‘Who was at the door just now?’

It seemed the summons had not been necessary. Lillian was standing on the main staircase. She looked as beautiful as he remembered—and as enigmatic. Gerry felt the same tightening in his throat that had come upon him the day they’d met. This time he fought against it. While it might be fashionable to moon over another man’s wife, it did not do to be so affected by one’s own.

He straightened to parade-perfect attention, then grinned up at her.

‘No one in particular. Merely your husband, madam.’

Her head snapped up to see him. Her face shuttled through half a dozen expressions, trying to settle on one that could both express her emotions and welcome him properly. He was pretty sure that none of what he saw resembled gratitude or joy. But before any of it could truly register her knees began to fold under her.

Author Note

When working on this book I spent a lot of time researching the popular pastimes of a gentleman’s house party. I am not much of a card player myself. Actually, I’m not much of a pool player either. But I found the changes in the game of billiards to be really interesting.

First, we are talking proper British billiards—with red and white balls as opposed to the multi-coloured rack that we Americans use. These balls began as wood, which would have been uneven and hard to use. If Gerry Wiscombe learned to play with those, they were household antiques. By the Regency everyone was using ivory.

The table he played on would have been made of wood, not slate. To minimise warping, the surface under the felt was made with strips of wood, with the grains going in different directions. This was covered by baize, which needed to be ironed before each game to remove the wrinkles. There would have been a special iron in the room for this, which our cheating Ronald in this story has not used.

And although by the Regency almost everyone had switched to using a cue, the original stick had a clubbed end and was called a mace. It was difficult to use for some shots, and serious players would turn it around and use the pointed end. Eventually everyone decided that the handle was better than the clubbed head, and that’s how we got cues.

Thanks for reading!

The Secrets of

Wiscombe Chase

Christine Merrill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off of the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Kevin McElroy and Wayne White. Congratulations from someone who knew you when …

‘Love is something eternal. The aspect may change, but not the essence.’

—Vincent van Gogh

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

‘Miss North, would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in holy matrimony?’

Lillian North did her best to smile at the unfortunate boy kneeling before her on the parlour rug and readied herself for the only answer she would be permitted to give.

Once, she had harboured illusions about love and romance. Most young girls did. But they had been left in the nursery, along with the other spectacular fictions about fairy princesses and brave knights riding to their rescue. When she’d made her come-out, Father and Ronald had explained the way the world truly worked.

It was her job to be pretty, pleasant and biddable, and attract what offers she could from gentlemen of the ton. In the end, she would marry and marry well. But it would be to a man of Father’s choosing and she was not to question the choice.

She had been in London for months, both this year and last. She had danced at Almack’s until her slippers were near to worn through. She had smiled until her cheeks ached with it and been so agreeable that people must think her simple in the head. It felt as if she had been introduced to every eligible man in Britain. While she’d her favourites, she had not allowed herself to form an attachment to any of them. She must never forget that the final choice would not be hers.

She had done as she was told and cast the properly baited net as wide as possible. When the time was right, her father and brother would draw it in to evaluate the catch. They would throw back the unworthy and keep no more than two or three of the very best. Then, the serious negotiating would begin. In the end, she would be decked in flowers and sent up the aisle of St George’s to stand at the side of a scion of the nobility. Father had assured her that he would settle for nothing less than a London cathedral and a groom that would leave other girls green at her success.

But now, all the plans and the manoeuvring of a season and a half were for naught. Without warning, she had been hauled out of town and informed that the choice had been made. She was to marry Gerald Wiscombe.

And who was he? It was as if she had cast her net and brought in a dark horse. Her metaphors were as muddled as her thoughts, but she could hardly be blamed for confusion. Mr Wiscombe was a total stranger to her. Although he was not a particularly memorable fellow, she was sure she’d have recalled meeting him, if only because he was unlike any of the men who’d courted her in London.

Lily had prayed each night that her future husband would have admirable qualities beyond wealth and station. Perhaps a love match was unrealistic. But, her future would be happier if it was, at least, founded on mutual respect. When she had taken the time to search for them, she had found good qualities in each of the men who had escorted her. Why, then, could she find nothing to recommend her father’s final choice?

To begin with, Mr Wiscombe was too young to be taken seriously. He was barely into his majority, only a year or so older than her. He was not even out of university and more interested in his impending Tripos in Mathematics than wedding her. In fact, he’d refused to come to London and court her. She had been expected to go to Cambridge to see him, so that the burden of this proposal would not interrupt his studies.

It did Mr Wiscombe no credit that he augmented his youth and uninterest with a lack of fashion and an awkwardness of address. Where was the evidence of his precious education? There was no sign on his soft, round face that he was destined to be a wit or a wag. When he smiled, the gap in his front teeth made him look as simple as she felt.

Looks were not important, she reminded herself. After dancing with men old enough to sire her, she had steeled herself to ignore appearances. Brains were not necessary if one had rank or money.

But that still did not explain Gerald Wiscombe. A few short weeks ago, Father had turned up his nose at an interested baronet as being too low-born to qualify as son-in-law. But now, there was nothing more than a ‘mister’ rocking uneasily on his knees in the parlour of a roadside inn, awaiting the answer.

He must be quite wealthy to make up for the lack of a title. But Mr Wiscombe had not bought so much as a bottle of wine to celebrate this day, nor had he visited a tailor to impress her. The cuffs of his coat were worn and one of the unpolished buttons clung to the garment by its last thread.

‘I do not have much,’ he said, affirming her worst fears. ‘I have no family to speak of. None at all, actually. I am the last of the Wiscombes. And the family fortune was gone a generation ago.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ she said, not so much sorry as totally perplexed.

‘Of course, Wiscombe Chase is lovely.’

A country manor? She smiled encouragingly.

‘Was lovely,’ he corrected with a shrug and a frown, as though he’d meant to lie and could not quite get it to stick. ‘It needs much work and the loving hand of a woman.’

Which probably meant it was a mouldering ruin and he was seeking a rich wife to repair it for him. This man was the polar opposite of the one she had been sent out to catch.

At some point, Father’s agenda had changed and she had not been informed. But when was Father not hatching a plan of some kind? His schemes invariably left him better off than he had been, while those who had dealings with him always seemed surprised to be poorer and less successful. Even so, few of them would have called him swindler. Those who lost to him preferred to think of him as that dashed, lucky Mr North.

She had always been inside the invisible boundary that separated her family from the rest of the world. No matter how precarious things might seem, everything would go well for her in the end. Because she was a North.

Until today, at least.

Did her father not understand that a young lady’s reputation was a fragile thing? Marriage was a permanent and nigh unbreakable contract. He could not barter her out of the family only to pull her back on some tenuous legal string, like the Bolivian emerald mine she’d seen him sell at a profit some three times already.

Worse yet, she was alone in her ignorance. Her brother, Ronald, had baulked when forced to escort her about London on the hunt for a suitable match. But he had been the one to introduce Mr Wiscombe and seemed as eager to see her married as Father did.

‘Miss North?’ Mr Wiscombe prompted, noticing the long and doubtful silence that had followed his offer.

She looked down at what was likely to be her future husband. He was staring up at her, mouth gaping slightly. He reminded her of a barely formed chick, unfledged, inexperienced and waiting to be fed. She feared the young avis Wiscombe was about to be pushed early from the nest and gobbled by waiting predators, genus North.

It made his next statement all the more worrying.

‘I wouldn’t bother you, if that’s what you are afraid of.’ Now he was blushing. ‘We need time to get to know each other, before that. Your father has promised to buy me a commission so I might make my fortune. I will be gone for some years. When I am returned there will be enough money for the two of us to live quite well. And then...’

The mystery deepened. First off, he’d said the word bother with such significance that she assumed he meant something. And he assumed she understood. She supposed she did, after a fashion. He must be talking about what occurred between a husband and wife. She had no mother to explain details to her and was far too afraid and embarrassed to ask Father. If it was bothersome, she was not sure she wished to know the specifics.

But if he meant to join the army at her father’s bequest and be gone for several years? That was simply laughable. She doubted Gerald Wiscombe would last several minutes before the French, much less several years. Did her father mean to send this poor boy to his doom?

She did not want to believe it. While her father was somewhat less than honest, she had never known him to be brutal. But the harder she tried to reject it the more her mind filled with the icy certainty that this was precisely what Phineas North intended. If he was willing to sacrifice his own daughter like a chess piece, what hope did this poor young man have to survive until checkmate?

If that was the game, then she refused to play her part in it. It would be a lie to say that she felt affection for the man in front of her. But neither did she wish him ill. Even if she felt nothing at all, how could she live with herself if the marriage was little more than a death sentence for her husband? She would not be permitted to refuse. But perhaps if she could get Mr Wiscombe to withdraw the offer, the matter would settle itself.

Lily wet her lips. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’

He was blinking at her as if he had no idea what she meant. Perhaps he was not quite right in the head.

‘The army will be very dangerous.’ She spoke slowly, so he could understand. When this did not seem to make an impression, she added, with additional emphasis, ‘There is no guarantee that you will return in a few years with a fortune. In fact, there is no guarantee that you will return at all.’

In response, he blinked the watery grey eyes in his round face and gave her another foolish grin.

‘You might be killed,’ she said. Now her voice sounded testy. She did not wish to be cross with him, but he needn’t be so stupid, either. She shouldn’t have to spell out the trap he was walking into.

Finally, one doughy hand reached out to cover hers. ‘You need not worry about that. It is a possibility, of course. But there are many others equally grim. I might fall off my horse and break my neck before we can even say the vows. Or get struck by lightning while picking flowers in the garden. Or I might survive the battle and live to a ripe old age.’ He blinked again. ‘You are not afraid of that, are you?’

Afraid? Why should she be afraid of such an unlikely possibility?

Now he was looking at her as though she were the one who did not understand the gravity of the situation. Suddenly, she was sure that, all this time, he had been measuring her just as she had measured him. ‘You do understand, if you are to marry me, it will be till death us do part,’ he said and paused to let the words sink in. ‘Although you obviously assume otherwise, my death may be a long time in coming.’

Did he think her so stupid that she did not understand the basic vows she would be taking? Or had he just insulted her, hinting that she was marrying him in the hopes that he would die? It would be too horrible, if there weren’t some truth to it.

He was still blinking at her with those innocent, wet eyes. There was something hiding deep within them and it was not the eagerness of a bridegroom. The light shining there was like the sun reflected off cold iron. What he felt when he looked at her was not passion, or even affection. It was grim resolve.

His words had been a last attempt to make her prove her worth and admit that she had no desire to marry him. If she said yes to his proposal, he would assume she was as grasping and sly as the rest of her family, and meant to lure him into a marriage with the hope of imminent widowhood.

She stiffened. Any other girl would have withdrawn her hand and rejected his suit without another thought. She’d have cut him dead, had there been any chance that they would ever meet again, which they would not. If he liked his mathematics books so well, he could marry them. She would go back to the handsome, titled men of Almack’s and forget him utterly. He could return to his ruin of a house. Once there, he could lick his wounds and brood upon this day with the embarrassment it deserved.

But she was not any other girl. She was the daughter of Phineas North. If she left the room after refusing Mr Wiscombe, Father would turn her back at the doorstep to hear him again. Should she manage to escape to her room, she would be locked there until she came to her senses and did as she was told. If the current plan fell through and she was able to divest herself of Gerald Wiscombe, there was no guarantee that the next choice she was offered would be any better. In fact, it could be much, much worse.

She was as trapped and doomed as the boy on his knees before her. So she looked down at him with what she hoped was an aloof, but ultimately benevolent stare. ‘I am well aware of the words of the marriage ceremony, Mr Wiscombe, and have enough wit to understand their meaning. If we marry, it is for life. However long—’ she gave him another probing, significant look ‘—or short that might be. I am also aware that it gives you the right to, as you put it earlier, bother me whenever you so choose to do so. But if you do not have the sense to be afraid of Napoleon, than why should I be afraid of marrying you?’

For a moment, everything changed and not for the better. He favoured her with the gap-toothed grin of an idiot. Then he rose to his feet. Rather than attempting to kiss her, he clasped her hand in a firm, manly shake. ‘Very well. It is a bargain, then. We will be married as soon as your father can arrange for the licence. When I return from the Peninsula, we will begin our future together.’

The poor fool. What else could she do but nod in agreement? Once he was gone, perhaps she could persuade Ronald to tell her what was really going on. But there was one thing that she already knew. If Gerald Wiscombe had chosen to make a bargain with her father, his future and fortune were decided and fate was laughing in his face.

Chapter Two

‘If you are intent on selling your commission, Wiscombe, we shall be sad to see you go. It was a fortuitous day for the British army when you first decided to take up the sword.’

‘Thank you, Colonel Kincaid.’ Gerry dipped his head in modest acknowledgement to the man seated at the desk. Whenever he received such compliments, he was always faintly relieved that his commanding officers had not been present on the day, seven years ago, that he’d made that decision. It had been an act of desperation, pure and simple. There had been nothing the least bit heroic about it.

‘It is a shame you do not wish to continue in the service. Surely we could find a place for an officer with such a past as yours.’

The thought had crossed his mind. Even as he passed through the arched gate of the Horse Guards, he had considered asking for another posting. A few years in India would not go amiss. But after so much time away, avoiding his home felt more like cowardice than bravery.

Gerry looked Kincaid square in the eye to show that he would not be moved. ‘It would be an honour to continue in service to the crown. But after seven years, it is time to trade one war for another.’

The colonel gave him the same mildly confused look that others had given him when he had phrased it so. It did not matter. Understanding was not necessary. He smiled back at the man to show that it was all in jest. ‘It is a long time to be away from home. When I left, I was but newly married.’ He opened the locket he carried that contained the miniature of Lillian.

The colonel smiled back and gave him a knowing wink. ‘I see. There is little the army can offer that can compete with the open arms of a beautiful woman waiting eagerly for your return.’

Gerry nodded again. She had been beautiful. Likely, she still was. The position of her arms and her degree of eagerness were yet to be determined. His smile remained unwavering, as the papers were signed that severed him from the military.

From Whitehall, he went to Bond Street to find a tailor. He shuddered to think what clothing was still in the cupboards of his old room. He’d been a half-formed boy when he’d left the place to go to Portugal. Even if the coats still fit, they would be even more threadbare and out of fashion than they had been when he’d left. After Father had died, he’d had not a penny to spare on his appearance. But there was no need to spend the rest of his life in uniform, now that he had earned enough to pay for proper clothing.

His dragoon’s regimentals were more than impressive enough to turn heads as he walked down the street. He heard the whispers that followed him as he passed the shops.

‘Is that Wiscombe?’

‘There he is.’

‘Captain Wiscombe. Hero of Salamanca. Hero of Waterloo.’

Had the word of his return reached Wiscombe Chase? It must have, if strangers could recognise him on the street. What would North’s reaction be when Gerry turned up to reclaim his home, after all this time?

And what would she think of it?

He turned his mind away from that question and ordered the new clothes sent on ahead of him. Then he turned his horse to the north and began the ride home.

* * *

Once he was clear of the city, he gave Satan his head and let the miles pass uncounted. This was how it should be, man and steed travelling light. When the beast tired, they stopped and slept rough, not bothering with an inn. When it rained, Gerry threw an oilcloth over his coat and let the water run off him in sheets. Later, the sun returned and dried them, filling his nostrils with the smell of steaming wool and horse.

Kincaid had been right. He would miss this. But the whole point in buying a commission had been to gain the money to save the house and secure his future. He’d succeeded in that some years past. After Vitoria, there had been more than enough money to clear his debts, fix the roof and have a tidy sum left to invest.

He could have gone home then. But he had not. Even after Boney was sent to Elba, he had dawdled. The little Frenchman’s escape had come as a relief, for it meant a few more months during which he could delay the inevitable.

Now that the last shot had been fired and Napoleon was off to St Helena, he was out of excuses. It was time to return to his first responsibility.

And there, on the horizon, was the stone marker that indicated the beginning of the Wiscombe family land. His land, he amended. There had been no family living when he had taken up the sword. If there had been anyone left, the cowardly boy he had been would have appealed to them for help and avoided the next seven years of his own life.

Gerry shrugged at the thought and the horse under him sensed his unease and gave a faint shift of his own.

He stroked the great black neck and they continued on the road that wound through the dense wood surrounding the house. The wild, untamed nature of the property was more beautiful than any formal garden. Beautiful, but useless. Dense woodland was bordered on one side by rills and streams too small to navigate by boat and on the other by granite tors and bogs that made coach travel impossible.

His life might have been easier had his ancestors settled in a place capable of sustaining crops, cattle or industry. The land around Wiscombe Chase was fit for nothing but hunting. Since he did not intend to ever take another life, animal or human, it might be better to sell the lot to a sportsman who could appreciate it.

But after all the blood he had shed to keep it, he could not bring himself to entertain the idea. Some men at his side had fought for king and country. Others hated the French tyrant more than they loved their own cause. Still others wanted money or glory.

He had fought for his birthright. This ten square miles of wood and moor was his own country to defend and rule. It generated not a penny of income. If he was honest, he did not even like the draughty and impractical manor that had drained away the Wiscombe fortune. But, by God, it was his, to the last rock.

As if to confirm the wisdom of his decision, he saw a shift in the leaves on the left side of the road. He reined in and warned Satan to be still. A twig cracked and he held his breath, waiting. The stag stepped into the road, watching him as intently as he watched it. The spread of the antlers was broader than he remembered and the muzzle had more grey in it. But the left shoulder had the same scrape from his father’s bullet, so very long ago.

‘Hello, old friend,’ he whispered.

The deer gave a single snort, then tossed his head and disappeared into the trees.

In response, Gerry’s heart leapt with joy at the rightness of being home. Though he’d fought against it since the day he’d left, he belonged here. He spurred the horse to clear the last stand of trees and the house came into sight.

It had been near to ruin when he’d left. But now the heavy brown stone was clean and the roof sported new grey slate. The windows sparkled bright in the growing dusk. And every last one of them was lit.

Perhaps they had filled the house to the rafters with friends to welcome him home. He could not help the ironic smile this idea brought. He’d had no friends at all when he’d left England. To the best of his knowledge, that had not changed in his absence.

It likely meant that he was interrupting someone else’s party. He felt the same unholy glee that sometimes took him when charging on to the battlefield. It had never been the carnage that attracted him. It was the clarity that came when one knew life might end at any moment. Other fears paled in comparison, especially the fear of one’s own mistakes. He had learned to act before he was acted upon. After years of being life’s pawn, he had become the force of chaos that acted upon others.

He smiled. If ever there was an opposing army deserving of chaotic upset, it was the North family.

He cantered the last half mile, coming to an easy stop at the front door. The footman who came forward to take the horse did not know him. But then, in ’08, he had not been able to afford a servant at the door, much less the livery that this boy wore.

His butler had no such problems with recognition. The door opened and the expression on the man’s normally impassive face changed to surprise. ‘Master Gerald?’ Those words were smothered with a quick clearing of the throat and ‘Begging your pardon, Captain Wiscombe.’ But underneath the reserve, he was near to grinning, and so proud of his master that he looked ready to pop his waistcoat buttons.

Gerry had no reason for reserve with the man who had comforted him on the night his father had died. ‘Aston.’ He reached forward and offered a brief, manly embrace, clasping the fellow’s shoulder and patting him once on the back. ‘It is good to be home.’

‘And to have you home as well, sir. We have followed your exploits in the newspapers. It was very exciting.’

So they had heard of him here. Of course they had. Who had not? All the same, he was glad to have worn his uniform so that he might reinforce the image of returned war hero. Even after days in the saddle, the short jacket and shiny boots were more than a little impressive. And the sword at his side was proof that he was no idle fop in feathers and braid.

Aston looked past him. ‘Are you unaccompanied? Where is the luggage?’

‘Arriving later. I had it sent, direct from London.’ He smiled at the old servant. ‘I did not wish to wait for it.’

The man nodded back, taking his haste for a compliment. ‘We are all glad that you did not.’

Was that true above stairs as well as below? He sincerely doubted it. ‘Where is she?’ he said softly, looking past the butler. ‘Not waiting at the door for my return, I see.’

‘Come into the house, Captain.’ The man was still grinning over the new rank. ‘While you refresh yourself, I will find Mrs Wiscombe.’

‘Aston? Who was at the door, just now?’

It seemed the summons was not necessary. Lillian was standing on the main staircase. She looked as beautiful as he remembered and as enigmatic. He felt the same tightening in his throat that had come upon him the day they’d met. This time, he fought against it. While it might be fashionable to moon over another man’s wife, it did not do to be so affected by one’s own.

He straightened to parade-perfect attention, then looked up at her. ‘No one in particular. Merely your husband, madam.’

Her head snapped up to see him. Her face shuttled through a half-dozen expressions, trying to settle on the one that could both express her emotions and welcome him properly. He was pretty sure that none of what he saw resembled gratitude or joy. But before any of it could truly register, she gave up and her eyes rolled back as her knees began to fold under her.

‘Bugger.’ He lunged forward, putting his battlefield reflexes to good use, and caught her before she could reach the ground. The woman in his arms was heavier than she’d appeared at the altar. Hardly a surprise. He had changed, as well. But she was not too heavy. Had he found her in Portugal, he’d have described her to his mates as a ‘tidy armful’.

‘The bench, Captain.’ The butler gestured to a place beside the stairs.

‘The sitting room,’ Gerry corrected.

‘I will send for madam’s maid with the hartshorn.’

‘Nonsense,’ Gerry announced, carrying his wife through the open sitting-room doors to a divan by the fire. ‘She just needs to get the blood back to her head.’ He settled Lillian on the sofa and sat at the opposite end, taking her feet into his lap to elevate them.

The feel of her dainty slippers against his thighs did more to redirect his blood flow than hers. He snatched a pillow from behind him and slipped it beneath them to give her more height and him a chance to regain his sanity.

Her eyelids fluttered, the long lashes revealing flashes of eyes as soft and brown as a doe’s. It must have been God’s own joke to give such an innocent face to a woman like Lillian North.

He smiled to hide his thoughts. ‘There. See? It is working already. Fetch her a ratafia, or some other restorative.’ Damn it all, he could use a stiff brandy himself. But he needed a clear head if he was to stand against the Norths, so he asked for nothing.

His wife was fully awake now. When she realised her position, she hurriedly pulled up her feet and righted herself, swaying slightly on the cushion beside him as she tried to regain her poise.

‘Easy,’ he cautioned. ‘Do not rush or you will become dizzy again.’

‘You startled me,’ she said, rubbing her temple as if her head ached. More likely, it was to shield her face so she did not have to look him in the eye.

So she was startled. How unfortunate. Even though she had not expected to see him again after their wedding breakfast, she must have heard of him in these past years. It had probably vexed her and her family to find him so stubbornly hard to kill.

The butler signalled the footman, who stepped forward with a glass. Gerry pressed it into her hand.

She drank deeply, as though desperate for anything that gave her an excuse not to talk.

‘So it shocked you to unconsciousness to see me again,’ he prompted, enjoying her discomfort.

‘I was aware that you had returned to England. But if you had notified us of your impending arrival, the house might have been prepared for you.’ She had the nerve to sound annoyed with him.

He smiled all the wider. ‘In my time away, I’ve learned to value the element of surprise.’

‘I must tell the servants to air out your room.’ She set aside her glass and made to stand up.

‘No need.’ He grinned at her and took her hand, pulling her none too gently back to the seat next to him. ‘They saw my arrival and are most likely doing so without your instruction. I am sure they would not expect you to leave my side so soon after our reunion. We have been apart for ages. We have much to discuss.’

She looked so miserable at the thought of their impending talk that he almost pitied her. Then he remembered that she had earned any misery a hundredfold for the way she had treated him.

Before they could begin, they were interrupted by voices in the hallway. A man and boy were coming towards the sitting room in animated conversation about the quality of the trout they had caught for tonight’s dinner.

In truth, it was the younger one that did most of the talking. The man with him answered in annoyed monosyllables before shouting, ‘Aston! What would it take for a man to get a drink before dinner? And what the devil is all the ruckus about? The rest of the party is not yet back from their hunt, but servants are running around as if the house is on fire.’

Lillian’s eyes widened and she looked ready to call out a warning.

Gerry laid a hand on her arm to silence her. Then he spoke in a voice that carried easily to the hall. ‘You have but to ask the lord of the manor, Ronald North. Or have you been playing that role yourself, in my absence?’ He’d meant it to sound joking, but it came out as an accusation. Gerry softened the words with his most innocuous smile, as his wife’s brother appeared suddenly in the doorway and braced a hand against the frame as if to steady himself.

‘Wiscombe.’ Though his voice had been clear and jovial a moment before, now Ronald seemed winded. He looked even more shocked than his sister had been.

Gerry took care to hide the malice he felt behind a wide-eyed, innocent look. ‘What a surprise to come home and find you still in my house.’

‘Surprise?’ The man stammered over the word, still trying to decide what his reaction should be.

‘Well, not really,’ Gerry added, his grin broadening. ‘Of course I expected to find you here. I gave you permission to live here in my absence. But there appears to be a house party in residence. Is it to honour my return? You must have heard of my homecoming and gathered my friends to welcome me.’

‘Of course.’ Ronald leapt for the lifeline he’d been offered, clinging to it for all he was worth. ‘When we heard that you had survived Waterloo...’ He gave a capacious wave of his hand to encompass the frenzied celebration that his success had caused. From one who had no right to set the comings and goings of the household it was more than a little presumptuous.

‘It was a dashed piece of good luck that I am here at all,’ Gerry answered him, with a pleased nod. ‘I’ve been within ames ace of coming home in a box so many times over the years that I quite lost count.’

‘How did you manage to survive?’ By his tone, Ronald North was annoyed that he had done so.

Gerry shrugged. ‘I suspect it was the prayers of my lovely wife that did it. There always seemed to be an angel who could grab me by the collar and pull me back from the brink.’ He gave a deliberately expansive wave of his hand and jostled the glass Lillian had been holding, sending a splash of her drink on to the rug.

‘I suspect so.’ Ronald was staring at him intently as if wondering whether he might still be the lucky idiot they wanted him to be. Gerry smiled back, doing his best to look harmless. Let him think what he liked. Better yet, let him think what Gerry meant him to.

‘But Waterloo is several months passed,’ Gerry continued. ‘Do not say you have been rejoicing all this time without me. Judging by the red in your nose, the cellar must be quite empty by now.’ The same years that had toughened Gerry had softened his wife’s brother. The chestnut hair he shared with his sister had lost its lustre. His waist had thickened and his face was bloated from over-indulgence. In school, Ronald had been a handsome fellow with an easy manner and enough blunt in his pocket to ensure his popularity. But now it was hard to see his brother-in-law as anything other than the dissolute wastrel he had been even then.

‘You need not fear that the house is dry,’ Ronald said, matching his tone to Gerald’s. ‘Your cellar is excellent, Wiscombe. I know, for I stocked it myself. And the guests that are here for your arrival?’ He gave another flourish of his hand. ‘The cream of London society, dear boy. The very pinnacle.’

‘The pinnacle? Then they are likely strangers to me.’ He’d been a young nobody when he’d left for Portugal, well beneath the notice of the ton. It had flattered him that Ronald North might think him a fit match for his beautiful sister. He had been a fool. He gave Ronald another empty-headed smile to prove nothing had changed. ‘But I am sure we will get on well. The chaps in my regiment said as long as I was paying for the wine I was very good company.’

He felt his wife tense next to him as she recognised the sarcasm that her brother had missed. Even at their first meeting, she had been better at reading him than either of the other Norths. It was a shame that her character was not equal to her intelligence.

‘You will meet the guests over dinner,’ Ronald said, smiling back. Apparently, he was also oblivious to the fact that it was not his place to be issuing such assurances to the man who owned the house.

‘I must change the seating at the table,’ Lily added, trying to escape him again.

Gerry pulled her down again. ‘Aston will have told the housekeeper by now. Mrs Fitz is quite capable of rearranging a few chairs.’ He gave her a smile that would have terrified her, had she known him better.

Perhaps she did know him. He felt another tremor in the muslin-draped leg resting against his. He dropped a hand on to her twitching knee in an overly familiar gesture of comfort and she stilled. But it was not a sign of calm so much as the terrified immobility of a rabbit before a hawk.

For now, he ignored her and her brother as well, staring towards the hall. ‘Never mind them. There is but one person here I truly wish to meet.’ He raised his finger to point towards the shadow hovering in the doorway behind Ronald North. ‘Come forth. Let me get a look at you.’

The boy stepped forward from around Ronald’s legs and walked into the room. He looked at Gerry with none of the nervous suspicion of the two adults in the room. But what reason would he have to fear this stranger? Especially since he had been eavesdropping on the conversation and must be aware who he was about to meet.

Gerry saw the lightning-fast glance that passed between the siblings as the boy stepped forward and they sought the words to cover this situation in a single shared look.

Once again he had the element of surprise. He pressed his advantage and sprang the ambush before they could speak. ‘As if I could not discover with my own eyes who this must be. Come forward, boy. Meet your father, returned from the wars.’

Chapter Three

Lily was going to faint again. She could see the black dots gathering before her eyes as Stewart stepped forward towards Captain Wiscombe’s outstretched hand. Now, of all times, she must not lose her senses. The dizziness came from holding one’s breath and denying oneself of air. It was a bad habit of hers and she must learn to break it if she did not want to appear frail and unworthy to her heroic spouse. She forced herself to take the breath that would clear her head. The resulting gasp was loud enough to be heard by the entire room.

Stewart started like a rabbit. But Captain Wiscombe ignored it, even though he must have felt the couch shake with her quaking knees.

She had nothing to fear in this meeting, or so she’d been telling herself for most of the past seven years. Before he had left her, Mr Wiscombe had been kindness itself. He had been gentle with her, considerate of her feelings and almost as frightened of the idea of marriage to her as she’d been of his chances in the army. The Gerald Wiscombe she remembered had been more likely to be harmed than to cause harm to another. She would explain to Gerald what had happened. He would understand and arrange a quiet separation.

But it was foolish to think of the man beside her as the same person who had left. He had not just been transformed by experience. He had been transmuted into another being. There was nothing left of the pudgy, scholarly boy who had stammered out a proposal to her. The soft brown hair had burned blond in sunlight and wind had given it a casual wave. In contrast, the skin of his face had darkened and the features had sharpened to a hawk nose and cleft chin. The grey eyes set beneath his furrowed brow were bright and as hard as flint.

He was still wearing the dashing red coat of a dragoon, with gold at shoulder and sleeve. And somewhere, there had to be a sword. By the resolute look on this man’s face, it had seen good use. If he decided to punish those who had wronged him...

‘Stewart, isn’t it?’ His words stopped her breath again. He knew her son’s name without being told. ‘That was my father’s name, as well.’ He favoured the boy with the same harmless smile he had used on Ronald. But there was an ironic note in the statement that was hidden so deeply she could not be sure that it existed outside her imagination.

Stewart swallowed nervously. Then he smiled back and nodded.

Now the captain was touching her boy, taking him by the shoulders and turning him side to side to give him a thorough examination. She tensed, waiting for his reaction. ‘You look very much like your mother.’

Was that meant to be ironic, as well? Or was it only she who noticed the way it focused attention on the lack of similarity between the boy and the Wiscombe family?

Why was he, of all people, not surprised to see this child? While the rest of the world might think it quite normal that she had a son, she must now face the one man in the world who would have questions.

And yet, he was not asking them. He was pretending to be simple and pleasant Gerald Wiscombe, and behaving as if he had expected this meeting all along. He had known the name of her boy because someone had told him. But who? How much had he been told? And how much of what he thought he knew was the actual truth of the situation?

Now he was questioning the boy in languages and receiving the sort of indifferent responses one could expect from a very young child who enjoyed the countryside more than the classroom.

When he had tried and failed to answer yet another simple question put to him in Latin, Stewart’s limited patience evaporated. ‘I am much better at mathematics than at Latin. Mama says that you are, too. Would you like to hear me do my sums?’

For the first time since he’d arrived, Captain Wiscombe’s composure failed him. He might have known of Stewart’s existence. But clearly he had not prepared himself to face a living, breathing child who was eager to give him the hero’s welcome he deserved. His overly bright smile disappeared, as did the bitterness it hid. Stripped of his armour, she caught a glimpse of the awkward boy who had proposed to her, trapped in a social situation he was ill-equipped to manage.

Then the facade returned and he clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘Your sums. Well. Another time, perhaps. Now run along back to the schoolroom and leave the adults to their talk. I am sure you have a nurse or a governess about who is supposed to give you your dinner.’

Stewart hesitated, staring at the captain with a hunger that could not be filled by his dinner tray. But Wiscombe saw none of it, or at least pretended he did not. Now that he’d made his acknowledgement, his interest in the child had disappeared as quickly as it had arisen.

Her son shot a hopeful look in her direction, as if pleading on her part might earn him a reprieve.

She gave him a single warning shake of her head and a slight tilt of her chin towards the stairs. Captain Wiscombe was right. Until they had spoken in private, Stewart was better off taking tea in the nursery.

Once the boy was gone, her husband turned his attention to Ronald. ‘I expect you have somewhere to be, as well.’

‘Not really,’ her brother replied with a bland smile. Now that he’d had time to recover from the shock of seeing Wiscombe, her brother’s sangfroid had returned.

‘Might I suggest you find somewhere?’ Her husband was smiling, as well. But there was a glint in his eyes that promised mayhem if his orders were not obeyed immediately. Then he softened to harmlessness again and threw an arm around her, hauling her into his lap. ‘After seven years away, it is not unreasonable that I wish to be alone with my wife.’

The sudden feeling of his arms tightening under her breasts and the rock-hard thighs beneath her bottom sucked the wind from her lungs and she was seeing spots again. Breathe, she reminded herself. Just breathe.

When she’d mastered her panic, she found her foolish brother was smiling in agreement as if he expected Captain Wiscombe was seeking immediate privacy so he might mount his wife in a common room. Could he not see that the gullible young man they’d roped into this union had returned as a dreadnought?

‘Then I will leave the two of you alone,’ Ronald said with a wink to Captain Wiscombe, treating her as though she were not even in the room with them. ‘Do not worry, Lily. I will see to the dinner arrangements and tell the guests of the captain’s arrival.’ Then he disappeared, shutting the door behind him, totally unaware of the storm about to break when her husband gave vent to his true feelings.

‘Yes, Ronald. Go and see to your guests. Inform them of my presence. I hope you remember to tell them enough about me so they can pretend that we share an acquaintance.’ Now that he was gone, her husband made no effort to hide his scorn for her brother. She could feel his muscles tensing like a great cat gathering before the spring. Then he shifted, dumping her back out of his lap and on to the cushion at his side.

Lily moved as well, sliding to the far end of the small couch to put as much distance between them as possible. Never mind breathing, it was impossible to think when he was touching her. Even when he was not, she could feel an aura of virile energy emanating from him, raising the hairs on her skin.

Or perhaps he was simply angry. She rushed to fill the silence before the fear of him could suck the breath from her lungs again. ‘If company is not to your liking, we will send them away immediately.’

‘But that would be most rude,’ he replied in a soft, mocking tone. ‘And above all things, I would not want to be thought rude. Tell me, wife, who are my guests? I do not like being the last one to know what is going on in my own home.’

‘Mr and Mrs Carstairs...’ she began hesitantly.

‘And they are...?’ He made a coaxing gesture with his hand.

‘A businessman from London, and his wife.’

‘What is his trade?’

‘I believe he is an ironmonger.’

‘A wealthy one, I presume.’

She cleared her throat. ‘I believe so.’

‘Who else, then?’

‘The Burkes and the Wilsons, also of London.’

‘And also cits?’

‘Yes, Captain.’ How quickly she had fallen into the role of loyal subordinate. But there was something about the man that commanded respect, even in a private setting such as this one.

‘Others?’

‘Sir Chauncey d’Art and his friend, Miss Fellowes.’ She hoped he did not wish her to speculate on the nature of the friendship. Though she had provided two rooms for the couple it was likely that only one of them was getting use.

‘Is that all?’

‘No, Captain.’ She wet her lips. ‘We are entertaining your neighbour, the Earl of Greywall.’ He was the last person she wished her husband to meet. All the more reason that they should clear the house as quickly as possible.

‘Greywall.’ There was another moment of blank vulnerability before his smile returned and he counted on his fingers. ‘If we add you, your father and brother, there are twelve.’ The smile became a lopsided grin. ‘Now that I am here, there shall be thirteen at dinner. I expect it will be quite unlucky for somebody.’

Lily threw caution to the winds and reached to touch his arm, adding a smile warm enough to melt butter. If she used her imagination and all the talent she had inherited from Father, perhaps she might persuade him that she was glad to see him home and had not been dreading this moment for most of the time he’d been gone. ‘Unlucky? Surely not. We are all fortunate to have you here.’

For a moment, it actually seemed to work. He softened and looked ready to cover her hand with his. Then he remembered that she was nothing more than a fraud and pulled away with a frustrated sigh. ‘Really, madam. If you must lie to me, try not to be so transparent about it. The facts are these—your father and brother tricked me into marriage with you for their own ends and never intended for me to return. In giving me that commission, they thought they were sending me to my death. And you—’

‘I’m sorry.’ She blurted out the words before he could finish his sentence. ‘Despite what you think of me, I am glad that you are safe.’ She was relieved, at least. For years, she had been too afraid to pray for his return. But that was not the same as wishing him ill. Just as he had said in jest, she’d prayed for his safety each night.

‘Are you?’ His expression hardened. ‘Then you are more foolish than I thought. After I am satisfied that you’ve paid for what they have done to me, I mean to put you and your family out in the street. The guests, as well. And your precious Stewart will be the first to go.’

She was feeling light-headed again, images impending of exile and humiliation swirling in her mind. But this time, she was not alone in her suffering. She had to be strong for Stewart. She took another deep breath and cast down her eyes to assure him she was beaten. ‘It is within your right.’

He laughed. ‘What? You are not going to plead for your safety? I would have thought, at least, you would have a word of defence for our darling boy. Are you not going to beg me? Tell me I am hard-hearted to turn the product of our love off the property he is heir to. Why, when I think of that one night of passion we shared...’

‘Stop!’ She could not bear his mocking a moment longer.

‘Do you remember it differently?’ he said, innocently. ‘It has been so long. Perhaps I am mistaken. If so, tell me the truth of it now.’

She could not speak. Her tongue was frozen in her mouth, unwilling to speak the truth.

‘Talk!’

If this was what he brought to the battlefield, it explained his success. His command was stronger than the fear that kept her silent. ‘We shared no night,’ she said, choking out the words. ‘Only a brief ceremony, the breakfast and two separate rooms at the inn. We did not lie together. The next morning, you were gone.’

He nodded. ‘I promised I would not come to you until we knew each other better. To be gone so soon and with no guarantee of a future...it did not seem fair to either of us.’ For a moment, he sounded almost wistful for the innocents they had been.

Then his voice hardened. ‘When I think of how it was, in those first months... I carried a miniature of you, everywhere I went. I kissed it each night at bed and before battles for luck. I was pure as a monk, waiting for the moment when I might come back to you. I wrote you dozens of letters. There was not a single response.’

She had been too upset to write. At first, she had been angry at him for being so foolish as to fall for the plan, going to what was likely certain doom. She was ashamed of herself as well, for obeying her father when she had known what they were doing was wrong. Later, she had been ashamed for other reasons and angry at him for leaving her alone and defenceless.

He did not notice her discomfiture and went on. ‘When a commanding officer came to me, less than a year later, with the good news of the birth of my son?’ He laughed at this, as though it were a ribald joke in a brothel. ‘I did not have to feign surprise. We all went to a cantina, where I had to pay for the wine so they might drink my health, and to the health of my good wife and heir.’

He had known, almost from the first. It explained why his letters to her had stopped. ‘When you stopped writing...I thought you had died.’ Would he believe that she had cried over him? Probably not. But she had.

‘That news was the making of my career,’ he added. ‘When a soldier has no reason to fear death, it leads to the sort of recklessness that makes heroes. Or corpses,’ he added. ‘I do not like to think of the men under my command who lacked the damnable luck of their leader.’

She’d felt bad enough knowing that he might lose his life because of Father’s scheming. But to think that others had been affected and that she was in some way responsible for their fates made her guilt even heavier. ‘I am sorry,’ she said again.

‘So you keep saying,’ he said with a mocking smile. ‘Tell me now. The truth, for once. Were you with child when we married? Was that the reason that your father rushed to unite us?’

‘No!’ There was much wrong between them, but she did not want to claim a fault that was not hers. Then she saw the change in his expression and knew that it would have been kinder had she lied.

‘So you admit to cuckolding me.’ He shook his head again. ‘Were you really so sure I would die that you did not think I might return to see the consequences of your infidelity?’

The answer to that was very nearly yes. But it was so much more complicated than that. How could she even begin to explain? Having to talk about it at all was bringing on one of her headaches. She rubbed her temple and tried to concentrate. ‘At first, I did not know what to do. I barely understood what was happening to me, much less what to do about it. The longer I did nothing, the easier it became to go on as I had started.’

‘How well does it work for you now?’ he asked, staring at her as though she had confirmed his low opinion of her. ‘And do not apologise to me again. There is no apologising for what you have done.’

There was an explanation. But it had been years since that night. What proof could she offer him that she spoke true? She took a breath and squared her shoulders. ‘At least the waiting is finally over. You will do what you will do. I do not have to imagine what that might be. My only request—’

‘You have no right to request anything of me.’ Once again, she heard the command in the voice and understood how the boy she had married had become a hero.

‘I will do so, all the same. My son is not at fault. If there is kindness in your heart at all, do not let the punishment fall on him.’

‘You mean, on your bastard?’

She had been foolish to hope for better. ‘My son,’ she repeated softly. ‘If you cannot mete out both shares of the punishment to me, then give me time to tell him the truth before he hears it from another.’

‘He does not know?’ For a moment, his anger was replaced by surprise.

‘No one knows,’ she said. ‘A few people closest to me might guess. But no one is sure, other than you and me.’

‘Not even...’ He was wondering about Stewart’s father.

He had been so drunk that night she doubted he even remembered what he had done. She shook her head. ‘No one knows. And Stewart is far too young to understand. All his life, he has been fed on stories of the heroic father he has never met. To find that it is a lie... It will come as a shock.’ This was not true. It would be utterly devastating to him.

‘His heroic father,’ the captain said with bitterness. ‘And who is that man? I wish to congratulate him and make him aware of his responsibility. Or are your affairs so numerous that you cannot fix on a single name?’

She did not think he had the power to hurt her with mere words, but the question stung like a slap to the face. ‘There was but one man and one night. I could point to it on a calendar, if you wish.’ Not that she needed a paper record. The date and time, down to the minute, had been burned into her memory. The clock in the hall had been striking twelve as her life was ruined.

She shook her head, which was still ringing. ‘I will not tell you his name. Nor will I tell Stewart. You are the only father he has ever known. He had been learning to read by following the news of your battles. His first toy was a wooden sword. He has entire battalions of tin soldiers and sets them to fighting each other at every opportunity. His only ambition is to grow to be as brave as you have been.’

‘That is no doing of mine,’ he insisted. But there was a gruffness in his voice that hinted at emotions other than anger. And then the brief flicker of sympathy vanished. ‘You should not have lied to him.’

‘Nor could I have told him the truth.’ It was an awful enough story to carry on her own. She had no desire to taint the boy’s life with it. ‘I told him a partial truth at least. You are brave and worthy of his admiration. If he meant to create an idol, he could do much worse than you.’

‘Do not think to flatter me,’ the captain said. ‘It will not work.’

But neither did it seem to be doing her any harm. This time, he had been the one to look away, as though her praise made him uncomfortable. ‘It is not flattery if the statement is truth.’

‘I didn’t return to this house seeking your approval,’ he snapped. The tenuous connection she’d created was gone. His gaze locked on hers again as his suspicion returned.

‘I know that,’ she said quickly. ‘You owe me nothing and you need nothing from me.’ But she could not believe it was in his nature to be cruel, even to an enemy. And certainly not to a child.

Suddenly, his look held speculation. ‘On the contrary. I owe you much. I vowed before God to protect you. I do not like to break my word.’ His voice did not sound kind. But neither was it as sharp as it had been.

Had she said something to change his mind? What had it been? She grasped at the opportunity. ‘I made promises to you, as well,’ she said, softly. ‘And I have broken them. You deserved to find a virtuous wife waiting for your return. I failed you. I have failed Stewart, as well. If you could help me in any way...’

It had been too much to ask. He’d flinched at the mention of the boy’s name.

She tried another way. ‘If, once you have decided my fate, you could at least allow me enough time to speak to him, to try to tell him the truth gently, before...’ Before they were turned out of the house, as he had threatened before. It was no less than she deserved. The only consolation she might find in it was that her brother and father would follow her in banishment. After seven years, this charade would finally be at an end.

Captain Wiscombe did not answer. He was staring at her in a way that made her even more nervous than before. His eyes held the same curious intensity that her father’s sometimes did when he found a pigeon ripe for plucking.

Since she had no choice in the matter, she stood his scrutiny in mute embarrassment.

At last, he spoke. ‘There is another possibility.’

She fought down the urge to agree without waiting for an explanation. Sometimes, she suspected she was far too obedient for her own good. It was quite possible that what he planned for her might be even worse than the humiliation she would experience when the truth about Stewart was revealed.

‘You said I needed nothing from you.’ His hand reached out to her, his fingers brushing her cheek. ‘That is not precisely true.’

She could not help it. She shuddered. Part of it was nerves. But there was something else, something about the look in his eyes that raised other, more pleasant feelings in her. She was being touched by the dashing hero whose exploits she had followed for years. In person, he was even more handsome than she had imagined him. And he wanted her help. ‘What do you wish from me?’

He smiled. ‘What does any man wish from the woman he has married? Loyalty, my dear. Thus far, you have given me every reason to doubt that I have yours.’

Loyalty? That was disappointingly mundane. But it was also easily accomplished. According to The Times, Captain Gerald Wiscombe inspired devotion in all who knew him. She would much rather obey him than her less-than-honourable father. She dipped her head in consent. ‘Despite appearances, you have my complete allegiance, sir. Let me prove it to you.’

‘You will have to,’ he said, ‘if you wish to remain in the house even one more night.’

‘Anything you want, I will get for you,’ she said. ‘What do you require?’

He was still looking at her with an intensity that sent chills down her spine. ‘What do I want? Satisfaction. Reparation. Revenge. I have done my duty, in service of my king. I have seen things that no man should see and done things I would never have thought myself capable of. But I survived, madam. Though your father and brother thought they were sending me to my death, I survived. Now I mean to make them pay for what they have done. Are you with me, or against me?’

‘With you, of course,’ she replied without hesitation. Hadn’t this been exactly what she had longed for? Someone to come and make her family regret its selfishness? It would be her pleasure to help him.

‘You answered very quickly. It is as if you didn’t think about it at all.’ He nodded in mocking approval. ‘Do you expect me to believe you without question?’

‘You are my husband,’ she said. ‘By the laws of man and church, I must answer to you in all things. My father and brother have no say in the matter.’

‘Just as you no longer have a say in what will happen to my son,’ he said, with a wicked smile. ‘The fact that you bore him does not give you the right to decide his future. You are but a woman and I am the head of the house.’

‘Your son?’ Her heart stuttered eagerly. Did he mean to claim the boy?

‘You have declared him so,’ the captain reminded her. ‘If you did not wish me to have power over him, you should have told the truth.’

‘What do you mean to do with him?’ she said, suddenly afraid.

He fixed her with an insincere smile. ‘If you do as I say? Nothing so terrible. When we have cleared this house of your family and their accompanying friends, I will find a school for the boy. He will start as soon as it can be arranged and will remain there over summer and for holidays as well. He will be perfectly safe, fed, clothed and cared for. But he will no longer live in my house, pretending to be my blood. Until the time comes for him to go, you will keep him out of my sight. I do not wish to be reminded of his presence.’

She had known that school was in Stewart’s future, but not for a few years, at least. He was still so young. This was not education, it was banishment. Stewart would be crushed when he realised that the father he worshipped could not bear the sight of him. And when he was gone, she would lose the only unsullied love she had ever known.

He had noticed her silence. ‘It will not be so different from my own childhood,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘My father sent me to Eton when I was eight. I stayed between terms when he was away from the house. I grew to prefer it to home.’

‘Stewart is much younger than that,’ she said in a whisper.

He gave her a pitying look. ‘Surely you did not expect that we would remain together as a happy family.’

‘Of course not,’ she lied. But he was the hero of Salamanca. She had been hoping for a miracle.

‘Well, then you understand that I am being more generous than most men in this position.’

She nodded, for it was true. But she did not care. She needed more than this. Boarding school was an improvement over the immediate exile he had been threatening less than an hour ago. If he was given time to get to know the boy, she must trust that his mood would soften even more.

‘Will you stand with me, or against me?’ he said.

‘With you, of course,’ she said, eager for the chance to prove her worth to him. ‘I am yours to command.’

‘Very good,’ he said with a nod. ‘I am glad we have an understanding.’

He stood and walked towards the door. Then he stopped and turned back to her again, placing his index finger against his chin as though there was some point they had forgotten to discuss. Then he smiled, as if the idea had suddenly come back to him. ‘We have not yet discussed what is to become of you, after all is settled.’

‘Me?’ The word came out in a squeak, like a mouse that had just been caught in a trap.

‘There is more to being a wife then parroting “yes” each time I ask a question. I expect you to share my bed, as well.’ He’d added it in an offhand manner, as though it was a minor consideration, hardly worth mentioning. ‘You will submit to me whenever I request it. I will use you as I please, when I please. If I tire of you, I will abide no fussing or tears. Under no circumstances will you be taking admirers of your own. I said I wanted loyalty, my dear, and in the bedroom it will be absolute.’

His eyes narrowed in satisfaction at her look of shock. ‘The alternative is that I turn you from the house this very day. There will be no time for niceties. You will leave with your whelp and the clothes on your back, and the devil take you both.’

The fear of that was clearer and more immediate than anything that might happen in the captain’s bed. She gave a hesitant nod.

He nodded back at her, the old, harmless smile returning. ‘Very good. I knew we could come to an understanding, if we had a few moments alone to talk.’

She fought against another shiver. If she thought about it, she would realise that this meeting had gone better than she could have hoped. Stewart would be safe. She would be rid of her family. And as long as he had a use for her, she might keep her place as lady of the house. It was not the stuff of fairy tales, but it never had been.

More importantly, this was Gerald Wiscombe ordering her to his bed. If she searched, she might still find traces of the gentle, awkward boy who had postponed the consummation of their marriage to spare her feelings. At the very least, he was an officer and a gentleman, not some uncaring brute. If she did what he asked of her, he would not hurt her just for the sport of seeing her suffer.

He was also the hero of Salamanca.

Half the women in England swooned at the mention of his name. In their midnight fantasies, they offered themselves to the gallant and heroic Captain Wiscombe, thanking him for his service with their bodies.

Would it surprise him to discover that his wife was no different? That she felt a dark thrill at his command to submit to his desires? If he had meant it as a punishment, he would be just as likely to reject her again, should she seem too eager for his attention.

She stood so that she might look him in the eye and pretend that it did not matter to her if he wanted her or not.

Then, as if to prove just how false her bravery was, he pulled her forward into his arms and kissed her hard upon the lips.

It was over just as quickly. But fantasy paled in comparison. He had told her with a single kiss that he was her lord and master and she had responded as if she longed to be ruled by him. When he released her, she fell back into the cushions of the divan, weak from the sudden loss of control over her body and her future. Before she could comment, he rose, walked out of the room and left her alone.

Chapter Four

In Belgium, when they’d all thought the war was over, there had been far too much time to drink and reminisce with other officers. Gerry had noticed a certain arrogance on the part of the infantry commanders towards their counterparts in the cavalry. Given any excuse, they would insist that fighting from horseback was not real fighting at all.

To be above the action and looking down upon it was, in their opinion, to cheat. Not only did it give the rider a tactical advantage, but it removed the need to face the enemy eye to eye. Bravery, to an infantryman, was to see all of the common thoughts and emotions that rendered one man equal to another reflected in an enemy’s face, and to attack in spite of them.

Today he wondered if there might be truth in that. When he’d imagined himself coming home, it had been in a metaphorical galloping charge. It would be the work of an instant to vanquish the interlopers who had claimed his home. He would take special pleasure in seeing his wife wailing and gnashing her teeth as he put her out and slammed the door in her face.

In his imagination, it was always raining the kind of cold drizzle that one got in the north. It added an extra air of pitifulness to her entreaties and those of the rat-faced whelp clinging to her skirts.

The actual meeting had been quite different. Evidence still proved she was a cheating whore. But he’d thought she would make some effort to deny the obvious. Perhaps she would try to hide the child. At the very least, she would have some tragic story to explain it.

Instead, she had offered complete surrender before he could strike a metaphorical blow. Even worse, she had displayed her greatest weakness. She wished to protect her son even if it meant sacrificing herself. She had not even resorted to the weapon all women seemed to use against men. Not a single tear had been shed as she’d awaited his judgement.

These were not the actions of a worthy opponent. She was behaving like a martyr. Even worse, the boy showed no mark of his mother’s perfidy. Because of Lillian’s lies, the child seemed illogically eager to see him. To send him away would be like kicking a puppy because it had wagged its tail.

After the interview, he’d felt dirtied by more than the grime of travel. There was no fault in expecting fidelity and no villainy in being angry when one did not receive it. There was no sin in demanding that one’s wife behave like a wife, in bed and out, if she wished to remain under one’s roof. But if all that was true, then why did staring into those sad brown eyes make him feel like a lecherous cad?

And what had the kiss meant to either of them? Compared to his plans to take her to bed, it had seemed almost chaste. But at the end of it, she had been shaking in his arms and he had been left unsettled, ready to saddle his horse and go before closer contact with her made him forget her unfaithfulness.

He would feel better after a drink and a wash. But apparently, that was too much to ask. ‘Aston! Mrs Fitz!’ He roared for the servants in his best battlefield voice and was satisfied to hear doors opening and closing up and down the guest-room corridors. His unwanted visitors had learned the master of the house was home and was not happy.

The servants appeared, out of breath and in unison, before he had to call a second time.

He pointed to the door to his room. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ There was a shiny brass lock on the door of the master bedroom, where none had been before.

‘Oh. Oh, sir. I mean, Captain, I am so sorry.’ His poor housekeeper was devastated that their first meeting after his return was because of an error in her management. ‘When the maid aired the room and lit the fire, she locked it after. It is always locked. The mistress’s room, as well.’

‘I see that.’ He had tried the door just down the hall from his, thinking he could enter his own room through the connecting door. He had been blocked there, as well. ‘Am I expected to break down the benighted doors to gain admittance, then?’

‘No, sir.’ Aston was fishing on his ring for a key. He turned it in the lock and then placed it in his master’s hand. Gerry’s single glance down the hall to his wife’s room had the servant relinquishing that key as well.

‘We meant no insult by it,’ Mrs Fitz said hurriedly.

‘Of course you did not. But what is the purpose of such security?’

Aston cleared his throat. ‘There are frequent guests here. Strangers to the house sometimes wander down the wrong hallway and disturb the peace. Mrs Wiscombe thought it better that the family rooms be locked when not in use.’

‘Yours especially, Captain Wiscombe,’ Mrs Fitz said, as though it was somehow a point of pride. ‘She was adamant that no matter how full the house, your room was to be kept empty and ready for your return.’

‘As it should be,’ he said. The housekeeper gave his wife far too much credit for simple common sense. ‘Before I left, I gave the Norths permission to use the house as their own. But it is not as if we are running some roadside hostel with rooms to let.’

There was an uncomfortable silence from the two servants at his side.

‘I said, my home is not an inn.’ His voice was rising again, as was his temper.

Aston cringed. ‘Of course not, Captain Wiscombe.’ Then why did he sound doubtful?

‘But?’ Gerry gave a coaxing twitch of his fingers and waited for the rest of the story.

‘The Misters North entertain here. Frequently,’ Mrs Fitz said, with a little sniff of disapproval.

‘There are often large house parties,’ Aston supplied. ‘Guests come from the city for hunting and cards.’

‘Friends of the family?’ Gerry suggested.

‘The Earl of Greywall is usually among the party. But the rest...’ Aston looked uncomfortable. ‘Very few guests are invited twice.’

‘I see.’ In truth, he did not. Why would Ronald and his father bring crowds of strangers to such a remote location? And why was Greywall here? He knew he was not welcome and he had a perfectly good residence only a few miles away.

He considered. ‘Is the earl in residence now?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Damn. When he was alive, Gerry’s father had loathed the peer who could not seem to limit himself to the game on his own side of the property line. After he’d died, Greywall had not waited for the body to cool before he’d begun to pester Gerry to sell house and land for less than they were worth. The crass insensitivity of his offers had convinced Gerry that anything, including a sudden marriage and military career, would be preferable to giving in to Greywall’s demands.

His stubbornness had netted nothing if the earl had caged a permanent invitation to house and grounds. It was about to be rescinded, of course. But it would have to be done carefully. Even peers one did not like demanded special handling in situations like this. He sighed. ‘Then I suspect I will meet him and the rest over dinner.’

‘Very good, sir. Do you require assistance in changing? A shave, perhaps?’

‘As long as my bag and kit are waiting, I can manage on my own,’ he said, although the thought of the master dressing without help clearly appalled his poor butler. He gave them both an encouraging smile. No matter what had occurred in his absence, the staff was not at fault. ‘It is good to be home,’ he added.

They smiled back, and Mrs Fitz bobbed a curtsy. ‘And to see you again, safe and well, sir. If you need anything...’

‘I will ring,’ he assured her and gave a brief nod of thanks to dismiss them. Then he opened the door and entered his room.

For a moment, he paused on the threshold, confused. Before his sudden marriage and equally sudden departure, he’d never felt at home in the master suite. He had gone from the nursery to school, returning only on news of his father’s death. For most of his life this had not been his space at all, but his father’s.

He’d felt woefully out of place during the few months he’d been master of the house. Days had been spent in his father’s study trying to decipher the bookkeeping and poring over stacks of unpaid bills. Nights had been marked with uneasy sleep in his father’s bed, too embarrassed to admit that he missed his cot in the nursery. How was one expected to get any rest, surrounded by so many judgemental eyes?

His father had been a mediocre parent, but an avid sportsman. The bedroom, like so many other rooms in the house, was full of his trophies. Gerry did not mind the pelts, so much. He would even admit to a childish fascination for the rugs of tiger and bearskin in the billiard room. But what was the point of decorating the room in which one slept with the heads of animals one had killed? Stags stared moodily down from the walls. Foxes sat on the mantel, watching him with beady glass eyes. Antlers and boar tusks jutted from the wall behind the bed as though they might, at any moment, fall to impale the sleeper.

Gerry had proved in countless battles that he was no coward. When the killing was done, he’d treated the dead with as much respect as he was able. He had hoped for the same, should his luck fail him and circumstances be reversed. A gentleman should not gloat on the lives he’d taken, especially not at bedtime.

His father had not shared the sentiment. Of course, to the best of Gerry’s knowledge, his father had never killed a man, much less dozens of them. The stuffed heads had been nothing more than decorations to him. But to Gerry, they would be reminders of other soulless eyes, judging him as he tried to sleep. It was with trepidation that he opened the door tonight, prepared for the distasteful sights within.

He stood on the threshold, confused.

Today, as he’d walked through the house, he’d noted the subtle changes that had been made to the decorating. The overt masculinity had been retained. There could be no doubt that he was in a hunting lodge and not a London town house. But the stained and faded silks had been removed from the walls and replaced. Paint had been freshened. Furniture had been re-upholstered and rearranged. Though most of the trophies remained where he remembered them, they had at least been dusted. One could entertain both ladies and gentlemen here, without fear of embarrassment.

But no room he’d seen so far had been so totally transformed as his own bedroom. The dusty velvet chairs had been replaced with benches and stools covered in saddle leather. The heavy green baize on the walls had been exchanged for a cream-coloured, watered silk. The hangings over the bed were no longer maroon brocade. They were now a blue sarsenet shot through with silver. To stare up at the canopy would be like staring into a night sky full of stars.

The table at the side of the bed held the two volumes of the Théorie Analytique des Probabilités and a fine wooden version of Roget’s new slide rule. He’d heard about the advances in mathematics since he’d been away and had been eager to return to his books. If he wished, he could take up his studies this very night.

Best of all, he could do it without the distractions of dozens of glass eyes. All evidence of his father’s skill as a hunter had been removed. The walls were decorated with watercolour landscapes. He stepped closer to admire the work and started in surprise.

He knew the place in the picture. He had been there himself. It was Talavera de la Reina in Spain. But the picture was of the sleepy village and not the backdrop for battle. The next was of the Nive flowing through France. And here was Waterloo. Beautiful places all, not that he’d had the time to enjoy the scenery when he was there. But this was how he wanted to think of them. The land had healed. The blood he had shed was not muddying the dust. It had soaked into the ground and left only grass and wildflowers as memorial to the dead.

As he admired the work, he felt relaxed and at peace, as though he had finally come home. This was his room, totally and completely. If he had written his wishes out and sent them ahead, he could not have been more pleased with the results. The years of sacrifice had been rewarded with a haven of tranquillity. He could leave the war behind and become the man he had once intended to be.

This must have been Lillian’s doing. No mere servant would have dared to take such liberties. Hadn’t Mrs Fitz said it had been his wife’s orders to keep the place locked until his return? But how had she known what he would like? How had she managed this without consulting him?

Most importantly, why had she done it?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.