All You Could Ask For

by Angeline Fortin

  Time had changed his brother much as it had Richard. While the changes in Francis had been a result of personal responsibility to his clan—and an exceptionally bad marriage—Richard had been altered by the harsh reality of bloodshed, battle, and pain.

  Though his family had considered his commissioning into the Queen’s Scots Guard to be little more than a lark, Richard, though only just past a score of years at the time, had already begun to wonder whether days upon days of frivolous entertainment would satisfy him for the remainder of his life. He didn’t need an occupation. He possessed fortune enough to live a comfortable life if he budgeted and invested widely.

  There was no challenge to it, however. No satisfaction.

  Vin and Jace had felt the same and so together they had joined the military, determined to serve their country with honor. Richard did not regret his service, but the horrors of war were enough to harden any man. Years of seeing men under his command injured and dead on the battlefields in Africa and Burma had often left him with a sense of despair few entertainments could banish.

  Then had come the secret mission that lead Richard, his brother Vincent and friend Jason MacKenzie along with three others in their covert unit, deep into the deserts of Egypt, on the hunt for rebels left over from the insurgence their own battalion had helped suppress years before. Intelligence had indicated that supporters of that rebellion’s leader, Ahmed Urabi, were attempting to free their leader and resurrect their lost revolution. The rebels assumed Urabi a prisoner, when in fact, he’d been exiled from the country years before.

  Their unit had been captured by the fanatics, held—or so they thought—as hostages for Urabi’s release. For almost six months, he’d been imprisoned with the others, questioned and sometimes tortured for information. They tried to escape several times and, with the last, Richard and one other of his unit, Lieutenant Anthony Temple, had managed a getaway while Vin, Jason, and two others had been dragged back into captivity.

  The local battalion, Temple told him, had launched a search for the others, but Richard knew there had to be more they could do. He’d enlisted Francis’ help straight away to ensure the War Office did everything in their power to find his brothers-in-arms and free them from the rebels.

  Rejection was not an option. Imprisonment and desperation had changed him. Neither was it acceptable to Francis. His brother was right. Chain of command be damned. Richard was prepared to leap frog straight to the top.

  Taking advantage of the undersecretary’s stunned silence, Francis continued in a menacing tone, “We will expect to hear from Stanhope by the end of the week on this matter. Should the War Secretary be conveniently unavailable at that time, I should think that an appeal on my part to CB might hasten an interview.”

  It was a silence that grew thicker with Glenrothes’ casual use of the moniker for the previous War Secretary, Henry Campbell-Bannerman. Bannerman was a fellow Scot and, while not currently in office under Salisbury’s conservative government, retained a considerable amount of power.

  “Or even Rosebery,” Francis added for effect the previous Foreign Secretary, another powerful, liberal figure in London politics. “I have many friends, Palmer, don’t force me to use them.”

  “I hear you’re already using every connection you have to force your divorce petition through the House, Glenrothes,” Palmer sneered with false bravado, an attempt to regain his faltering position. “Perhaps your favors are all used up.”

  Richard felt Francis stiffen at his side, felt the fury boiling up in his brother. Francis stood, tucking his walking stick under one arm as he pulled on his gloves. All the while, the earl pierced the undersecretary with a cold gaze full of hellish fury.

  “One week, Palmer, and we shall see whose connections reach higher.”

  * * *

  The two brothers left the War Office with little promise to raise their hope from when they had entered. Their day had begun at the Foreign Office, which, along with the India Office, occupied the western end of the huge government building that dominated King Charles Street, where they had merely wasted time. There was no Foreign Secretary in office at the moment as the seat holder, Lord Iddesleigh, recently departed this earth and hadn’t yet been replaced.

  More time was squandered in the eastern end of the building where the Home Office as well as the Colonial Office were housed. They’d spent some time there as well, hoping to speak with the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews. Matthews was out of the office for the day, and no one would confess Edward Stanhope’s whereabouts. It had taken the better part of the day running to ground a single individual who would admit knowledge of the entire affair.

  With so much of the mission based on little more than rumor and speculation, his unit had been virtually disavowed upon their capture by a sector of the War Office more eager to save their own positions than save men in dire straits.

  Richard couldn’t help but grind his teeth in frustration as they reached daylight and their waiting horses, donning their hats in unison. The sun shone brightly in the clear sky. The glory of the spring day at odds with the dark cloud that hung over their heads.

  There’d been a time when he’d been certain he’d never see London again, never feel another mild spring. He was free in body but not in mind. The fate of the others, his closest friends and comrades…his own blood, ate at him.

  Who was to say whether any of the others still lived? They might’ve been killed in their escape attempt. The rebels had fired volley after volley of gunshot after them as they fled. Richard, himself, had taken a bullet in the back. He had been able to ride through to Cairo in Temple’s wake, but only just. By the time he’d regained his senses, he’d been back on a ship bound for England. It was then that Temple informed him that their command in Cairo knew nothing of the capture. There had been no demands for ransom or the release of Urabi. Nothing.

  No news on his friends left more doubts regarding their survival.

  It did not matter. Dead or alive, he wasn’t about to leave them out in the middle of Egypt. He could not rest until someone—anyone—agreed to find them.

  “You think he’ll come through?” Richard asked, though his observations had already given him an answer.

  “Palmer is a weasel who abuses his position,” Glenrothes scoffed. “I doubt Stanhope has heard two words of Jason and Vin’s capture, much less the Queen. Palmer is trying to bury the embarrassment of his mistake in sending you after the rebels in the first place. I’d wager he hoped the entire incident might be swept quietly under the rug and was succeeding, until you returned.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I have a session at the House the day after tomorrow,” his brother went on as they mounted and rode north toward Marylebone. “I’ll try to corner Stanhope then and see what I can do.”

  “We can’t just leave Vin and Jace to rot out there, Francis. It’s already been nearly a month since I escaped.”

  “I know. We’ll have to pursue CB, and probably Rosebery as well, to back us on this. Stanhope is overly conservative, besides he’s an Oxford man to boot.” Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should have let us know what was happening, Richard.”

  “It’s called a secret mission for a reason.” Richard shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, drawing his brother’s concerned attention.

  “We should have brought the carriage. You shouldn’t be riding yet.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t, but Richard wasn’t going to admit such to his brother. The bullet wound itself hadn’t been life threatening. No, it had been infection, dehydration, and the heat that had nearly taken his life. He often felt overtired, in body and spirit, with occasional pain that lanced through his midsection. This was one of those occasions. But it wasn’t of importance. Only one thing was.

  “I don’t know how long we can wait, Francis. If we can’t get any action out of the War Office soon, I’ll go back and look for them myself.”

  “And I’ll go with y
ou.”

  They rode around the corner of the building and crossed the Horse Guards Road into St. James Park, where they might cut across the northeastern portion of the park on their way to the townhouse Francis had recently purchased in Cavendish Square in Marylebone.

  While it was not an exclusive address, it was a fashionable neighborhood. Since his brother had little interest in Society and certainly preferred their Scottish homeland to London, Richard had wondered about the purchase, only to receive an amused explanation of resale values. He didn’t care. The house had kept him in comfort these last several weeks while he recovered his strength and was in close proximity to the officials whose assistance he needed to search out his lost brothers-in-arms.

  “The powers must be looking after us, brother,” Francis said suddenly. “I see Stanhope’s secretary, Lancing, riding ahead. He must be on his way home for the evening. Let us just make our hellos and see if I can find a time with Stanhope tomorrow.”

  Waving for him to lead on, Richard followed as his brother hailed the secretary. The two men spoke briefly but Richard couldn’t focus his attention on them. His mind was already drifting back to Egypt as it did so often, wondering. Always wondering…and hoping. There was a chance, he told himself once more. Always a chance.

  “Stanhope is in Brighton now,” Francis told him when they finally rode away. “However, he is expected back tomorrow night to attend the Countess of Rosebery’s ball as is CB. Good luck for us to have them all there under one roof. We should be able to corner them and have them hear us out.”

  Richard’s lips twisted wryly. “Well, I hope you have an extra set of evening clothes, brother, if you expect me to attend.”

  “I have something better.”

  Chapter 9

  When one door of happiness closes, another opens;

  But often we look so long at the closed door

  that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.

  ~ Helen Keller

  The home of the Earl of Rosebery

  40 Piccadilly Street, London

  The following evening

  “Mr. MacKintosh!”

  The sweet female voice caught Richard’s attention. He stopped tugging at the high collar of his red regimental coat and turned to find a young woman approaching with a wide, friendly smile. She was a lovely, sparkling blond but she couldn’t have been more than a debutante in her first or perhaps second year. Since he’d been gone from London for the better part of the past five years, he couldn’t imagine how he might be acquainted with her.

  It seemed she knew him, however, as she continued with cheery familiarity, “I just knew it was you. I said to my sister, why that simply must be Mr. Richard MacKintosh and it is.” She glanced over her shoulder and called in a more taunting tone, “I told you so!”

  Richard’s gaze shifted to the young woman who approached more reluctantly behind the first. Though both ladies were beautiful, the second of the pair possessed such an ethereal loveliness, he found he couldn’t look away. She was a vision of feminine perfection. Extremely petite, yet curvaceous. Her icy pink ball gown clung tightly to every curve, cut low enough to tempt a man’s imagination without giving away too much. The neckline dripped with lace intermixed with threaded beads that looped and dangled among the folds. The same lace gathered at her shoulders to hang down over her upper arms, covering her to the elbow where her matching gloves began. The swing and sway of the beads over her breasts as she walked was arousing enough to dot a man’s forehead with beads of sweat. She was that tempting, even though she was more modestly covered than most of the ladies present.

  Her brocaded overskirt was drawn tightly around her hips before gathering up into a bustle behind, highlighting the contrast between the flare of her hips and her tiny waist. More lace and beads on the fabric’s edge created a fringe across the underskirt, catching the light as she walked. The pale color of the gown complimented her light blond hair and pale coloring and provided even more reason for a comparison to the angels.

  She also seemed very familiar to him, though he couldn’t place how he might know her. As lovely as she was, she appeared no older than her companion, which would have made her no more than thirteen when he’d last been in London. He couldn’t imagine where or when they might have met. Nevertheless, he bowed neatly and greeted them. While her companion chatted animatedly, the angel merely stared off at the dancers circling the floor.

  So detached, almost as if she were not a part of this world.

  Fey.

  Richard felt a maddening urge to do something, anything to rouse in her the same awareness she incited in him. It was not recognition of her identity or of her celestial attributes that stirred him. It was desire, pure and simple, and he wanted her to experience the same.

  He imagined any number of men felt that same way in her company. Driven to passion while she remained aloof, wanting to compel her to feel the same. He wanted nothing more than to coerce her into a dark corner and try his luck.

  The thought surprised him. He’d had his fair share of experience seducing lovely ladies, both before joining the military but with more luck in the dress uniform of the Scots Guard. Since his return, however, women and sex had been the farthest thing from his mind. He’d focused on his brother and friends, on freeing them from their imprisonment. Nothing else mattered.

  Suddenly women and sex, particularly this woman and the thoughts of making love to her, were thrust to the forefront of his mind. They pushed everything else away, reminding him how long it had been since he’d seen a woman so lovely, much less touched one.

  He wanted to touch this one…everywhere.

  “How are you this evening?” he addressed her directly when her companion stopped to take a breath, his voice surprisingly husky. She cast him a sidelong glance from beneath her lashes and the controlled perfection of her face softened the tiniest bit. He could have sworn that a smile touched the corner of her lips though she still seemed like a marble goddess.

  A young marble goddess. A debutante, no doubt. Innocent. Not a woman to take lightly. The admonition echoed through his mind but faded away when the angel spoke in a husky tone that slid sensuously down his spine.

  “I’m very well, Mr. MacKintosh, or shall I say Captain? I must say, I am surprised to see you in London. Last we heard, you were to have been in Burma, I believe.”

  Dash it all, he should know who they were if they were so familiar with his movements. He knew it, yet he could not place her or her companion. Surely, he would have remembered such a low, melodic voice.

  “I was injured and forced to return home,” he offered not wanting to get into the details.

  Her cool façade slipped for a moment as she studied him from head to toe. Her eyes widened in alarm, searching, he assumed, for his injury. “You were not seriously hurt, were you?”

  “I was quite ill for some time but am on the road to recovery.” She met his gaze ever so briefly, but he read relief in her lovely aquamarine eyes. Very familiar eyes.

  Bloody hell, who was she?

  “We’re so happy to hear that,” the more bubbly of the pair gushed. “Do you plan to take part in the remainder of the Season while you’re in Town?”

  “I hadn’t thought to.”

  “Oh, but you must,” she continued. “We’re having a ball to celebrate my sister’s engagement tomorrow night. Please say you’ll join us.”

  Richard’s gaze returned to the angel who was now watching him steadily from beneath her lashes. Was she the sister who was now engaged?

  “Oh, there’s St. Owen!” The flighty miss’s attention turned as quickly as a hound at the scent of a fox. “I must go. It was very nice to see you again, Mr. MacKintosh, Captain MacKintosh!” She flicked her hands in a capricious manner. “You must come tomorrow. We won’t take no for an answer.”

  With that, she turned and hurried away, waving her hand with unseemly enthusiasm to catch the attention of a gentleman across the room. Thankfully,
her departure kept him from responding to her invitation. How could he do such a thing when he hadn’t a clue who they were? It seemed rude at this point to ask.

  “You must forgive Sara,” the angel spoke once more in that low and melodious voice. It sent a shudder of pleasure down Richard’s spine. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to feel something of that nature. “The excitement of her first Season seems to never wane.”

  “She is most enthusiastic.”

  “You needn’t attend the ball if you’d rather not. I can see your hesitation.”

  “My wounds haven’t yet allowed for much socialization,” he prevaricated.

  “W-were you badly injured?”

  He stifled the urge to wrap his arms around her and banish the worry reflected in her words and eyes away with a kiss. Richard shook his head, wondering at the absurd thought, saying only, “It’s a tale unfit for a lady’s ears.”

  “I can only thank God then that you are recovering and well.”

  “I am better every day…”

  Francis arrived then, taking a glass of champagne from the refreshment table. “I haven’t seen Stanhope depart from the receiving line yet, but CB is in the card room. I think this would be a good time to strike up a bit of casual conversation…oh, hello brat. I didn’t know you were in town.”

  The angel offered a soft smile and her hand to Francis who took it warmly in his own. No polite, social bow from his brother or a curtsey from her. Damn, Richard thought, he really should know her.

  “Oona insisted. Father has taken a house on Mount Street for the Season.”