Lord Wethers bowed to Frances and her father and stalked off.
“Well,” her father murmured.
“What do you know about Noiuelle?” Frances asked him.
“I know that Wolfbrook brought back good intelligence. I also know that the generals had been fed information that made him look incompetent. Sloppy. They didn’t listen to the earl and as a result, a lot of our brave soldiers died.”
“So the generals trusted him at Tres Fleures?” The tea went down welcomingly warm.
“They needed a piece of information that could only be gained from Napoleon’s headquarters. Wolfbrook agreed to take on the dangerous mission to prove he was reliable.”
Frances looked around her before she whispered, “Even though there was a traitor in the British camp?”
“They didn’t know until they recovered Wolfbrook’s battered body and brought him back to our camp half dead. When he regained consciousness, he told us. And then certain things, little things that didn’t mean anything at the time, added up. We knew we had trouble in our midst.” Her father stretched out his legs. “Now, I’m going into the card room to see what I can hear. You need to talk to the ladies.”
“Yes, Papa.” They rose at the same time and went their separate ways.
Frances walked into the drawing room and joined her mother, Lady Crawford, and another matron who said, “My daughter can’t stop talking about how much fun she had sledding with you.”
“I’m glad she enjoyed it, Lady Willard. Everyone seemed to have a good time, including the earl.” She hoped the ladies would start talking about the war and what they had heard.
“Susanna Ogilvy was worried at first,” Lady Crawford said, “but she doesn’t seem to think the earl is any the worse for his adventure today.”
“From what Sir Robert said, I didn’t think the earl could get out of his sickbed,” Lady Willard replied, her eyebrows raised.
“Sir Robert must be pleased for his old friend. Lord Crawford, too,” Frances said.
“Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?” Lady Willard snapped.
The other two ladies stared at her.
“They had their differences in military strategy,” Lady Willard said with a wave of one hand. “The earl had some strange and dangerous ideas, Robert said, but no one deserves a beating like the earl received. Especially from those rotten French soldiers.”
Lady Crawford nodded her agreement. “When they brought the earl into camp, my husband’s first thought was he was dead. His heart sank. The earl was a very brave and very good spy.”
“Who found the earl?” Frances had no idea, but it might prove important in their hunt for the traitor.
“His brother, Walter, Percy Jones, and my son, Henry,” Lady Crawford said. “They were worried when he didn’t show up during the battle and immediately afterward went looking for him.”
“Where did they find him?”
“Among the trash left behind where Napoleon’s camp had been. They found enough to make a litter to bring him back to the English camp. They feared they were bringing him back to bury.” Lady Crawford appeared well-versed in the story.
“His brother, Walter, is a little older, but both Percy and Henry are young men. They must have been shocked to see such injuries. To see such suffering,” Frances’s mother said. Once again, Frances was impressed at her mother’s clear-sightedness.
“His brother was the one who was hysterical. Such a weakling, but the earl and his brother are very close. Henry and Percy were the ones who tended to the earl and built the litter,” Lady Crawford said.
“It’s a good thing they were there,” Frances said. “If they hadn’t gone out to find him, he might have died and never been found.”
“Walter was most insistent that they look for him. He sent parties out in all directions toward the French lines in the search. It was unfortunate that Walter was with the team that found his brother. He’s always been a bit of an infant,” Lady Willard said.
“Oh, Lady Willard,” Frances’s mother said.
“It’s the truth,” Lady Crawford said. “He’s always depended on the earl, even as boys. And he admits it. Walter would be nothing without Wolfbrook and Susanna. She’s a strong woman.”
Could Walter have grown tired of being in his brother’s shadow? Had either Percy Jones or Henry Crawford built the litter hoping it returned a dead man to camp? Was a difference of opinion about strategy enough for Sir Robert to direct the attack on the earl? And what happened at Noiuelle? Frances excused herself and went in search of more ladies to question.
She passed her sister being flattered by Sir Desmond. He certainly wanted the earl’s help in finding a lucrative post. Would he try to kill a man he wanted aid from?
Sitting next to Lady Ramsey and Susanna Ogilvy, Frances let her eyes roam the room. In an effort to learn about something that wouldn’t upset her hostess, she said, “Lord Wethers is certainly a skilled skater. I wonder where he learned.”
“The Low Countries,” Lady Ramsey said.
“Really. I’ve heard about the residents skating on the canals in winter to get around the countryside. He never mentioned living there,” Frances said, trying to sound like she’d spoken more than a dozen words to the man.
“His mother’s family is from somewhere near Amsterdam,” Susanna said.
“I hope they haven’t suffered damage from the fighting over there,” Frances said. “Napoleon’s armies haven’t been kind to their neighbors.”
“No, they haven’t,” Lady Ramsey said.
“What exactly is your point?” Susanna said, scowling at Frances.
“I don’t have a point. I’m just interested in people.” She gave her hostess a smile. “I haven’t worked up the nerve to ask where you met your husband.”
“I met him at a ball given by my cousin. He was in uniform and he stole my breath away.” For the first time, Susanna appeared to relax. She smiled. Her normally sharp tone softened.
“He seemed to enjoy himself in the snow this afternoon,” Frances said.
“So did the earl. I never expected him to spend so much time outside. I admit to being worried, but he returned to his rooms without mishap.” Susanna held Frances’s gaze. “I suppose we have you to thank for his improvement today.”
“I think you can credit your son, Ethan, for his time outdoors.”
“He wouldn’t have walked outside for anyone but you, Miss Smith-Pressley.”
Frances was aware of Lady Ramsey watching them closely. She smiled and said, “I’m a nine day’s wonder. A woman who reads Latin.” Still, she felt heat rise on her cheeks and feared it would give away to the two ladies how much she thought of the earl. The sad, unattainable earl.
***
John finished his dinner of soft, overcooked fish and smooshed vegetables and put his mask back on. He hoped, despite his poor showing in the snow that afternoon, that Miss Smith-Pressley—that Frances—would come to the library that evening.
He looked forward to seeing her. Not that she would give him a thought once the Christmas house party was over, but he dreaded the idea of her leaving.
Was this love? He’d certainly never felt anything like this when he was whole and healthy. Never before had he feared a woman leaving his side.
Isaiah led the way into the library with a single lighted candle and then lit two more on a desk next to his master’s favorite reading chair before the cheery fire. John picked up a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and sat, planning to read until Frances, until Miss Smith-Pressley, arrived. Or didn’t.
His mind wouldn’t stay with the beauty of Shakespeare’s words. Instead, it traveled, once again, to that encampment in the countryside where French villains beat him unmercifully after an Englishman pointed him out as a spy. He’d heard the Englishman’s voice and his weak French accent and word choice, but he’d never seen the man. The traitor was inside the tent, giving away English battle secrets. And giving away the spy in their midst. Him.
Why couldn’t he remember that voice? He’d listened outside doors, but none of the suspects sounded like the voice in his memory. The voice had faded until it sounded like everybody. Even his brother.
It couldn’t be Walter. It couldn’t.
Light flickered in from the hallway and then Frances stood before him. “They’re singing Christmas carols around the piano. Would you care to join them?”
He leaped to his feet. “And shock them with my mask?”
“It’s not as shocking as you might imagine.”
“What do you think of my mask?”
“Nothing. I don’t think of it at all.” She glanced around her. “Shall we sit?”
They sat facing each other across the hearth, the fire giving off ample warmth. “Do you think of me at all?” he asked after a long pause.
“Yes.”
“I have nothing to offer you.”
“You value yourself too little.”
“I don’t travel from this manor house.”
“Why would you? Everything you want comes to you.” She paused as she stared at him. “We came, along with all your other guests.”
He smiled in spite of himself. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“You developed the habit of ordering everyone around from your sickbed. You like having everyone around so you can snap your fingers and we will do your bidding.”
“You don’t think I should find the traitor?”
“I think you should. But while you’re about it, you might be more polite.”
“I’ve tried being polite, and people died.” So many good English soldiers.
“At Noiuelle?”
He stared at her, only the ticking of the clock and the sparks in the fire showing signs of life. “Where did you hear that name?”
She held his gaze. “Someone mentioned that your failure at that battle cost lives.”
“I didn’t fail. Someone, the traitor, convinced the generals that my information was incomplete. Inaccurate. Wrong. The battle proved my information was correct, if only the generals had acted on it. If only they had admitted that they were wrong to mistrust me.” He heard the bitterness in his tone and couldn’t hide it. Not from her.
“Does anyone blame you?”
“Probably those who lost family in that battle. Wethers lost his younger brother. I know he’s never forgiven me.”
She kept looking into his eyes. Hers were a brilliant hazel that he wanted to study all night. “Does he blame you enough to have turned you in to the French on your next mission?”
“I hope not.” He’d regret being hated that much for something that wasn’t his fault.
“Why did he come here if he blames you for his brother’s death?”
“He has no family left. No one to celebrate Christmas with.”
He could see tears shimmer in her eyes. “That is so sad. What happened to them?”
“His mother died years ago, his father shortly after his brother. There were no other children. And he has never married.”
“Like you.”
“I have my brother and his family.”
She gave him a look that told him she found him wanting. “Then you are much more fortunate than he is.”
Anger poured through every inch of his body. “How can you say that? My body is ruined.”
“Despite that, you have people who love you. You have a houseful of guests to celebrate Christ’s birth with. You just choose to turn your back on all the joys in your life.”
“I choose? Do you want to see what I have no choice facing every day?”
She nodded, holding his gaze with her eyes. “I do.”
“Even my family choose not to gaze on this.” John slipped his mask from his face and faced Miss Smith-Pressley. Faced Frances. “Do you see why I hide behind a mask? Am I really so fortunate?”
He stared at her, expecting her to run from the library. To run from him.