21st December 1815,
Merton Place,
Chelsea,
London.
Lionel hardly looked up at the sound of the front door. Mr Morton began packing their paperwork into his valise.
“Your uncle is returned, Captain.”
“I am aware,” Lionel replied testily. “Whatever are you doing? Those papers are due to the bankers in the morning.”
Morton sighed, drawing the papers out again. “I do beg your pardon, Captain. You’ve not been in town three days. I assumed you’d wish to dine with family.”
“I did not spend my youth acquiring consequence at sea, to fail at management now the peace is here.” Good Lord, did he always sound so pompous? Lionel adjusted his tone. “Uncle Richard understands my business is important, Morton.”
“Not as important as your health, nephew.” His uncle entered the room with a bow for Morton and a frown for Lionel. “I attended Harley Street today. Your doctor says you did not.”
“I consider it unimportant, Uncle Richard. My burns healed before I left France.”
“Then your wound is not so raw that you cannot bear the London air,” the old man replied pointedly. “You’ve not stirred out of doors since we arrived.”
Lionel sighed, unsmiling once again. “It’s a cold winter and I’m in no hurry. Now that the wars were over, I’ve time aplenty.”
“Money’s another thing you’ve plenty of now,” the clergyman said. “You’ve enough to support a family, Lionel. You ought to consider marriage.”
Lionel stiffened and shook his head. He’d not roll his eyes at his uncle, but he considered this the stupidest utterance from the fellow he’d yet heard – and he’d attended the man’s sermons since he was twelve years old. Scribbling his name across the last page of contracts, he looked to Mr Morton.
“Have these in Bond street by morning. Inquire as to Ryeland as you’re able. I’ll attend to the other matters by post or messenger as usual, except for meeting with Admiral Harlowe. That’s a long night of cards with decent whisky thrown in.” His mood lifted immediately.
Extracting a small notebook from an inner jacket, Lionel’s manager made a note with his stubby little pencil. Uncle Richard cleared his throat. Lionel glanced at him, but the vicar’s face assumed an air of cherubic innocence.
“I beg your pardon, nephew, but one cannot attend the Huntley’s Christmas ball by post.”
“One may send his regrets by post.” Lionel turned to his only ally. “See to it, Morton.”
The manager scribbled another note.
“You’d have me weather Lady Huntley alone?” Uncle Richard sounded aggrieved. “That’s no way to embrace the peace, nephew.”
Lionel’s neck muscles tightened. “There’ll be no balls for Captain Eversfield. Society will be grateful, I’m sure.” He turned his face deliberately towards the light. His mangled cheek faced the other men, the scar thrown into hideous relief when he turned up the lamp. Lionel had to give his uncle some credit. Though he stiffened, the vicar didn’t blanche, merely releasing a sigh that ruffled Lionel’s new curtains.
“This is not what I wish for you, Lionel.” Uncle Richard’s tone remained mild. “I believe society will stand it better than you know.”
“I thank you, Uncle,” Lionel said shortly. “I do not require your advice just now.”
Uncle Richard didn’t reply until Mr Morton had stayed to dine, tasted their brandy and left with one of the vicar’s excellent cheroots in his waistcoat pocket. Lionel sat opposite his uncle, watching the old fellow fold papers into simple shapes. His doctors recommended this as ‘soothing’ for many military men after the war, but Lionel had resisted them so far. He cocked his head to one side, watching a paper creature emerge beneath his uncle’s hands.
“I met Countess Ryehurst in Mayfair today, nephew.” Doctor Eversfield pressed down on a paper fold, riveting Lionel’s attention better than he’d have done with any other news.
“How is the countess?” Reaching for a paper, Lionel ignored the tension in his hand. He folded his page in half, avoiding his uncle’s gaze. He’d not called on Annie, not wished to witness the shock on her face as his dearest friend beheld his face. The pity with which she’d undoubtedly coddle him… Lionel shuddered and, having finished his newspaper hat he took up another page, making a great show of studying the column before him. A poor choice, as it contained much detail regarding Lady Huntley’s imminent ball. He clenched his jaw, feeling the stretch of sheened skin as he did so. He couldn’t attend. The ladies and gentlemen of Mayfair preferred their war heroes whole and handsome. The doctors had done their best, but Captain Lionel Eversfield would never be either of those things again.
“I’d wager the countess is up to something,” the vicar continued.
Lionel eyed his uncle. “I’d wager you’re both as devious as each other, Uncle Richard.” He reached for his drink and took a large swallow. “Was Annie with – was Countess Ryehurst alone when you met her?”
His uncle sounded oddly relieved by the inquiry. “Lady Ryehurst was with her. I had the kindest notice from the earl’s daughter, though she seemed strained.”
“Strained?” Lionel stopped pretending to fold a boat. Instead, he gripped his glass so closely the crested crystal marked his palm. “How so?”
“I do not know, nephew.” Uncle Richard took up his own drink.
“What of Grantley?”
His uncle coughed. “My point precisely, Lionel. Paying his addresses over five seasons is hardly a compliment.”
“Five seasons?” Lionel’s brows rose. “What the hell’s the matter with him? Why, if I were courting Annie–,” he stopped, drawing his paper boat towards him again.
“I quite agree with you, nephew. The lady deserves better. It troubles me that she seems lonely, suffering under the weight of some great burden as though she’s all alone in it.”
“She’s not alone,” Lionel murmured, staring at the rich colour of the brandy in his glass, the darkened depths reminiscent of Annie’s eyes.
“You might find a way to let her know that.” His uncle levelled what Lionel called his ‘pulpit-gaze’ across the polished wood desk.
Lionel stared back at him. “What are you getting at, uncle?”
“I nearly lied to that lovely girl, Lionel. She asked me if you were home yet. I could hardly tell her you were in town and would not see her.”
“I cannot.” Lionel’s strangled voice shocked him.
Uncle Richard leaned in, one palm on Lionel’s shoulder. “You can, Lionel, and your stubborn refusal to rejoin the rest of us over here in the peace is as damaging for you as it is for your friends.” His uncle never raised his voice. His quiet calm was more effective than anything. “As though she’s not suffering enough.” He stared at Lionel, one brow raised as though he’d asked a question.
“Do you think her great strain has anything to do with Grantley?” For some reason he sounded hopeful. That makes no sense.
“Perhaps.” His uncle shrugged diplomatically, turning towards the mantle as the small clock struck ten. “I’ve a feeling the countess isn’t free of her old habits.”
“You believe she’s run up debts she cannot pay?”
The vicar lifted his head, his worried gaze meeting Lionel’s. “They’ve no carriage this year and are not resident in Mayfair. Your old playfellow is no spendthrift.”
“You’ve heard differently regarding the mother?” This was new information to Lionel, though he recalled whispers from Ryeland years ago.
“I’ve an idea how to find out, nephew.”
The butler appeared at the door with a bow. “Captain?”
“Yes?”
“Admiral Harlowe.” The man bowed again.
Lionel swallowed the last of his drink and rose. “Excellent. Show him in.” He busied himself mixing brandy, turning to greet his former commanding officer with a full tray and a spare.
“Good evening, Admiral. It’s good of you to call.”
His old friend laughed. “Call? I was invited, my dear fellow.” He shook hands with Uncle Richard and took up his drink. “I’m delighted to meet you at last, Doctor.”
Lionel glared at his relation. “Uncle Richard, what are you up to?
“Nothing, dear boy. I merely wrote to your former admiral here and invited him for cards. If you’ll not venture out—”
“Adventures will come to you,” Harlowe bellowed, laughing as he lit up a large cigar. “You may as well deal me in, Eversfield. You’ve been outflanked.”
Lionel could not pretend to mind and drew out his cards. “Euchre, gentlemen?”
“Not for me,” replied his uncle. “I’m rather done in for the day. I’ll remind you to ask the admiral what he knows regarding those most interesting to us. I understand you’ve been in town since June, sir?”
The seaman nodded. “I’ve heard all the gossip there is this season, for my wife delights in it. I also looked into the books at Boodle’s on my way over here. Deal the cards and freshen this up.” He waved his empty glass in the air. “About whom are we exchanging information?”
* * *
“I don’t know what it is about you, Eversfield, but your luck is exceptional.” Admiral Harlowe grinned at Lionel over his hand of cards.
“I’m not sure how you talked me into another hand.” Lionel smiled back at his friend. “Do you not think you’ve lost quite enough?”
Harlowe leaned forward. “There! I knew you did not want me for games,” he burbled on without a trace of embarrassment.
Lionel smiled wider than ever, until he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror opposite. He sobered immediately. Harlowe must have noticed because he began a new subject.
“So, what is it that brings invitations to us little folk from the great hero of the HMS Amazon?”
Lionel laughed in genuine amusement. “You’re an admiral, my friend. Hardly small fry and if I’m a hero under your command, it’s due to my CO, is it not?” He grinned cheekily.
“Ha!” The older man clapped him on the back in delight. “I’ve missed your defiance, Eversfield, and the days I could have you flogged for it.”
“You did have me flogged for it, if I recall.” Lionel twitched his shoulder.
Harlowe shrugged without apology. Indeed, there was no need. He leaned forward again. “You’ve not told me why I’m here, Captain.”
Lionel looked towards the collection of paper shapes in a corner of the room: a hat, a boat, and his uncle’s paper flowers.
“I’m looking into an earl.”
“Not that fellow you used to go on about when you served under me?” Harlowe said at once. “He sounded far too dull to be nefarious.”
Lionel bristled, checking himself. “Earl Ryehurst was the best of men. It’s his heir I seek to learn more of. Do you know anything of the new earl at Ryeland Abbey?”
The admiral sat back and thought. “The only peers you’ll find at Boodle’s, Eversfield, are those who can’t afford the dues at White’s. You ought to know that.”
Lionel nodded. “Precisely.”
The admiral cocked his head to one side, intensifying his stare. Lionel felt uncomfortably like he was under the old tyrant’s command again. Before he’d grown up. Before this scar.
“This is about a woman.” Harlowe decided. “Has to be.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Lionel grabbed his drink as much to cover his face as quench himself.
“Cow-slaver.” His friend’s face changed from thoughtful, to stern and powerful. “I no longer command you, Captain, but you cannot obfuscate with an admiral. Who is she, and what do you mean by prying into her affairs?”
“She is a young woman of childhood acquaintance. My uncle is her old vicar and heard this fellow is paying his addresses. Has been paying addresses for years now. As she’s no male relation alive, he’s charged me with finding out if the man is decent, and what he’s up to.”
Harlowe shook his head. “A pretty story, man. Very pretty indeed but then you always spoke well.”
Lionel placed his glass on the table. “You don’t believe me, Admiral?”
The admiral laughed, ticking items off on his fingers. “I think the question is whether you believe you, Eversfield. Do I believe the good-hearted Doctor Eversfield is concerned for the welfare of a young girl to whom he was once vicar? I do, sir. Do I believe she is pretty and courted by an earl? Most assuredly.” He swallowed his brandy and waved his empty glass accusingly at Lionel. “Do I also believe you’re acting in the capacity of her ‘male relation’?” He shook his head, coughing as though the very words were ridiculous. “Come man, what’s your objection to courting the girl yourself? You’re a hero, rich, and handsome enough.”
“Handsome?” Lionel choked on his drink. Keep your pity to yourself, sir.
“You make too much of a trifle.” Admiral Harlowe jerked his head towards Lionel’s scar as though it were a respected member of his crew. “Women love a naval hero. They especially enjoy us a little battle-weary. You’re otherwise fit. My wife believes you suitable for any number of her friends’ daughters. How does that sound, eh, Eversfield?”
Like my own personal nightmare, in truth.
“It seems you and my uncle are of one mind, sir.” Lionel returned to the subject at hand. “Is there anything you can tell me about Grantley?”
“Oh, it’s Grantley, is it?” The admiral’s tone hardened. “I saw his name in the books. Some wag of a schoolfellow stands to gain a great sum if Grantley’s betrothed by the Christmas ball.”
“Hmm. That’s three days from now,” Lionel said. “What are his odds?”
“Five to one and lengthening by the day.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
The admiral, who rarely looked uncomfortable, gave an embarrassed shake of his head. “Your friend’s betrothal appears unlikely.”
Lionel scowled as a ball of fury erupted in his gut. “His lordship has no right to play her for a fool.” He banged his fist beside his empty glass.
“Ha!” The admiral calmly clipped his cigar. “Does this violence suggest nothing to you, Eversfield?”
Lionel shook his head. “What else have you heard, sir?”
The admiral completed his clipping. “Grantley loses easily at cards, you know. He’s adept at misrepresenting his finances. So many of the peerage are, though. This is not severe.”
“Agreed,” Lionel murmured. “Anything else?” His odd mix of hope and hurt was slowly making sense.
The admiral sat back, apparently searching the ceiling for inspiration. “There are stories about this fellow. Most men his age have been married at least once with an heir or two to show for it.” Harlowe sat forward, fixing his eye on Lionel. “He’s not known for decisive action. Can’t make up his mind about dinner, let alone a wife. Cuts and runs at the first sign of difficulty – a rattler. One cannot gain the spoils of war without action in the thick of it, Eversfield.” The admiral’s gaze flickered over Lionel’s marred face. “And you’ve surely earned your prizes, Captain.” He said this gruffly, as though moved.
Lionel smiled slowly, before remembering how this stretched his scar. “Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all,” the naval commander responded. “If you truly care for this girl, pay her the compliment of a fair choice.”
Choice…
Annie in the bowery at Ryeland. Lionel holding back from her, certain she’d never choose him. Was he wrong in this? The way she leaned into him, lost, like her arrow. He’d lost something too that day. My kiss. For the first time in ten years, he understood it was also her kiss: Annie’s kiss. And I withheld it.
The admiral stood to bow as the clock chimed midnight. “Too many men are brave enough in war and not in love, Eversfield. Our hearts deserve better, don’t you agree?”
Lionel nearly nodded. Then he caught another sighting of his ruined face in the wall mirror. He looked hurriedly away like a child startled by a nightmare. Admiral Harlowe’s sentiment was all very well, but who could love him now?