by Mary Balogh
“You are determined to be hard on young Gordon, then?” he asked her, patting one of her hands.
Without thinking she turned her hand and curled her fingers about his.
“He had a fanciful notion about fighting the French for me,” she said. “He pictured himself as something akin to a medieval knight fighting for his lady’s honor, I believe. And yet this morning, when he could have fought for me in a much more practical way, he could think only of his own comfort on the journey home. I am glad I was never silly enough to fall in love with him.”
“I believe, chérie,” he said, “you would find it impossible to be silly. But I am glad there is no lingering regret for a young man who was never worthy of you. He is merely a peacock, a popinjay, a featherbrain.”
She laughed despite herself.
He moved their clasped hands from her lap to rest on his thigh. It did not occur to her to be shocked even though she felt the smooth, tautly stretched fabric of his riding breeches and the hard-muscled warmth of his flesh beneath. She let her shoulder sway against his arm and felt comforted.
“He never loved me,” she said. “It is a common failing of men. They see someone they consider beautiful and desirable and eligible, and they imagine that they love her. In fact, though, they love themselves reflected in her eyes. They have no interest in discovering who she is.”
“Ah, chérie,” he asked her softly, “is that true only of men? Do not many women do the same thing?”
She drew breath to deny it. But she had always tried to be honest with herself. Was it true? Did women do that too—project their love of themselves onto a handsome man in whose eyes they could admire their own image? Had she ever done it? Had she not at first been delighted with Captain Lord Gordon’s attentions? Had she not accepted Rosamond’s friendship and courted the invitation to come here to Brussels because he admired her and she approved of his good taste? If it was true—and she was honest enough to admit that it was at least partly so—it was lowering in the extreme.
“I suppose we do,” she admitted. “When we admire a man we are far more interested, at least at first, in our own feelings, in what he says and does to make us feel good about ourselves. But love is so much more. It is knowledge—knowing and being known.”
“And who is Lady Morgan Bedwyn?” he asked her.
She smiled ruefully and looked up into his face. It was very close to her own. His lazy eyes smiled back at her and she remembered suddenly that he had kissed her on the lips again last night after she had woken up with her head on his shoulder. But she repressed the memory. She did not want to think of him in sexual terms—not now when she needed him as a friend. And when she liked him as a person.
“There is no question more certain to tongue-tie me,” she said. “How can I explain who I am, Lord Rosthorn? Sometimes I do not even know the answer myself. I knew that I was strong-minded—my old governess would have used the word headstrong—and stubborn, but I would not have thought I could defy a chaperon to whom Wulfric had entrusted me and dare to remain in a foreign city alone, without even a maid. I knew I was not missish or squeamish, but I did not know I could tend horribly wounded men without flinching or watch a man die without breaking all to pieces. I did not want a come-out Season because I objected strongly to becoming a commodity on the great marriage mart. And yet I did enjoy my presentation and some of the social events surrounding it. I did not think of myself as a romantic, but I was enchanted by the sight of officers in scarlet uniforms and would have begged and pleaded with Wulfric to be allowed to come here if begging and pleading ever had any effect upon him. I have always been opposed to war, and yet at least half my reason for wanting to come here—no, more than half—was a fascination with the historic battle that was brewing right upon England’s doorstep. I would have thought myself immune to the blatant flirtations of a practiced rake, and yet not only did I not stop yours when I met you, I also encouraged and responded to them. I would have thought it impossible to develop a friendship with such a man. And yet now, at this moment, it seems to me that you are the dearest friend I have ever known. I really do not know myself at all, you see. How can I tell you, then, who I am?” She laughed.
He chuckled too. “You are very young,” he said. “You must not be hard on yourself. You have scarcely begun the voyage into discovery that is adulthood. But I doubt any of us ever know ourselves completely. How dull life would be if we did. There would be no room for growth. We would never take ourselves by surprise.”
“All I do know for certain,” she told him, “is that I am not just a lady. I am a woman—and a person too.”
“I have never doubted it, chérie,” he said.
And here she was, doing exactly what she had just deplored in others. She was so wrapped up in herself that she was virtually ignoring the man next to her. She looked up at him again.
“And who are you, Lord Rosthorn?” she asked.
He chuckled again. He really was very handsome when he smiled, she thought—and even when he did not, for that matter. But there were laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and about his mouth when he laughed, suggesting that he was normally a good-humored man. He would age well, she thought, even when the lines became etched into his face.
“You would not want to know me, chérie,” he said. “I have lived the life of a wastrel.”
“Both before and after your banishment to the Continent?” she asked him. “Did you learn nothing from the events that caused that catastrophe, then?”
“Apparently not.”
He looked down into her face, his eyes lazy and laughing. Their lips were only inches apart. And yet she did not feel in any danger from him. She felt perfectly relaxed with him. Despite his reputation and the undeniable fact that his father had banished him from England nine years ago, she could not believe that he was a wastrel.
“But even if I knew all the sordid details of your life,” she said, “they would still not tell me who you are. You have not answered my question.”
“Perhaps there is nothing to tell,” he said. “Perhaps I am a man without any depth of character at all.”
“I very much doubt that,” she said, “though I might have believed it a week or so ago. Why have you taken me under your wing, Lord Rosthorn?”
“Like a mother bird?” He chuckled again. “Perhaps because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, chérie, and I admire beauty.”
She had lost him. He had retreated behind the facade of mocking amusement he had displayed during their first few meetings, including the picnic in the Forest of Soignés.
But why had he befriended her? There was no real reason why he should have, was there? She could only conclude that it was kindness itself. There—she did know something about him after all.
But did he think of her as a friend or only as a responsibility? She was not the latter. She must be the former, then. She was his friend as surely as he was hers.
“A wastrel,” she said, smiling at him. “What a bouncer, Lord Rosthorn.” She withdrew her hand and patted the back of his. “I must go back. I am to sleep this evening and take the night shift.”
He stood immediately and drew her arm through his.
“I will come and see you each day if I may,” he said as they walked, “and bring any news there is. If at any time you decide that you wish to return to England, I will make arrangements. If you need me for any other reason, you know where to find me, or at least where to leave a message for me.”
“The Rue de Brabant,” she said. “Where is it?”
“I’ll take you past there on our way to Mrs. Clark’s,” he said. “It is not much out of our way. I’ll show you the house.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I will not be leaving, though, until I have heard something definite about Alleyne.”
It jolted her somewhat to realize that she had not thought of him for the past hour. No, that was not quite accurate. Always, beneath every thought, every emotion, ran her leaden
anxiety over Alleyne. But for an hour she had spoken of other things and enjoyed someone else’s company and drawn some peace from the outdoors and the natural surroundings of the park.
She had the Earl of Rosthorn to thank for that.
But what would happen, she wondered, if she never heard anything definite? When would she admit to herself . . .
But whenever that time might be, it was not yet. She fell into step beside the Earl of Rosthorn.
FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS MORGAN TENDED THE wounded with as much energy and devotion as before. They lost one more to death and battled to keep several more alive as the fever raged in them. But gradually most of the men began to recover, some of them quite rapidly. By the end of the fourth day there were only seventeen still at Mrs. Clark’s.
It felt like suspended time to Morgan. She knew the days could not go on forever just like this. Soon most or all of the men would be gone—either back to their regiments or shipped off home to England. And she knew that most of the other women, Mrs. Clark included, were only waiting for word from their husbands before following them to Paris.
Soon, Morgan knew, she was going to have to face up to reality. There could be no reasonable explanation for Alleyne’s long absence—only the obvious one. Wulfric had a right to know that he was missing. Sir Charles Stuart would surely inform him of that fact soon if she did not. But she was not ready yet. Whenever her mind touched upon the subject, she turned it firmly away.
True to his promise, the Earl of Rosthorn came each afternoon to take her walking. Often he ran errands for Mrs. Clark first or helped lift a patient too heavy for them. Once he wrote letters for a couple of the men who had friends or neighbors literate enough to read the letter to their family.
All the wives were a little in love with him, Morgan thought fondly. They all believed that she was fully in love with him. She was not. At the moment she could not even think of him in terms of love and courtship—or dalliance. But she did not know quite what she would have done without him. She would have managed alone, she supposed. Indeed, she undoubtedly would. But she was very grateful for his presence.
Sometimes they hardly spoke at all as they walked. She was often too tired to get her thoughts straight, and she believed that he sensed this and merely strolled with her so that she could breathe in fresh air and feel the warmth of the sun on her face without having to feel obliged to make conversation. Sometimes they chattered on a variety of topics. He was well read, she discovered, and knew a great deal about art and music. He had visited some of the most famous galleries on the Continent and had seen some of the most famous sights. He shared his impressions with her with an eloquence that convinced her of his intelligence and the quality of his education.
Perhaps, she thought sometimes, she was a little in love with him. But such feelings were unimportant. Romance was the furthest thing from her needs during those days.
And then on the evening of the fourth day there was news at last.
Morgan was bandaging the stump of an arm when Mrs. Clark came to relieve her.
“You have a visitor,” she told Morgan. “I have put him in the kitchen.”
There was nowhere else to put a visitor. But he could not be Lord Rosthorn. He would have come to announce himself or he would have sent word and waited outside. Some instinct stopped Morgan from asking who it was. Mrs. Clark had bent very quickly over the wounded man being bandaged.
He was an aide of Sir Charles Stuart’s. He introduced himself with a deferential bow. Morgan had met him before, but she did not remember his name. She did not catch it this time either. She could feel the blood drain out of her head and curled her hands into fists at her sides, imposing control over herself.
“Sir Charles has sent me, my lady,” he said after clearing his throat. “He is busy at this very moment penning a letter to the Duke of Bewcastle.”
Morgan lifted her chin and looked very directly at him.
“A letter was delivered into the hands of Sir Charles an hour or so ago,” the aide explained. “It was mud-caked and tattered and several days old. But it was recognizable, my lady, as the letter his grace, the Duke of Wellington, dictated to an aide, who then gave it into the care of Lord Alleyne Bedwyn.”
Morgan continued to stare at him. He cleared his throat again.
“The letter was discovered earlier today,” the aide told her, “in the Forest of Soignés north of Waterloo.”
The letter. Not its bearer. He did not say so. He did not need to.
“Sir Charles authorized me to inform you, my lady,” he said, “that with the deepest regret he must now abandon hope that Lord Alleyne Bedwyn still lives. He sends his warmest sympathies and asks what he may do for you. May he arrange for your return to England, perhaps?”
Morgan stared at him but did not really hear him.
“Thank you,” she said. “And please thank Sir Charles for informing me. I wish to be alone now, please.”
“My lady—” he began.
But from pure instinct Morgan leveled upon him the Bedwyn look of amazed hauteur.
“Now,” she said. “Please.”
She was alone then, staring at a row of onions hanging from the ceiling and listening to the kettle humming on the hearth. She did not know how much time passed before she heard the rustling of skirts behind her and two warm hands grasped her by the shoulders.
“My poor dear,” Mrs. Clark said. “Sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“The letter has been found.” The sound came out as a whisper. Morgan cleared her throat. “But not Alleyne.”
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Clark said, squeezing her shoulders almost painfully. “Have a cup of tea. It will help dispel the shock.”
But Morgan was shaking her head. She felt something like panic building inside her. She could not sit down and sip tea. She would surely explode. She must . . .
“I am going out,” she said. “I need to walk. I need to think.”
“It is evening,” Mrs. Clark said. “I cannot spare anyone to go with you. Come and sit—”
But Morgan broke from her grasp.
“I am going out,” she said. “I do not need a chaperon or maid. I need to be alone.”
“My dear Lady Morgan—”
“I am so sorry to abandon you in the middle of my shift, but . . . I must go outside.” They were in the hall already and Morgan snatched her shawl off a hook and wound it about her head and shoulders. “I will be quite safe. And I will be back soon. I need to breathe!”
She was out of the house then, hurrying down the steps and along the street, not knowing where she was going, not even caring. She dipped her head down and walked fast—as if she could outstrip the knowledge that she had still not admitted into her deeply guarded spirit.
She had known for days.
There had been no real hope almost from the start.
For days she had thought she was preparing herself. But there was no preparing oneself for the moment when it came.
Alleyne was . . .
She was panting when she eventually stopped walking, as if she had been running for miles. She did not even know where she was. But when she looked about her in the growing dusk, she realized that she was outside the house on the Rue de Brabant that the Earl of Rosthorn had pointed out to her four days ago. There was light behind an upstairs window.
Had she intended to come here? she wondered, dazed. Or was it pure coincidence?
It did not matter.
She stepped up to the door, lifted the brass knocker, hesitated for only a moment, and then let it rattle back against the door.
CHAPTER X
WHEN HE HEARD THE KNOCK ON THE OUTER door, Gervase drew back the curtain in his sitting room and peered downward. His landlady and her daughter were out for the evening. So was his valet, this being his regular half day off work. There were servants in the house, but they were probably gathered in the kitchen area at the back. There was no one on duty in the hall since no visitors were expec
ted.
Her head was covered with a shawl, but he recognized her instantly. Good Lord! Whatever was Lady Morgan Bedwyn doing on his doorstep at this time of the day? It was well into the evening and almost dark—the candles were already burning. His first thought as he dropped the book he had been reading onto the nearest chair and shot from the room and down the stairs was of propriety. If anyone were to see her . . . But even before he reached the bottom of the stairs he remembered telling her to come here to him if she was ever in need. This, obviously, was no social call.
A manservant was shuffling into the hall from the nether regions of the house.
“I’ll get it,” Gervase said to him in French. “It is a friend of mine.”
Fortunately, the servant did not wait to see who the friend might be. He nodded, turned, and shuffled back in the direction from which he had come.
Gervase opened the door, took one look at Lady Morgan’s face, shadowed by darkness though it was, and dismissed any thought he might have had of stepping outside with her and marching her away from the house. Instead he grasped her by the upper arm and drew her inside before closing the door.
“Come upstairs where we can be private,” he said. “Then you can tell me how I may serve you.”
She was pale and obviously distraught. She said nothing as he hurried her up the stairs and into his sitting room and shut the door. Actually, he thought, it did not take much intelligence to guess what must have happened.
“The letter Alleyne was bringing back from the Duke of Wellington to Sir Charles Stuart has been found,” she said, lowering her shawl to her shoulders. “It was lying abandoned in the forest between Waterloo and here.” Her voice was hollow and expressionless. She gazed at him with eyes like huge pools of night in her face.
“Ah, yes, chérie,” he said. He took both her hands in his. They were like ice blocks.
She half smiled. “He is dead, is he not?”
Was she still trying, then, to cling to some shred of hope? But it was time to face the grim reality. It was why she had come to him, he realized. Someone from the embassy must have brought her the information, but he was the one to whom she had instinctively turned for the final interpretation of the facts. He wondered when exactly they had become such precious friends.