by Allison Lane
“I can’t.”
“You can. I know, for I went through the same process only four days ago.”
Jack was silent for a long moment. Marianne bit her lip to keep from crying at the anguish in his face.
Finally he spoke. “All my life I’ve tried to control the bad blood I inherited from my father. But one cannot forever outwit Fate. In the end, blood always wins.”
“How?”
He glared. “I murdered a fellow officer, then fled the field like the veriest coward.” His voice rasped with pain.
“No. You would never do that, Jack.”
“Do not turn me into a saint just because I led you out of France.” Extricating his hand, he turned his back.
“Do not allow one incident to negate a lifetime of good,” she riposted.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me. Everything. You cannot expect me to believe such tripe without evidence. My God! That is less convincing than the claim that I am mad. What happened? When? Why?”
“I don’t know why,” he admitted, rolling halfway back so he could stare at the canopy. “Much of the day is hazy, and some of it is completely blank.”
“Are you speaking of Waterloo?” She moved to the window, knowing that Jack would speak easier if she was not watching him. Grosvenor Square was empty save for a cat slinking across the central garden.
“Yes. It was the worst battle I’ve faced in fifteen years of war. The carnage was unbelievable.” His voice shuddered. “I spent the morning at Wellington’s command post, analyzing reports and writing orders. But the battle lines stretched nearly two miles, making communication difficult. Several couriers went down in the early charges, so staff officers were often pressed into carrying messages. I hadn’t worked as a courier in years and had forgotten how terrifying it is.” He paused to inhale deeply several times. “About six hours into the battle, I left with orders for the 95th. They were already delayed. Colonel Morrison, another of Wellington’s aides, had been killed trying to reach the 95th an hour earlier. That much I remember clearly. And the terror.”
“Terror is understandable,” she said softly. “I’ve read accounts of the battle, all making it clear that the danger was extreme. A man who doesn’t feel fear in such a situation must be very cold-blooded. I’ve also seen sketches of the lines, so I know that they were far from straight. You doubtless cut in front of our troops rather than circling behind where it would be safer.”
“True. Speed was essential. Wellington wanted them to move so the next French attack couldn’t divide our forces. That bend made the line vulnerable. I cut across a field littered with debris.”
Marianne glanced over her shoulder. His eyes were shut, his face twisted in pain.
“The casualties were awful – heaps of bodies, and rivers of blood that made the muddy ground even more treacherous. As usual, it had rained heavily before the battle. I can’t recall Wellington fighting a major engagement on dry ground. Wellington weather, we call it. Morrison’s body was there, half hidden under his horse.”
Marianne shivered, but said nothing. Jack’s voice had gone distant as his mind retreated to the battlefield. She dared not interrupt him now that he was finally talking.
“He was always so full of life.” Again Jack sobbed. “If someone of his vitality could fall, what chance did the rest of us have?”
Marianne made a soothing sound.
“Terror was clogging my throat, but I kept going. The message was already late. I passed others I knew. That piece of ground had been fought over all day, so it was thick with bodies. And the French were massing for another attack.” He cleared his throat. “I was spurring my horse when he went down. I thought he’d stepped in a hole – the field was riddled with cannonballs and torn up by cavalry – until I saw his side. He’d been hit. The fall dislocated my shoulder badly enough that I couldn’t move my arm.”
He flexed his left hand as if confirming that it had recovered.
“I wanted to mourn – or at least hasten his end, for he wasn’t yet dead. Charger had served me well for six years. But there was no time. I had to continue on foot.” He stopped.
“What happened?” she asked after a lengthy silence.
“I don’t know. The next clear memory is waking in a barn, surrounded by groaning men. The pain was incredible, and not just the shoulder. My side hurt so bad I could barely breathe.” He rubbed a spot just below his ribs. “And I thought they had cut off my leg. Nothing but amputation should hurt like that. Only two images of the battle remained – stabbing a British officer in the back and fleeing the field in terror.”
“Did you ask about them?” she asked, returning to her chair.
“I couldn’t.”
“Then how do you know they are real? They could have been the product of a nightmare or images formed from words spoken nearby.”
“No. It was me. It fits too well. After years of denying my breeding, in the end it was too strong.”
“Fustian!” she snapped.
“Stop ignoring facts,” he ordered.
“I’m not. You are so busy wallowing in guilt that you haven’t given me any facts.”
“I told you—”
“You described a nightmare that came while you were out of your mind with pain. Where is the evidence?”
“In my head. Those are memories, not dreams. You, of all people, should know how memory can cause recurring nightmares. And no dream could conjure up those emotions. I’ve never felt such a frenzy as when I killed that man – I must have gone mad. And the terror that drove me from the field could only have been an attempt to escape punishment.”
“All right. I will concede that those two flashes might be memory. But I do not believe your interpretation. There has to be another explanation.”
“No.”
“Did you ask anyone for the details?”
“Do you want me to tell the world what a blackguard I am?” he countered angrily.
“Jack.” She again took his hand. “Don’t exaggerate. You could do any number of things to find out what happened without revealing your fears. Who was the officer?”
“I don’t know. All I see is the back of his uniform coat.”
“Then how do you know he is English?”
He glared. “The uniform belonged to a Hussar.”
“But was the Hussar wearing it?” She caught his gaze. “Perhaps it had been borrowed by a Frenchman so he could slip close.”
“You read too many of those horrid novels,” he snapped.
“And you are stubborn beyond belief. Have you forgotten that you were wearing a French uniform the first time we met? You apply reason to other cases – like pointing out that I was not responsible for my mother’s illness, since half of Paris was suffering at the same time. Yet you refuse to apply logic to your own situation. How can you accept guilt for something that may not have happened?”
“It happened.”
“But I would wager my entire trust that it didn’t happen the way you think. If it wasn’t a spy masquerading as an English officer, then it must have been a traitor.”
“What?”
“Think about it. Why else would you kill a comrade? You are the most honorable man I know. Deep-rooted honor doesn’t disappear in an instant.”
“I would like to think so, but blood always tells in the end. My father is a coward, as was his father before him. Between cowardice and his scandals, his name has become a byword. Surely you’ve heard of the Earl of Deerchester. You’ve lived in Dorset all your life.”
She nodded, again struck by pain over the image of Jack growing up under his influence.
“My brother is worse,” he continued. “Wilcox is vicious as well as cowardly.”
“I’ve seen no mention of him in the papers for some time,” she murmured.
“Three years. It was the most dishonorable duel on record. He fired before the signal, killing his opponent, wounded the second when he tried to appease the fo
ul, then fled to Italy to avoid arrest. There he defrauded at least two noblemen and engaged in a series of duels, the third of which was so badly done that he was run out of the country. The last we heard he was somewhere in North America, terrorizing their frontier.”
“But that has nothing to do with you.”
“You aren’t listening. The blood is there.”
“Why? Your father might be rotten to the core, but what about your mother? Her blood also flows in your veins. Remember our discussions about sheep breeding? Introducing new bloodlines dilutes weakness.”
“Not always. Caldwell traits are so strong that they have survived for centuries. My ancestors were weak, scandal-ridden cowards, every one. I tried to change, but in the end, I failed.”
“No, Jack.” She squeezed his hand. “The only evidence of cowardice I see is your refusal to look for the truth. I dare you to investigate. Find out what really happened so you can stop torturing yourself.”
“I have all the proof I need,” he murmured as his eyes closed. “My thigh was shattered from the back as I fled the field.” He slid into sleep, his hand going lax.
“But your side was hit from the front,” she muttered, staring at the spot he’d rubbed. She tucked the coverlet around him. “Idiot!”
She had to find someone who knew what he had done between his fall and his injuries. He was too stubborn to do it himself.
The side wound countered his thigh, so neither proved anything beyond the brutality of war. By his own admission, he’d been between the allied and French lines when his horse went down. He had likely been shot by both sides.
Many people could not recall the accidents that injured them, so Jack would likely never remember. She doubted he had reached the 95th before being hit, though that told her nothing of where he had been or what he’d been doing. But a man on foot in the open would have made an enticing target, so he couldn’t have gone far.
She gazed at his face, now deeply asleep with no sign of dreams.
Biting her lip, she returned to her room. How was she to discover anything useful?
The quest seemed impossible. She could barely tolerate strangers and fell apart near horses, so how could she investigate an incident that had occurred on the Continent four months ago? Yet she had to try. She owed Jack more than she could ever repay. He was her husband – warmth suffused her heart at the thought – and she would do everything possible to see that he remained with her.
It was long before she could again find sleep.
* * * *
The next afternoon, Lord Barnett hunched over his hotel’s poor excuse for a desk, reviewing the latest figures from his creditors. The total made his stomach churn. But tomorrow would see an end to his troubles. Maybe. If the day’s mail did not contain Carey’s report, he would have to postpone the hearing.
It had been a mistake to take Marianne to a Dorset asylum, he admitted. He should have rented a job carriage for her and brought her to Bedlam. Even if Carey’s report arrived in time, the judge might demand an evaluation from a better-known doctor. But delay would be costly. In another two days, he would have to leave Ibbetson’s or talk the trustees into another advance.
“Craven!” he bellowed as a door opened to the adjacent room. “Where is the mail?”
His secretary instantly appeared in the doorway, two missives clutched in his hand. “Here, my lord.”
“From Carey?” The question was automatic, though he feared the worst. The man had made his diagnosis before Barnett left the asylum, so his delay in writing the report could only arise from laziness.
“No, sir.”
The top letter was from his solicitor. Barnett opened it and cursed. Marianne’s trustees were demanding immediate repayment of the thousand guineas he had withdrawn to cover her expenses at Carey’s.
It has come to our attention, they had written, that Miss Barnett is of age and thus is the only one empowered to request trust funds. In the absence of a letter from Miss Barnett authorizing the withdrawal, we will expect repayment in three days.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “Where the devil am I to find a thousand guineas.” Five hundred had gone to Carey, with the rest covering filing fees, his two most pressing creditors, meals, and a two-room suite in this run-down hotel.
The next paragraph was worse. Pursuant to terminating the trust, we will also need a list of Miss Barnett’s most recent expenditures so we can prepare the final accounting.
“What the devil?” They knew the hearing was tomorrow, after which he would assume full control of her affairs. He wasn’t about to question expenditures. “Damn all bankers to hell,” he muttered. They were far too particular – and for no good reason.
He frowned. Perhaps they wanted this letter on file as evidence that they had been winding up the trust and were not in collusion to prevent Marianne from squandering its assets. But they should have warned him.
He slammed the letter on the desktop and stalked about the tiny room, praying that their demands were merely legal double-talk. Surely they didn’t think his suit was doomed. Had the judge decided to postpone the hearing or cancel it entirely?
Several minutes of reviewing the case and everything that had led to it convinced him that all was well. This was just overzealousness from a pair of stuffy bankers.
In control once more, he skimmed the letter a second time. The three-day deadline was the key. They knew the matter would be settled in his favor tomorrow. He had nothing to fear.
Setting the letter aside, he opened the other missive and immediately collapsed. Fury grew until red haze obscured his vision.
With cheeky informality, Colonel John Caldwell announced his marriage to Marianne. Then he thanked Lord Barnett for serving as Marianne’s guardian and congratulated him on obtaining freedom from a responsibility that must have been quite onerous.
An eternity passed before shock gave way to questions. How had she escaped Carey’s? Why had Carey failed to report that escape? How had a girl so deranged she couldn’t function made her way to London? And how had she come to Caldwell’s attention?
He cursed. Colonel Caldwell. Obviously a half-pay fortune hunter who had taken advantage of Marianne’s madness to steal her estate. But it would be hard to prove. Euphoria over Waterloo still gripped the country. High-ranking officers were considered gods—
Caldwell.
He frowned. Caldwell was Deerchester’s family name. Was there a connection? If so, the colonel’s honor was dubious at best.
A rap on the door distracted him. Craven answered, then handed him yet another letter, this one hand delivered from his barrister.
Hilliard informed him that Chancery had canceled tomorrow’s hearing. Marianne’s marriage meant that Lord Barnett was no longer an interested party. Her trust was now in Caldwell’s hands, and her mental condition was Caldwell’s problem.
“He won’t get away with this,” Barnett growled, again prowling the room. “I’ll see his fortune-hunting soul in hell. He’s no better than that black-hearted Wilcox. I’ll be damned if I let that family fleece me again. They’ve taken me for the last groat.”
Caldwell’s letter had been posted from Blackthorn House. Barnett hesitated, for tangling with the Marquess of Blackthorn could be fatal, but he had no choice. He’d see Caldwell in jail for fraud if it was the last thing he did.
His first step must be to recover Marianne, so she could receive the help she so obviously needed. Then he must file for an annulment of this ill-conceived marriage and have Caldwell arrested for his crimes. Caldwell must have kidnapped Marianne. How else could she have reached London? But to find her, he must have been stalking her for some time.
An hour later, Barnett glared at Blackthorn’s footman.
“Mrs. Caldwell is not at home,” the man repeated.
“I am her uncle and guardian,” Barnett snapped.
“She is not at home to callers.”
“Then take me to Colonel Caldwell.”
“He is not
at home.”
“The marquess?”
“None of the family is at home to callers at this time. If you leave your card, the marquess will schedule an appointment at his convenience.”
Barnett detected a smirk under the footman’s impassive face. He wanted to force his way into the hall, but a butler and two other footmen stood in the background, as if waiting for a chance to throw him bodily into the street.
Defeated, he headed for his barrister’s office. If Caldwell wanted war, he would get it, even if waging that war meant mortgaging Barnett Court. Without control of his brother’s fortune, he would have to mortgage it anyway.
Chapter Twelve
Marianne spent Friday morning at Mademoiselle Jeanette’s shop on New Bond Street. The first hour passed in teeth-gritting nervousness, but Jack’s comforting presence and the lack of any discernible threat finally allowed her to relax.
Angela was in her element, perusing stacks of pattern cards, fingering fabrics, and discussing trims and details with Jeanette. She occasionally consulted Jack, but never Marianne. They all knew that she understood little of current fashion.
That was made more obvious when Marianne relaxed enough to take in the procedure. There was more to ordering gowns than she’d dreamed. Even the question of color needed careful consideration.
“Not green. Blue,” Jeanette insisted after Angela handed her a pattern card with the suggestion that it would look best in green Georgian cloth. “Blue turns Madame’s eyes the color of the sky. Voilà!” She draped a length of fabric around Marianne’s neck.
“Lovely,” murmured Jack.
Jeanette covered the blue with a length of green. “But green turns her eyes gray. Lovely in candlelight, but not outdoors, n’est-ce pas? And toilinette makes a better walking dress this time of year. Save the Georgian cloth for spring.”
“Very well, but you do agree that we should modify the braiding to make it less military. With the war decidedly behind us, styles will quickly soften.”
“Oui. Excellent suggestion.”
Marianne felt stupid as she sat silent as a statue. She let her attention stray to Jeanette’s fashionable establishment.