England's Perfect Hero Page 4
“No, I don’t know how I’m going to middle chapter three, thank you very much.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “I’m discovering that campaigning was easy. Writing—like politics—is hard.”
Lucinda chuckled, brushing Robert Carroway’s troubling visit out of her thoughts—or trying to do so. After his three years of near solitude, something had brought them together thrice in three days. She shook herself. “You seem to be doing well with both. You may help me prune, however, if you wish.”
“No, my dear. I think I’ll bow to your superior skill and go back to my scribbling.”
“Very wise strategy, General.”
When he’d gone she took a last look around to see whether anyone else might be sneaking up on her, then opened the note. She’d already recognized the handwriting, and wasn’t surprised to see that Evelyn asked whether she and the general wished to attend the small dinner party Lord and Lady St. Aubyn planned for Saturday evening. Lucinda began to smile, until she read the postscript in parentheses at the bottom of the page. According to Evie’s neat hand, Lord Geoffrey Newcombe was being sent the same letter of invitation.
Lucinda shoved the missive into her pelisse pocket. Obviously her friends wanted to help her, but she couldn’t help thinking the lesson scheme—which she’d begun, for heaven’s sake—had become a complete sham. At least Georgie and Evelyn had chosen their students with the genuine idea of teaching them a lesson. Now when it came her turn, all three of them—and even a recluse like Robert Carroway—knew the lessons were only a very thin excuse. And even worse, her friends seemed perfectly willing to serve up Lord Geoffrey to her on a silver platter without even making a pretense that they were doing anything but matchmaking.
“Damnation,” she said under her breath, using one of the less-colorful curses she’d learned from her father and his army friends. Scowling, she doused the ground around the rose with the water Robert had provided her. That wasn’t how she’d wanted it, though obviously if she pretended otherwise she’d be fooling no one but herself—and perhaps Lord Geoffrey.
Well, she’d laid out her silverware, and there was nothing to do now but serve up the meal. And if Robert Carroway thought she needed advice, he was very much mistaken. Nor did she need to explain herself—and especially not to a near hermit who couldn’t be bothered to excuse himself from a conversation before fleeing. Ha. He was just lucky she’d decided to concentrate on Lord Geoffrey, because Mr. Carroway seemed rather in need of a lesson or two, himself.
Robert slowed Tolley to a walk as they neared the boundary of Carroway House. Edward and Bradshaw stood outside the stable, inspecting the new saddle the youngest brother had acquired on his birthday. Taking a breath, he started up the drive. After the way he’d botched his conversation with Miss Barrett, things couldn’t get much worse today, anyway.
“Bit!” Edward called, running forward to clasp Robert’s boot, “did Shaw tell you?”
“Runt, don’t—”
“He’s getting his own ship,” Edward continued, ignoring Bradshaw. “He’s a captain now!”
“Almost a captain,” Bradshaw amended, his light blue gaze meeting Robert’s. “Month after next, unless Bonaparte gets loose again.”
Suppressing a shudder, Robert nodded. “Congratulations.” He swung down from Tolley, reluctantly turning the reins over to a waiting stable boy. There were times when he preferred Carroway House the way it had been before Georgiana and her income had rescued them; back then he could tend Tolley himself, and he didn’t have to wait until after midnight to slip out unnoticed.
“Where did you go?” the youngest Carroway asked.
“Errand,” he answered, giving his usual reply.
A useless errand, at that. He wasn’t even certain why he’d gone now, except that he liked the way Lucinda Barrett simply talked to him. Not many people did that any longer, even when he provided them with the rare opportunity to do so. At some point, though, he’d meant to offer her his assistance. Ha. As if he could assist himself, much less anyone else.
“Will you come riding with Shaw and me?” the Runt continued.
“I have some correspondence,” he said. Correspondence and a keen dislike of the huge crowds filling Hyde Park at this time of day. With another nod he turned on his heel, heading for the house.
“Bit, hold up,” Shaw said, handing the reins of Edward’s pony back to the boy. “I’ll be right back, Runt.”
“Well, hurry—I want to get a lemon ice.”
Robert slowed as Bradshaw drew even with him. Without either of them saying a thing, he could practically recite their conversation word for word; it was the same one he had with all of his family members every time one of them returned after an absence. “I’m fine,” he said, trying to shorten the interrogation process.
“I just wanted to mention that I’ll have a post for a third mate open under my command,” Shaw said, his gaze on the butler pulling open the front door for them. “There’s no reason you couldn’t—”
“No,” Robert interrupted, his voice sharp. He tried to stop the thought process, but Shaw had caught him by surprise. Already his mind was conjuring himself trapped in a crowded, minuscule cabin on a lone ship in the middle of the ocean, stranded for a year or more.
“Just because you’ve left the army doesn’t mean you can’t do something else useful.”
Robert stopped short, facing his older brother. “As if floating around in a boat halfway across the globe is useful.”
Shaw’s face closed down. “You have no—”
“Leave me alone, Shaw. I don’t want your life.”
“Why not? You don’t have one of your own any longer.”
Shoving past Dawkins at the door, Robert limped for the stairs. “I know that, Bradshaw,” he growled, striding for his bedchamber.
“It doesn’t have to be that way!” his brother yelled after him.
“Yes, it does,” he muttered, his breath shuddering deep in his chest. Quiet. He just needed quiet and solitude for a few minutes. Calm, and no more thinking about being trapped in a small, crowded space with no way out.
Inside his bedchamber, though, behind the closed, latched door, the walls seemed to come closer and closer around him as he strode to the window and back, over and over. His hands began shaking, and he clenched them into hard fists. Now that it had begun, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it—the black, blind panic at nothing and for no good reason. Damn Bradshaw.
Eyes closed, he dropped onto the floor beneath the window. He’d overdone it, was all. Two trips into public in two days, trying to face those damned stares and whispers and at the same time carry on a civil conversation after three years of near solitude and silence.
Calm. Be calm. He wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing was going to happen to him. He was safe. Safe. Quiet. Calm. He repeated the words to himself over and over until they blurred together into an incoherent chant, low at the back of his mind.
“Bit? Robert?”
Tristan knocked at his door. When Robert opened his eyes, light no longer reflected from the window, and he sat huddled on the floor in darkness. Slowly he straightened his cramped fingers and climbed to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles.
“Bit? Are you all right?”
He felt vaguely ill as he reached the door, but that meant the worst of it was over. His skin seemed too tight across his bones, and he felt a hundred years old. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door. “I’m fine,” he grunted, gazing into his oldest brother’s concerned face.
“May I come in?”
“No.”
“You look like hell.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Tristan’s lips tightened. “Shaw told me about his offer.”
Dread welled through him. God, he couldn’t go through it again. Not so soon. “And you think I should go?” he forced out.
“No, I think Shaw’s an idiot, and that’s what I told him.”
“Good.”
Robert backed up half a step, his hand clenching the door. “I’m trying, you know,” he whispered, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he spoke aloud.
“I know. Anything you need, anything or anyone you want, and I’ll get it for you.”
“I don’t need—”
“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Tristan cut in.
“What?” he asked, mostly because he wasn’t quite ready to face either the dark, empty room or the rest of his family downstairs.
“I think you need a hobby. No, I know you read, and I…know Tolley seems fairly well exercised. I’m not talking about embroidery or anything. In fact, I don’t know what. Just something small, to start with. Something to—”
“To occupy me,” Robert finished.
“Don’t be angry. I’m—”
“I’m not angry.” He took another breath. “You may be right.”
“I…I am? I almost never hear that, you know. Make sure you tell Georgie. She’ll be amazed.”
The surprise and relief on Tristan’s face made Robert feel guilty, and he forced a smile. With another glance behind him, he shoved the door open and emerged into the hallway. “I don’t suppose you’ve held dinner for me?”
“That’s why I’m up here. The Runt’s threatening to eat his utensils.”
Robert lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to wait.”
“Yes, we did. But don’t worry about it.”
Downstairs in the dining room he kept his eyes lowered as he took his seat. They’d all be looking at his face, worrying about him and trying to think of something to say that would be encouraging. Shaw would be angry, both at himself and at Robert, because after all, he hadn’t done anything but offer his younger brother a chance at a second career.
“Evie and Saint have invited all of us to dinner on Saturday,” Georgiana said into the silence.
“Do you mean all of us, or all of the grown-ups?” Edward asked.
“All of us, my dear. Just us, and Luce and the general, and Lord Geoffrey Newcombe.”
“Oh, I like Lord Geoffrey,” the Runt said. “He tells very good stories. And he knows Wellington.”
“So does Saint,” Bradshaw countered.
Robert could feel the various glances in his direction, waiting to see whether he meant to participate. He kept his head down and ate. He didn’t have to say anything; in a moment someone would change the subject on his behalf, and they’d go on chatting without him. That was the procedure, and everyone knew it.
“Bit, do you know Wellington?”
Everyone knew it, that was, except for Edward. Robert wanted to ignore the question, but that would mean ignoring the Runt, and then soon Edward would stop talking to him, and then the last ounce of sanity would be gone from his life.
“I saw him riding about,” he said, “and we shared a whiskey once, but not much more than that.”
“Why did you share a whiskey?” the youngest Carroway pursued, bouncing in his seat.
“Because I had a bottle, and it was snowing, and he asked for a drink before he froze off his balls.”
“Wellington said ‘balls’?”
“Edward!” Georgiana squeaked.
“Bit said it first!”
Shaw began coughing into his napkin, while Dawkins, the butler, abruptly spied something interesting to look at out the window. Robert glanced at Tristan and Georgie, who both looked amused.
Robert wanted to close his eyes; after three hours of black horror and muscles drawn so tight he could scarcely move, he felt as tired as if he’d run to Newcastle and back. Sleep, though, was a prospect that filled him with further unease. He’d never been too tired, it seemed, to dream. Perhaps Tristan was right. Perhaps he needed something—a small, unthreatening something—to distract him.
“Garden,” he muttered, not even certain he’d spoken aloud until he caught the puzzled look on his oldest brother’s face.
“Beg pardon?” Tristan asked.
Flowers, plants, growing things. Things that didn’t scream or bleed when they died. Things that wouldn’t look at you oddly if you didn’t know what the hell you were doing. By God, it actually made sense. “I’d like to make a garden,” he elaborated.
“What kind of garden?” Bradshaw asked, his voice thin with hesitation.
Don’t scare off the mute, Robert thought, working to turn his mind away from that, away from the careful looks and careful silences. Lucinda had a garden, he remembered. What had she been tending when he’d found her kneeling in the dirt, when she’d actually disagreed with him, argued with him, as though he was a perfectly normal person? “Roses,” he grunted.
“Roses,” Georgiana repeated, her thoughtful gaze touching his. “It’s about time one of the Carroway men decided to cultivate something other than their poor reputations.”
“I don’t have a poor reputation,” Edward stated, his expression a little baffled as he pushed sweet potatoes around his plate and looked at Robert. “Roses? Why don’t you go riding with me?”
God, was he really being that stupid and useless? Flowers? He could see himself, some shuffling old halfwit blathering to his fistful of dying posies. But if he couldn’t manage that one step forward, it meant he’d end up some shuffling old halfwit locked in a room and blathering to himself.
Choking on air, Robert pushed to his feet. “Excuse me.”
“Just promise me you’ll plant white roses,” Georgie said as he strode from the room. “I love white roses.”
Chapter 4
You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend.
—Robert Walton, Frankenstein
“Georgiana,” Lucinda said, hurrying downstairs to greet her friend, “am I being an idiot? I thought we were going shopping tomorrow.”
“We are, and you’re not,” the viscountess returned, taking her proffered hands. “This is not a social call.”
Georgie didn’t look alarmed at anything, but Lucinda couldn’t help recalling the rather abrupt ending to her conversation with Robert yesterday. Wonderful. All she needed was for her dearest friend to yell at her for verbally abusing her invalid brother-in-law. “What can I do for you, then?” she asked as she led the way into the morning room.
“Well, this is going to sound a little odd, but please bear with me, Luce.”
“Of course.”
Georgiana cleared her throat. “Tristan’s been trying to find something for Bit—Robert—to do that will help him…find a little peace. I know it sounds strange, but—”
“No, it doesn’t,” Lucinda interrupted, concealing her jump at the mention of Robert’s name. “Go on.”
“Thank you. Last night Bit mentioned that he would like to grow roses. I—”
Lucinda blinked, an abrupt suspicion tickling at her. “Roses?”
“Yes. I don’t know where the idea came from, but he wouldn’t have mentioned it for no reason. I wanted to offer to help him get started, but I think that might make him back away.” Lady Dare scowled, twining and untwining her fingers. “I shouldn’t be talking about him to anyone, but I consider you my family, Luce.”
“And I, you.” Lucinda sat forward, pushing back her own reservations at becoming entangled in what looked to be a very complicated enterprise. Georgie needed her help—and perhaps so did Robert. That fact intrigued her more than she cared to admit. “I can make some cuttings, and I have a few books on growing roses. Perhaps I’ll just drop by with them and ambush Mr. Carroway.”
“ ‘Ambush?’ ” Georgiana repeated. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“It’ll make it more difficult for him to refuse,” Lucinda returned, smiling. “Or to change his mind about this project of his.”
“I…All right. I’ll risk making him angry with me. I…I want him to get better. I want to
hear him laugh.”
With a small smile, Lucinda moved over to the couch and hugged her friend. “Being shot—what, five times—at Waterloo and seeing all of the horror there, Georgie. How could it not affect him?”
Georgiana’s expression faltered, then recovered again. “Of course,” she said, averting her face from Lucinda’s curious gaze. “I will appreciate anything you can provide that might help him.”
Her friend’s reaction to her comment had been interesting. Now, though, wasn’t the time to hesitate. She could try to figure out what Georgie wasn’t telling her later. “I’ll be by before luncheon.”
Only a moment after Georgiana left, the general entered the morning room. “It seems your idea may save my Salamanca chapter, my dear,” he said, pocketing a letter. “Lord Geoffrey writes that he would be delighted to go over my journal with me and see what we can reconstruct.”
“That’s splendid.”
“He’ll be coming to call after luncheon. I would appreciate if you could be here to take notes.”
At least some things were working as they should be. “I’d be happy to help.” She stood, kissing him on the cheek as she passed by. “I should be home by then.”
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to take some rose cuttings to Robert Carroway. He wants to start a garden.”
The general clamped firm fingers over her shoulder, drawing her to a surprised halt. “Robert Carroway? He’s not a suitor, is he?”
“No. Just a friend.” She frowned at the serious expression in his eyes. “Why?”
“He’s not my sort of soldier. Or my sort of man.”
“Papa, y—”
“I know he’s your Georgie’s brother-in-law now, but keep as much distance as you can. Don’t be too much of a ‘friend’—his reputation will reflect on you. And on me.”
“What reputation? He’s barely been seen in public for three years, and he was shot at Waterloo. He’s a hero.”
Her father kept silent for a short moment. “So some say. Others were wounded there, however, and you don’t see them hiding from their own shadows. Lord Geoffrey, for instance. Carroway’s damaged goods, Luce. Keep that in mind, and keep your distance.”