She prefers Mrs. Jones.”

  “The point was to help her escape her imprisonment so she could lead a full life within the bounds of her social station and upbringing,” Ambrose said. He sounded petulant and ridiculous even to his own ears, but if there was one thing he’d learned in politics it was not to admit publicly that you were wrong, misinformed or misguided until you had a plausible excuse or counterattack.

  “She was living a life within the bounds of her social station and upbringing,” Sir Barnabas argued logically, leading Ambrose into his study and closing the door. “By rescuing her from it, we’ve ensured that she can no longer go back to it. Surely you see that?”

  Ambrose sat down wearily. “I see nothing. The situation is completely without comparison in my experience. The poor woman was abused horrifically and I fail to see how a life of drudgery is a rescue at all.”

  “Drudgery?” Sir Barnabas exclaimed. “Exactly what do you think I have my housekeeper doing? Working in the coal mines? I’ll have you know my servants are treated extremely well and in return they are loyal, efficient and discreet.”

  “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said your last housekeeper quit and that’s why you came to get Mrs. de Vere.” Ambrose sat back, satisfied he’d gone on the attack and it was now Sir Barnabas who had to defend himself.

  “Indeed she did,” he admitted blithely. “She did not care for the fact that I frequently bed men, and not the same men. In my position it’s best not to become too attached to anyone who could glean classified information from our acquaintance and use it against England or me. The same rule applies to the women I bed, of course.”

  Ambrose was shocked speechless by Sir Barnabas’s confession. Sir Barnabas just sat there smiling at him politely. Finally Ambrose said, “Mrs. de Vere will be leaving your house with me tomorrow morning.”

  “Indeed, she will not, I’ll wager,” Sir Barnabas said, leaning back in his chair, the very picture of indolence. “She is quite enjoying her little foray into the working class.”

  “I will find her suitable employment then,” Ambrose said. His mind was still reeling from visions of Sir Barnabas bedding a man. Ambrose knew, of course, that that sort of thing went on, and knew men who indulged those passions, such as Mr. O’Shaughnessy and Dr. Peters, and Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Gabriel. But it wasn’t spoken of in such a cavalier fashion.

  “No.” Sir Barnabas gave up the pretense of being relaxed, sitting forward in his chair and glaring at Ambrose. “Apparently I have to spell it out for you. She is still extraordinarily fragile. She does not like to be touched, doesn’t sleep well, startles easily, and trusts no one. But she is also stubborn and blind to her own weaknesses. De Vere is still out there. Were she to go somewhere else, I cannot guarantee her safety. I had men watching the hospital, and the O’Shaughnessys’ estate. They thwarted several attempts to kidnap her, which she does not know and does not need to know. This situation makes it much simpler. She is the key to de Vere’s ruin, I’m sure of it. Do you wish to make her an easy target? Do you want to see her dead?”

  Ambrose was startled by his vehemence. “Of course not,” he said, horrified at the picture Sir Barnabas painted. “That is not why I rescu
ed her.”

  “You rescued her?” Sir Barnabas said, standing up and pacing around the desk to stand in front of Ambrose. “You? Hardly. She rescued herself simply by surviving that long. He gave her the means to kill herself and she didn’t, because her will to live was too strong. Have you thought of that? You don’t own her because you were the means of her escape, Wetherald. She did not escape one prison to sing prettily in a cage you build for her.”

  Ambrose stood and angrily faced Sir Barnabas. “That is not my intention and you know it. You are deliberately baiting me, and I will not take the lure. You are the idiot here if you expect me to believe that you are unaware of the complications this situation will cause. I am trying to forestall disaster, but I see your reasoning. She is safe here, that much I must concede. Until the de Vere situation is handled, I will allow her to stay.”

  “Allow her?” Sir Barnabas laughed out loud. “In a mere week I have learned more about her temperament than you did in months of proper visits. The girl she was has not disappeared into the ether. She still resides quite happily in Mrs. Jones, as stubborn and high-spirited as she ever was. Meek and mild will never describe her, no matter what trials she must overcome. You’d do well to study that sort of fortitude and emulate it, Wetherald.”

  “Damn you,” Ambrose said, unnaturally furious. “Have you been forcing your attentions on her?”

  “Is that what you think?” Sir Barnabas asked curiously. “Can a man only know a woman if he sexually conquers her?” He shook his head and his disappointment was genuine. “I pity you then, Wetherald. You know nothing of women or sex, it seems.”

  “Fine,” Ambrose said, a plan of his own coming together neatly. “I will be here tomorrow to see Mrs…Jones. And I will get to know her, as you’ve suggested. And when I do, then I can more accurately help her to achieve a new life, one better suited to her temperament than any I can devise now.”

  “Fine,” Sir Barnabas said congenially. Immediately Ambrose was wary. “When you come tomorrow you and I can discuss how you are going to repay the favors you owe me.” He raised his brow and Ambrose felt a cold ripple of unease race down his back. It didn’t take a brilliant man to know that when Sir Barnabas required payback he most likely took it out of your hide. Or your soul.

  Chapter 7

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Mrs. Jones said as she entered the small gymnasium beneath the house. She glanced around curiously, but remained stationed by the door looking ready to bolt.

  “This is my sparring partner?” Hastings said in disgust. He was currently Barnabas’s most skilled agent, but a loose cannon all the same. His temper was legendary, and he’d been known to kill first and not bother with asking any questions. There was, of course, a use for that, but not all the time. So Hastings spent half his time on probation doing useless, demeaning little tasks like this one.

  “No,” Barnabas said. “I am.”

  Hastings noticeably paled.

  Mrs. Jones still stood obediently at the door, like an excellent housekeeper. Except, of course, that she wasn’t really a housekeeper and never would be. She was too curious, too beautiful and too independent to be a good housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Jones, come here,” Barnabas ordered.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’d rather not,” she said politely.

  “Why does she get to talk to you like that and I don’t?” Hastings complained. “That’s not fair. I thought you said you treated all your agents the same.”

  “I never said that because it’s a lie,” Barnabas told him. “And she is not an agent. She is my new housekeeper.”

  Hastings laughed out loud until he noticed that neither Barnabas nor Mrs. Jones were laughing along. “You can’t be serious?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, he is,” Melinda said sharply. “Why are you so surprised?”

  Hastings just laughed harder. Barnabas could understand his reaction. Even in a high-necked, serviceable dark blue muslin dress with her hair severely pulled back, she was astoundingly pretty. Her face was arresting, with delicate features and pale skin. Large almond-shaped eyes dominated her gamine face. Her neck was long and graceful, her hands petite. Everything about her said she was a lady born and bred, whether she realized it or not.

  “I am going to teach you to defend yourself,” Barnabas told her, drawing her attention away from Hastings. She grew considerably paler than Hastings had.

  Last night, after Wetherald had gone, Barnabas slid into her room to check on her. Actually, to see if she was still awake and pacing the floor and perhaps had heard their conversation. Instead he’d found her sleeping on the floor with naught but a blanket and pillow, curled up as if expecting a kick. He wasn’t sure why she refused to use the bed, but he could imagine. That was when he’d decided on this ill-advised scheme. But he had to at least try to teach her some self-defense methods. After all, she was alone in the world, and Barnabas and his agents wouldn’t always be around to protect her. Once de Vere was dead she’d have no reason to stay.

  “What?” she asked in a quavering voice. She clutched her hands together in front of her, trying to hide them in her skirts.

  “First you will watch,” Barnabas told her. “When I think you are ready, you will practice the moves that Hastings and I teach you. Do you understand?”

  “Are you expecting your housekeeper to have to defend you?” Hastings asked, crossing his arms as he regarded her with amusement. “Has England come to this?”

  “I expect everyone in my employ to be able to defend themselves, me, my house and England, should the need arise,” Barnabas snapped, irritated by Hastings remarks. The man was a like an irritating fly, buzzing when he ought to be quiet.

  “I do not want to learn to defend myself,” Mrs. Jones said, taking a step backward.

  “What you do or do not want is immaterial,” Barnabas told her coldly. “You are in my employ and therefore you will do as you are told. Sit down over there, be quiet, and observe.” Normally he didn’t mind being so high-handed. As a matter of fact, he liked it. But with Mrs. Jones he felt guilty. He didn’t like feeling guilty.

  “Attack me,” he told Hastings.

  Hastings just stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Is this one of those times where you tell me one thing, but mean another?” he asked suspiciously. “Like the time you told me not to kill anyone, and then you berated me for not killing someone?”

  “Your inability to follow orders is why you so often find yourself in these situations,” Barnabas told him impatiently. “Just do as you’re told.”

  “A good agent does not follow orders blindly,” Hastings reminded him, crouching down and circling him, looking for an opening to attack him.

  “A good agent does not question every order,” Barnabas clarified. “Which is why you are only a mediocre agent.” He was lying, of course. Hastings was his best agent, but he was also a little too vain about it and Barnabas liked to bring him down a notch or two when the opportunity presented itself.

  Hastings attacked then, as Barnabas had known he would. He was too easily provoked. It was one of his major failings. Barnabas easily flipped him over his shoulder and turned to face him again, prepared for another attack. The attack and counterattack took only a matter of seconds, and Hastings lay on the floor, a bit stunned.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Jones gasped, jumping to her feet. “Is he all right?”

  “He is fine,” Hastings said tightly, quickly rising to his feet. “I underestimated him, is all. It’s been years since he was in the field.”

  “I am in the field every day,” Barnabas told him. “Your failure to grasp that is one of your weaknesses. A good agent is never off guard. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Hastings attacked again. Honestly, he broadcast his moves so obviously it was a wonder he’d survived in the field this long. Barnabas handily deflected the blow and swept Hastings feet out from under him. Once again he lay on his back glaring up at Barnabas.

  “I’m only letting
you gain the upper hand in order to impress your new housekeeper,” Hastings told him irritably.

  “Of course you are,” Barnabas said with a sigh. “Let’s try something a little more basic, a situation that Mrs. Jones might find herself in. Come at my back and wrap your arms around me, trapping my arms.”

  Hastings did as he was told. This was a practiced move and he knew what was expected of him. Barnabas feinted weakness and threw Hastings off balance before he forcefully sprang back up and made as if to slam the back of his head into Hastings face. Hastings let go and dodged the blow.

  “Did you see what I did there?” Barnabas barked.

  She startled in her seat. “I…no. I mean yes,” she stammered. “You jumped up and he let go.”

  Barnabas shook his head. “No. I pretended to grow weak in the knees very suddenly, catching him off balance. Then I sprang up and attempted to hit him in the face with the back of my head.”

  “Your head?” she asked skeptically. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Because the expression hardheaded does not only refer to your personality, but to your skull. It is one of the strongest bones in your body and can be used as a weapon.”

  “It can?” she asked in surprise.

  “Here,” Hastings said, tapping the back of his skull, “and here.” He pointed to his forehead. “It is most effective when used to hit someone in the face. If you knock them on the nose, it hurts like the very devil. You can even break their nose. Instinct will make them let you go.”

  “That’s astounding!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea.” Barnabas could see her mind working. “But I’m so short,” she said after a moment. “Would it still work?”