November 29th, 1808
Okehampton, Devonshire
Dartmoor had a rugged, desolate beauty, but Icarus was in no mood to appreciate it. He was as edgy as he’d been before a battle, tense and alert and restless. He clenched his hands together and managed to sit still, managed not to fidget. Letty Trentham, seated across from him in the carriage, made no attempt at conversation. She wasn’t Tish this morning; she looked pale and tired and sad.
Icarus turned his head and gazed out the window, seeing rough, rolling heath and upthrusting outcrops of gray rock. We’re coming to the end. A sense of urgency had been building in him all morning, and underneath the urgency was a strong pang of regret. He would miss Letty Trentham. She could try the patience of a saint, but she was also . . .
His thoughts ground to a halt, trying to find an adjective that fitted her. The closest he could come was that Letty Trentham would make an excellent officer. She had the strength of character necessary, the intelligence, the courage. She didn’t pull her punches and she didn’t turn from daunting tasks. If she thought something needed to be said, she said it. If she thought something needed to be done, she did it.
If Letty Trentham were a soldier, he would be glad to serve with her.
The carriage slowed and made a right turn, lurching over a rough, narrow track. Leafless trees came into view, a drystone wall, a dour house built of gray stone.
The carriage slowed again, made another turn, and came to a halt in front of the house. Icarus stared out the window. Colonel Cuthbertson lived here?
He climbed slowly down from the carriage, examining the house in disbelief. Cuthbertson was flamboyant and swaggering and libidinous, happiest when in a brothel working his way through the women on offer. This place looked the exact opposite of a brothel; it looked like a damned prison.
He turned and handed Miss Trentham down from the carriage. “Walk the horses,” he told the coachman. “We shouldn’t be above fifteen minutes.”
His boots crunched over the gravel and echoed flatly on the gray stone slab of the doorstep. He hammered the doorknocker loudly.
Icarus counted the seconds in his head, aware of Miss Trentham’s hand resting lightly on his arm, aware of the ever-tightening coil of anticipation in his belly. His muscles were taut, his heartbeat slightly elevated.
After fourteen seconds, a housemaid opened the door. Icarus looked her over. Her shape was lush and her bodice slightly too low. This was more like Cuthbertson. How many times a day does he flip up your skirts and swive you? “Is Colonel Cuthbertson in?”
The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell him Major Reid is here to see him.”
They waited in the unlit entrance hall while the maid hurried off. Heavy oil paintings frowned down at them. What the devil is Cuthbertson doing here? The house didn’t feel like a home; it felt like an abandoned museum, chilly, musty, long neglected.
The maid returned, and led them to a small north-facing dining room. Cuthbertson sat at the table, the remains of a substantial breakfast spread before him. The colonel was only in his early forties, but he’d gone to seed since Icarus had last seen him. His hair needed a trim, and so did his sideburns. Always heavyset, he was now edging towards stoutness.
“Reid. This is a surprise.” Cuthbertson climbed to his feet. He gave Miss Trentham a swift survey and almost visibly dismissed her as unattractive, made a perfunctory bow in her direction, and offered her a seat.
Miss Trentham declined.
Cuthbertson shrugged, and sat again. “What brings you to Dartmoor?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Icarus crossed to the window and turned, so he could see both Cuthbertson and Miss Trentham. “I was surprised to hear you’d sold out.”
“Oh . . .” Cuthbertson shrugged. “I’d had my fill of soldiering. Twenty-five years was enough.”
Off to one side, Miss Trentham silently shook her head. Cuthbertson was already lying. Interesting.
Icarus glanced out the window. The outlook was bleak: skeletal trees, scrubby moor, gray stone. It was the last place he’d expect a man like Cuthbertson to end up. “Why here? Why Dartmoor?”
“M’ aunt left me it. Can’t stand the place, but I’m rather short of funds at the moment. You know how it is, Major.”
“But you just sold out.” Surely the man hadn’t run through his commission already? A colonelcy was worth several thousand pounds.
Cuthbertson opened one hand in a throwaway gesture.
Good Lord. The man’s even more of a wastrel than I took him for. Which could explain his act of treason—if it had been Cuthbertson.
Icarus leaned his hip against the windowsill, trying to look casual. “I wanted to ask you about Vimeiro.”
“Vimeiro?” A fleeting grimace crossed Cuthbertson’s face. He fussed with the teapot. “Would you like a cup?” he asked Miss Trentham. “Would you, Reid?”
Icarus shook his head.
Cuthbertson refilled his teacup. “What about Vimeiro?” he said, not looking at Icarus’s face.
“Grantham says he told you where I was meeting my scouts,” Icarus said. “I wondered whether you’d told anyone?”
“Me? Good Lord, no!” Cuthbertson uttered an overly hearty laugh, and swallowed some tea.
Icarus didn’t need Miss Trentham’s headshake to know that the man was lying. His heart gave a great kick in his chest. This is my traitor.
He stayed where he was, leaning against the windowsill, every muscle taut. “Who did you tell?”
Cuthbertson arranged his features into an expression of offended dignity. “I just told you, Major: No one!”
Icarus shook his head. “You and I both know you’re lying, Colonel. You told someone. Who was it?”
Cuthbertson put down his teacup with a clatter. “I don’t have to listen to this.” He stood, and made for the door.
Icarus reached it before Cuthbertson had fully opened it. He pushed the door forcefully shut, making it shudder in the doorframe, and turned the key and pocketed it. “Who did you tell?”
Cuthbertson drew himself up. “I order you to unlock that door, Major!”
Icarus gave him a thin smile. “Neither of us is in the army now.” He took several steps back, until he could see Miss Trentham again. “Did you tell the French?”
“No!”
Miss Trentham nodded. The colonel was telling the truth.
“Another Englishman?”
“No. Give me that key!”
Miss Trentham nodded again.
“A villager?”
“The key, Reid.”
“A villager?”
“No!” Behind Cuthbertson, Miss Trentham shook her head.
The colonel took two stiff-legged strides towards him and reached for the pocket that held the key. Icarus caught the man’s wrist and twisted it sideways.
Cuthbertson staggered, and caught his balance. He tried to wrench his wrist free. “How dare you lay a hand on me in my own house!”
“You told one of the villagers. Who?”
The colonel was breathing heavily, his face ruddy with outrage. “I don’t have to put up with this!”
Icarus released the man’s wrist and took a step back. “No. You don’t. I’m happy to take this to a court-martial. Are you?”
Cuthbertson rubbed his wrist. “Court-martial?” He laughed, a flat, angry sound. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Who did you tell?”
They matched stares. Cuthbertson looked away first. “A woman. I don’t remember her name. Maria something.”
Miss Trentham gave a small nod.
“A woman?” Icarus said, in disbelief. “You told a woman? Why in God’s name would you do that?”
Cuthbertson shrugged, and walked back to the table and picked up his teacup again.
“She was a whore, wasn’t she?” Cuthbertson had told a damned whore.
“The best fuck I had the whole time I was in Portugal.” Cuthbertson sipped his tea. “Get out of my house.”
Icarus clenched his hands, and mastered the urge to smash the man’s teacup into his face. “What did you tell her?”
Cuthbertson shrugged again. “This and that.”
“Where I was meeting my scouts?”
Cuthbertson shrugged a third time. “I can’t remember.”
Miss Trentham shook her head.
“You damned well do remember.” Icarus took a pace towards him. He was trembling with fury. “You told her, didn’t you?”
Cuthbertson eyed him. “I might have.”
“Why?” The word exploded out of him.
Cuthbertson put down the teacup. “She was afraid. Needed to feel safe before she could get in the mood. You know how it is, Major. Nervous creatures, females.”
“Jesus Christ! You told a fucking whore because she was scared? You—” He caught sight of Miss Trentham standing tense and white-faced on the other side of the table. She shook her head. Because Cuthbertson had lied? Or because his own language had descended into the gutter?
Icarus shut his mouth. He inhaled a hissing breath through his nose, and struggled to rein in his rage. Control yourself, man. Letty’s here. But fury roared in his chest like flames in a furnace. “Your whore told the French. You realize that, don’t you? They were waiting for us. Waiting for us!”
Cuthbertson looked away.
“Men died because of you.”
Cuthbertson shrugged. “A couple of Portuguese.”
The next few seconds were hazy. Rage possessed him. He knew he hit Cuthbertson, but he had no idea how many times—all he knew was that he was going to kill the fucking son of a—
“Icarus, stop!” That sharp, commanding voice jerked him to a halt.
Icarus lowered his fists. He shook his head, trying to clear it. What just happened? He was panting, his chest heaving.
At his feet, Cuthbertson wheezed, spitting blood on the carpet.
Icarus stepped back, and shook his head again. “Sorry,” he told Miss Trentham. “I didn’t . . .” His voice seemed to come from very far away. I didn’t mean to do that.
“Let me talk to him, Icarus.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command.
Icarus took another step back. He let his hands fall to his sides.