A Lady of His Own

He let minutes tick by, hoping…eventually, he sighed and leaned his head back against the arch. “What do you want to know?”

“More, but I don’t know exactly what I’m searching for, so I don’t know what questions to ask. But…”

“But what?”

“Why did you leave London to come here? I know your ex-commander asked you to look around, but you’re no longer his to command-you didn’t have to agree. You’ve never willingly run in anyone’s harness-that I’m sure hasn’t changed-but more importantly you knew what hopes and, well, dreams your sisters and sisters-in-law were nurturing when they went to London. You-helping you find a wife, planning your wedding-gave them purpose, invigorated them; they were so excited, so flown with anticipation.”

She stared out at the rain-drenched vista. “If you’d stayed there, indulged them, teased, laughed, and joked, and then gone your own way regardless, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But you did something I never would have predicted-you left them.”

Her struggle to comprehend colored her tone. “It’s as I said before-I had it right. You fled.”

He closed his eyes. She paused, then asked the one question he’d hoped she wouldn’t, “Why?”

He stifled a sigh. How had he allowed things to develop to this pass? Given the bafflement in her voice, he couldn’t very well not explain.

“I…” Where to start? “The work I was engaged in, in Toulouse, involved…a great deal of deception. On my part, primarily, although sometimes, through my manipulation, others deceived others, too.”

“I imagine spywork rather depends on deceit-if you hadn’t lied well, you would have died.”

His wry smile was spontaneous; he opened his eyes, but didn’t look her way. Talking to her-someone who’d once known him so well-in darkness sufficiently complete that he couldn’t see her expression and knew she couldn’t see his, was strangely comforting, as if the dark gave them a degree of privacy in which they could say almost anything to each other in safety.

“That’s true, but…” He paused, conscious that telling her the rest would be the first time he’d put his feelings into words. Decided it didn’t matter; it was the truth, his reality. “After spending thirteen years living a deception with lies as my daily bread, to return to the ton, to the artful smiles and glib comments, the sly falsity and insincerity, the glamour, the patent superficiality…” His face and tone hardened. “I couldn’t do it.

“Those chits they want me to consider as my bride-they’re not so much witless as intentionally blind. They want to marry a hero, a wild and reckless handsome earl who everyone knows cares not a snap for anything.”

Her laugh was short, incredulous. “You? A care-for-naught?”

“So they believe.”

She snorted. “Your brothers may have been the ones trained to the estates, but it was always you who knew this place-loved this place-best. You’re the one who knows every field, every tree, every yard.”

He hesitated, then said, “Others don’t know that.”

His deep rapport with the Abbey was why he’d retreated there, irrevocably sure that despite his desperate need for a wife, he couldn’t stomach a marriage of, if not outright deceit, then one built on politely feigned affection. Feigning anything of that ilk was now beyond him, while the thought of his wife being only superficially fond of him, smiling sweetly but in reality thinking of her next new gown…

He drew in a deep breath. He knew she was watching him, but continued to stare out at the black night. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

That was the crux of it, the source of the revulsion that had sent him flying from London to the one place he knew he belonged. The one place where he didn’t need to fabricate his emotions, where all was true, clear, and simple. He felt so much cleaner, so much freer, there.

When he said nothing more, Penny looked away, into the darkness broken by the constant curtain of the rain. She knew without doubt that he’d spoken the truth; he might be able to lie to others, but he’d rarely succeeded with her. Tone, inflection, and a dozen tiny hints of stance and gesture were still there in her mind, still familiar-still real. Looking back, between them there never had been deceit or lies; misunderstanding or lack of perception yes, but those had been unintentional on both sides.

What he’d revealed in the past minutes, over the past day, had reassured her, made her believe she could trust him. More, his words, his attitudes, had convinced her the man he now was was stronger, more hardheaded and clear-sighted, more committed to the values she valued, more rigid in adherence to the codes she believed important than the hellion of his youth had been.

But she couldn’t yet speak; she still needed to think about what she knew to tell. That was still not clear in her mind. So she let the silence stretch. They were comfortable in the quiet dark; neither felt any need to speak.

A light winked, far out in the night.

“Did you see it?” she asked.

“Yes. The Gallants are out.”

She thought of Granville, thought of the nights he must have spent out on the waves. She could imagine him clinging to the side of a boat, a wild and reckless light in his eyes. If ever there had been a care-for-naught, it was he. “At Waterloo, did you hear anything of Granville?”

“No.” After a moment, he asked, “Why?”

“We never really heard, just that he’d died. Not how, or in what way.”

She could almost hear him wondering why she’d asked; on the face of things, she and Granville hadn’t been all that close. She kept her counsel. He eventually asked, “Were you told in which region he was lost?”

“Around Hougoumont.”

“Ah.”

“What do you know of it?” It was clear from his tone he knew something.

“I wasn’t close, but it was the most fiercely contested sector in the whole battle. The French under Reille thought the farmstead an easy gain. They were wrong. The defenders of Hougoumont might well have turned the tide that day. Their defiance pricked the French commanders’ collective pride; they threw wave after wave of troops against it, totally out of proportion to the position’s strategic importance.” He paused, then more quietly added, “If Granville was lost near there, you can be certain he died a hero.”

She wished-oh, how she wished-she could believe that.

She asked no more, and he volunteered no more. They remained on the walk, watching the rain, listening to the steady downpour, the constant drum on the lead above, the merry gurgling in the gutters, the splatter as spouts of water hit the flagstones far below. Three more times they spotted flashes out at sea, out beyond the mouth of the estuary.

At last, she stood; shaking out her skirts, she regarded him across the shadowed space. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He considered her for an instant-an instant in which she had no idea what he was thinking. Then he swept her a bow, all fluid masculine grace.

“In the morning. Sleep tight.”

She turned and left him, going through the archway into the west wing.

At eight o’clock the next morning, she walked into the breakfast parlor, sat in the chair Filchett held for her, smiled her thanks, then looked up the table at Charles. He’d looked up when she’d entered, was watching her still.

“Granville was involved.”

Charles’s gaze flicked to Filchett.

He stepped forward and lifted the coffeepot. “I’ll fetch some fresh coffee, my lord.”

“Thank you.” The instant Filchett had left the room, closing the door behind him, Charles transferred his gaze to her. “What precisely do you mean?”

She reached for the toast rack. “It’s Granville I’m protecting.”

“He’s been dead for nearly a year.”

“Not him himself, but Elaine and Emma and Holly. And even Constance, for all that she’s married. Myself, too, although the connection is less direct.” Elaine was Granville’s mother, Emma and Holly his younger, still-unmarried sisters. “If it becomes known Granville was a traitor…” Charles had unmarried sisters, too; she was sure she didn’t need to spell it out.

“So Granville was the link to the smugglers.” He looked at her, not uncomprehending yet clearly not convinced.