England's Perfect Hero Page 6

  “Yes, of course.” Concentrate, Lucinda. This wasn’t just a social call, as her visit with Robert had more or less been. This was about setting the course for her future matrimonial status.

  Trying to clear her head of the morning’s events, she followed Ballow downstairs and slipped into the general’s office. “Good afternoon, Papa, Lord Geoffrey,” she said, dipping a curtsy.

  “Miss Barrett,” the Duke of Fenley’s son returned, rising from his seat to grip her fingers. “General Barrett tells me that you’ve agreed to record our efforts.”

  “I have,” she said, stepping around to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek and motioning both men to sit. “I’ll be by the window, so I won’t intrude on your work.”

  “Nonsense.” Lord Geoffrey pulled out the chair beside him. “I always tell a better story with an audience present. Especially an audience so attentive she’s actually taking notes.”

  While Lucinda settled into the chair with a pencil and paper, the general opened the torn, half-burned and water-stained journal that contained his Salamanca notes. “Damned galley fire on the ship returning me to England after Boney sailed off to Elba,” he grumbled, turning the pages gingerly despite the gruff nonchalance of his words. “My Pamplona journal was destroyed completely. All over a damned colonel wanting a slice of toasted bread for his bloody sea sickness.”

  “I hope you had him demoted,” Lord Geoffrey agreed. “But it so happens that I saw some action at Pamplona, as well. Not as much as you did, I’m certain, but I’d be happy to offer my recollections if you think they could be of use.”

  “That’s very kind of you, my lord.”

  “ ‘Geoffrey,’ please. With three brothers ahead of me, the odds of my actually inheriting a title are something beyond abysmal.”

  The general smiled. “ ‘Geoffrey’ it is, then. Salamanca was your first engagement, was it not?”

  “Yes, it was—and quite the introduction to battle, if I may say so. A French musket ball took off my hat two minutes after I entered the field.”

  Lucinda listened to the two men talking, taking down notes on dates, weather conditions, troop movement, and personal observations. She could almost feel the heat of the battle, see the smoke and the ebb and flow of the troops as Wellington shadowed the forces of Marshal Auguste Marmont, the Commander of the Army of Portugal.

  She actually gasped when Geoffrey described nearly being swept downriver as his squad crossed the Tormes River during a storm toward the end of the battle. “Apologies,” she muttered, blushing, as both men looked over at her. “You tell a vivid story.”

  Geoffrey inclined his head. “I only hope it’s not too horrific for a gently bred lady such as yourself.”

  Ah, opportunity. “I assure you, my lord, that while I never saw battle, I have read all of my father’s notes and correspondence, and the drafts of his chapters. I also volunteered at hospitals for wounded soldiers directly after the war. One does not grow up as the daughter of General Augustus Barrett without knowing something about conflict and warfare.”

  “And the proper way to tell a tale,” her father seconded, giving her a fond smile. “Not one to flinch, my Lucinda.”

  “I stand corrected, then,” Lord Geoffrey conceded, “though in all honesty I think your father would agree that there are some aspects of battle that a gentleman does not speak of to a lady.”

  “I—”

  “After all, what do soldiers fight for if not to preserve a certain…quality of peace and amity at home?” he went on.

  “Very good point, Geoffrey,” the general said. “Do you mind if I have Lucinda take a note of it?”

  “Not at all.” He pulled out his pocket watch, consulting its time against that of the mantel clock. “I’m afraid I have a meeting with my finance man at four o’clock,” he said.

  “Of course.” The general marked their place in the damaged journal and carefully closed it again. “We’ve made a good start.” He glanced at his desk calendar. “Would you care to continue the skirmish on Tuesday for luncheon? My cook makes a fine roast chicken.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Geoffrey sent Lucinda a warm glance.

  “Noon, then?” she asked, rising.

  “Noon it is.”

  When Lord Geoffrey took her hand again she couldn’t help noticing that his grip lingered a moment longer than custom dictated. My goodness, things were going well. And they’d have an even better opportunity for chatting at Evie and Saint’s dinner, evening after next.

  “Nice, upstanding lad,” the general said, as Lord Geoffrey returned to his horse and cantered down the drive.

  “He does seem to be, doesn’t he?”

  “And still a captain, not on active duty. If Boney had won at Waterloo, Captain Lord Geoffrey’d be a major by now. Perhaps even a lieutenant colonel. Has the right attitude for it. Just not enough war to go around.”

  For a fleeting moment, troubled azure eyes crossed Lucinda’s thoughts. “Quite enough war, I think. I’m happy to see you employed at the Horse Guards and writing memoirs now rather than field journals, thank you very much.”

  “Yes, yes, my girl.” The general turned back to the papers on his desk, where she knew he’d spend most of the evening outlining the next chapter of his book. “Even so, I’m glad you suggested that I consult with him.”

  “So am I,” Lucinda murmured, heading for the library to look for a map of Spain and the town of Salamanca. She wondered whether Robert had fought there, and whether his recollections would be similar to those of Lord Geoffrey and her father. And she wondered whether she dared ask him.

  As Robert pulled on his greatcoat and riding gloves he heard Edward pounding down the stairs behind him. Damnation. This was why he preferred midnight rides to those during daylight.

  “Where are you going?” his youngest brother asked.

  “An errand.” He took his hat from Dawkins and rammed it onto his head, noting the butler’s disapproving glance at his too-long hair.

  “You always say that,” Edward complained. “I want to go, too.”

  “It’s boring,” he said, waiting impatiently for Dawkins to pull open the front door.

  “I still want to go. Shaw’s going on a picnic with some chit, Tris has Parliament, and Georgie’s going shopping.”

  Shopping with Lucinda Barrett, if he’d heard correctly. “What about Mr. Trost?” he asked, even as he remembered that it was the tutor’s day off.

  “He’s visiting his mother. And I am not going to do lessons for no good reason.”

  Wishing their other brother, Andrew, didn’t still have another week before he could come down from Cambridge, Robert sighed. “Then get your coat,” he said.

  “Hurray!” Edward thundered back up the stairs, but came to an abrupt halt on the landing. “You’re not going to leave without me, are you, Bit?”

  The thought had crossed his mind. “No. I’ll be at the stables, having Tolley and Storm Cloud saddled.”

  “I’ll be right down!”

  Robert went outside, inspecting his patch of a garden while he waited for the horses. The family’s apparent ignorance about his square of uprooted lawn had continued through dinner and his hasty breakfast, but he doubted anyone could stop Edward from saying something about it eventually.

  He’d gone to bed tired and awakened at sunrise with aching shoulder muscles, surprised and grateful that he’d actually slept through the night and that he couldn’t remember dreaming. That fact alone was enough to make him want to continue cultivating the rose garden.

  He swung up on Tolley as Edward ran from the house. “Where are we going?” the Runt asked, stepping into John the groom’s hands and hopping into Storm Cloud’s saddle.

  “The river.”

  They cantered down the drive and headed southeast. As they reached Pall Mall, Robert fought the urge to send Tolley into a gallop. It was still early, but Mayfair was bursting with people. Milk vendors, rag and bone men, vegetable and fruit carts, servant
s fetching this and that, coal and firewood salesmen, orange girls, and a few early-rising nobles all crowded onto the streets, pushing and yelling, shouting and singing.

  “Why are we going to the river?” Edward asked.

  “Fish.”

  “We’re going fishing?”

  He hid a scowl at the anticipation in the boy’s voice. “No. I need some fresh fish for the garden.”

  “You can’t grow fish in a garden, Bit. I’m not a baby, anymore, and you can’t fool me with that nonsense.”

  “They’re fertilizer, to help the roses root. That’s the theory, anyway.”

  The boy opened and closed his mouth again. “Oh.”

  “ ‘Oh,’ what?”

  “I’m not supposed to ask about the rose garden. I’m not even supposed to say the word ‘rose.’ ”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Everybody. First Georgie told me, then Tristan, and then Shaw nearly scared me to death when he jumped out of the drawing room to tell me not to talk about roses. I think I hate roses.”

  “If we’re lucky, by the end of the morning you’ll hate fish even more.”

  “Are you going to let me help you with your garden, then? Because Georgie said I couldn’t ask you that, either.”

  They passed out of Mayfair, but if anything the streets seemed even more crowded. Robert’s chest began to tighten, and he fought to keep his breathing steady. If he went under here, there was no telling what might happen to Edward. He needed to distract himself while he still had some control. “Do you want to help with the garden?” he asked. “I thought you’d rather go riding with Shaw or Tristan.”

  “I like riding with you, too. You hardly even use the reins with Tolley. I want to learn to do that with Storm Cloud.” Edward frowned. “But since nobody else will even talk about it, I’ll help you with the garden. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

  “Thank you, Runt.”

  Edward grinned happily, perfectly content at the rightness of the world. Robert envied him. He’d grasped that once, felt it, but somehow knowing what he’d had and lost only made things worse now. He could never tell anyone how far he’d fallen from that light, or that because of what he’d done, he could never return to daylight again.

  “Is that a fishmonger?”

  Robert blinked. “Yes.” He dismounted and limped up to the withered old man and his weathered old cart. “I need to purchase some fish.”

  “Very good, milord. I have all kinds, very fresh. Cod, mackerel, smelt—”

  “I need two dozen,” Robert interrupted, hoping the catch smelled better than the vendor did.

  “Two dozen? ’A course, milord. What k—”

  “About this big.” He held his hands up, about ten inches apart.

  “Some of these is much better suited for the tables of good-bred folk such as yourself. Of course, them that tastes better do cost more.”

  “They’re for fertilizer,” Edward put in from his seat on Storm Cloud.

  “Ferti—”

  “This big,” Robert repeated.

  “You want to put my fine fish in the dirt?” the old man squawked. “If word gets around that my fish is good for nothing but burying, no one’ll—”

  “We’re all good for nothing but burying,” Robert growled. He needed to get home. And soon. “How much?”

  The vendor swallowed. “Ten shillings.”

  “Eight shillings.” He pulled the coins from his pocket.

  “All right, milord. I won’t vouch for the quality, though.”

  Once they’d dumped the fish into the cloth sack Robert had brought along for that purpose, he climbed back on Tolley. “Let’s go, Runt,” he grunted, tying the sack around the pommel.

  It was a few minutes before he realized that Edward was being uncharacteristically quiet. He looked over at his youngest brother. The boy’s eyes were fixed on his mount’s ears, his lips tight and drawn. “What’s wrong, Edward?” he asked.

  “That was a bad thing you said,” the Runt muttered, avoiding his gaze. “And you scared that man.”

  Robert swallowed his retort, surprised that he’d thought to make one. It would have been so much easier if Edward only saw him as the half-human wreck that everyone else did. Almost everyone else. A fleeting glimpse of Lucinda Barrett’s smile crossed his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not feeling well. I need to get home.”

  “I remember when you came home,” his brother said abruptly, “from fighting Napoleon. Shaw said you were going to die, but I knew you weren’t.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because of the letter you wrote me, where you said you were going to teach me how to jump fences when I was old enough. Andrew wanted to show me how last year when you were in Scotland, but I don’t want anybody but you to teach me.”

  Robert swallowed. He’d forgotten about that letter. It was the last one he’d written, dropped in the mail satchel the night of…the night everything had changed. The night hell had begun.

  Finally the house came into sight. “You should have let Andrew teach you,” he muttered, kicking Tolley into a run.

  As they reached the stables he slid out of the saddle, grabbed the sack of fish, and flung it beside the crate of rose cuttings. He strode for the house and shoved open the front door before Dawkins could reach it.

  “Where the devil have you been?” Tristan snapped, as he emerged from his office.

  “Out.” Robert ignored his brother’s angry look and headed for the stairs.

  “With Edward.”

  “Yes.”

  Below him, Tristan cursed. “You are not to gallop off with Edward without telling someone where you’re going first.”

  “Fine.”

  “Robert! I’m not finished talking to you!”

  As far as Robert was concerned, he was. The panic grabbed hold of him again, clasping heavy, clawed fingers around his chest until he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

  “Damn it,” he hissed, slamming into his bedchamber and shoving the door closed behind him. “Stop, stop, stop.”

  So Edward’s faith in him was based on a stupid, naive letter, one he’d written before he knew anything. He remembered it now, remembered chatting about how cold it had been when they’d crossed the Spanish border into France, and how optimistic he’d been on hearing word that Bonaparte had abdicated. The fighting was over, they’d all thought. He’d intended to be home soon, hoping that his regiment wouldn’t be one of those called on to remain in the area and enforce the peace. They had been, but he hadn’t been with them.

  “Robert!”

  He ignored Tristan pounding on his door. In fact, he barely heard it as he paced the floor, trying to outrun the blackness coming up behind him.

  He’d submitted papers asking for leave, and they’d been granted. What was left of his regiment had therefore thought he’d gone back to England, while his family had thought him still in Spain.

  “Robert, open the damned door! I’m not joking!”

  The anger and fear in Tristan’s voice wrenched him back to the present. He stalked to the door and yanked it open. “I would never let anything happen to Edward,” he rasped.

  Whatever Tristan had been about to say, he closed his mouth over it. “God, Bit, are you hurt?” he asked instead. “You’re white as a—”

  Robert slammed the door again. “Go away,” he snarled, leaning his forehead against the cool, heavy wood. “I just want some quiet.”

  “All right.” After a few moments he heard Tristan’s boots padding back down the hallway.

  As Robert took another strangled breath and turned to resume his pacing, his gaze fell on his gardening clothes, which he’d left draped over a chair. He needed to get the fish in the ground before they attracted every stray cat in Mayfair, and if he didn’t plant the cuttings today, he might as well do what Lucinda had suggested and throw them away.

  His hands shook as he shed his greatcoat, slingi
ng it over a bedpost. His coat and waistcoat followed, and he was able to concentrate enough to actually hang them back in the dressing closet.

  Tristan kept offering to find him a valet, obviously not understanding how important it was that no one have free access to him, his private rooms, or his things. Dressing himself and tending to his own things was one of the few ways he had of demonstrating to himself that he could still function as a man.

  By the time he’d pulled on his oldest pair of boots and grabbed up the heavy pair of gloves Lucinda had loaned him, he was surprised to realize that the desperate pounding of his heart had subsided, and that his breathing had slowed almost to normal.

  Robert ventured a glance around him as he pulled open his bedchamber door and emerged into the hallway. He still felt the effects of it, the tiredness and the shaking, but he’d beaten it back this time. For the first time he hadn’t let the blackness win. And he owed that to roses—and to Miss Lucinda Barrett.

  Chapter 6

  From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger.

  —Robert Walton, Frankenstein

  Lucinda couldn’t help slowing as she and the general reached the front steps of Halboro House. Before Evie and St. Aubyn had married, she’d crossed the threshold only once, and even then had ventured only as far as the foyer. And yet now, in the bowels of the house where until a few weeks ago virtuous females had feared to tread, she was popping in for an intimate dinner with family and friends—and a potential future spouse.

  “Welcome, General Barrett, Miss Barrett,” the butler said, ushering them in. “Lord and Lady St. Aubyn are in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you, Jansen.”

  The drawing room door was three-quarters closed, and at the last moment, remembering that Evie and Saint had only been married a month, Lucinda loudly cleared her throat. “You know, Papa,” she said in a carrying voice, “I couldn’t help noticing that you twice brought Madeira to Mrs. Hull at the Wellcrist soiree.”

  “Well, the heat in the ballroom was stifling, and Mrs. Hull had neglected to bring her fan,” the general replied. “If—”