For the Love of a Soldier (10 page)

“Your head?” he clarified. “You did mention moving it was not an option. Do you think you could survive a coach ride after some rest?”

She recovered her voice. “Yes, I can manage.”

“Good,” he said. “Then I’ll leave you to get some rest.” He made a brief bow and opened the door. He turned to step into the corridor, when a thought struck him and he looked back. “Those supercilious imbeciles, the reference would include me?”

“Of course not.” She gasped. “You’re a soldier, you fought in the Crimea.”

He paused, disconcerted. A soldier who fought in the Crimea? That was how she saw him? Hell, buying his commission was the biggest mistake of his life. One he would pay for forever. He pressed his lips together, swallowing the bitterness that rose like bile in his throat. With a curt nod, he departed, not trusting himself to speak.

A
LEX BLINKED AT
the closed door, groaned, and collapsed in the bed. For goodness sake, she shouldn’t provoke the man. It was unwise to bite the hand that feeds you.

Though she hadn’t really bitten his hand, but rather swatted it down. She hadn’t meant to, but when he taunted her about
having no regard for her welfare, she had seen a wide and vivid streak of red. Good God, if she didn’t have her welfare to consider, why bother risking all to save it?

She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands into them. She needed this arrangement, and she had agreed to assist him. She couldn’t go into it with fists raised and daggers drawn or else they’d kill each other before the day was out.

It was Kendall’s fault. He had chastised her like she was an errant child who hadn’t considered the repercussions of her actions. When she protested, he had agreed with her. Baffled, she lay down, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket.

What was the man’s game?

It didn’t matter. This was a temporary business arrangement. She’d survive it and him. They had one thing in common; they both may have been wounded in battle, but they were survivors.

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
Garrett returned to Brandon’s house, his mood foul, his temper black. Damn useless police. They couldn’t extract information on a couple of murderous, thieving footpads unless the bastards stood right before them. Even then, Garrett doubted they’d be able to learn the culprits’ names much less pry loose any information they might harbor in connection with the assault on Garrett’s carriage.

With irritable jerks, he began to shrug off his jacket but paused as the absence of the ubiquitous Poole filled him with unease. The old goat guarded Warren’s sanctuary like a tenacious bulldog, so the lapse was curious if not disquieting.

Slipping his coat back on, Garrett followed the sound of low voices to the back drawing room. He paused in the entranceway and observed Poole’s stiff frame half blocking a man whose back was to Garrett and who appeared intent upon helping himself to a glass of brandy.

“Quite right, sir,” Poole’s voice carried to Garrett. “But I worry that Lord Warren might not be returning anytime soon. I understand your necessity in wanting to see him, but he is in the middle of resolving a rather delicate matter. It might be best if—”

Back still turned, the man lifted his hand to wave the butler’s words away.

Garrett grinned at his audacity but lost his amusement when the man spoke.

“Yes, yes, but I’m sure he will make time to see me. I am his father-in-law. I should take precedence over any colleague of Warren’s.”

Garrett crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe in a deceptively casual pose as he regarded his stepfather from across the room. “Still an imperious prig—and brazen, too, helping yourself to Brandon’s best brandy.”

His stepfather lost his grip on the decanter, and the sound of glass clattering onto mahogany answered Garrett.

Poole was quick to intercede, adeptly rescuing the crystal before its descent onto the Oriental rug. For an old coot, he was fast.

Arthur Brown whirled on Garrett, his face sheet white, his golden catlike eyes blazing. “You!” He gasped. “What are
you
doing here?”

“You mean, what am I doing in town? Or what am I doing sober?” His stepfather’s silent glare met Garrett’s query. “What? Isn’t that what had you losing your grip on your drink?”

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if he could draw in the patience he lacked. “I did not say that, nor did I imply that with my question. But leave it to you to interpret the worst.”

“On the contrary, interpreting the worst is your forte. Or is that just in regard to me?”

Arthur snatched the brandy decanter from Poole, turned his back on Garrett, and poured himself a generous glass.

Well versed on when his presence as mediator was effective versus futile, Poole made his departure but not before he arched a brow at Garrett. Bastard or not, Arthur was a guest under Warren’s roof, and Poole expected him to be treated as such. Garrett would have to lay down his sword and do battle another day. Sighing, he envied Arthur’s draining of his drink.

A spasm of loose coughs choked his stepfather, and he removed his handkerchief as he doubled over.

Garrett frowned at the congested cough, noting the grayish tinge to Arthur’s skin and the nasal tone in his voice. There
was a wild look in his eyes that Garrett had never noticed before. He frowned. The man was sick, should be in bed. Another man might mention it, but Arthur had long ago rejected personal overtures from Garrett, not that he could dredge any up. That reservoir was bone empty.

Recovering his composure, Arthur returned his glass to the sterling silver tray, sank into the armchair beside the table, and cleared his throat. “It was a civil question. You have avoided town. Made it clear it held no interest for you, nor has much else captured your interest since your return. It should be little surprise that seeing you here caught me off guard.”

Garrett eyed his stepfather, wondering if he could evict him without Poole’s awareness. Impossible. Pity that, as the man was sick. Garrett didn’t want to catch what he had, let alone have any other exchange with the bastard.

He crossed to the hearth and draped his arm on the mantelpiece, too tense to sit in his stepfather’s presence—or rather to lower himself to the man’s level. “Meaning, I have been a drunken recluse for the past few months.” He held up his hand to cut off Arthur’s interjection. “However, I am sober now. I arrived last week, but you need not worry because I’m leaving today. You won’t have to acknowledge me at any of your clubs or sit across me at a card table.”

“I see. So Poole was being diplomatic in suggesting I not wait for Warren. I should have known he was trying to head off an altercation. Very civil of him.”

“Poole doesn’t like bloodshed.”

“Well, perhaps for Poole’s sake, we can avoid that.”

“We can. Allow me to show you the door.” Garrett strode to the exit, turned, and lifted his arm to gesture Arthur ahead of him. “After you.”

“Still as impertinent as always. But I came here to see Warren to discuss a business matter that has come to my attention. However, considering it involves you, perhaps I should go right to the source.”

Garrett dropped his arm and warily eyed his stepfather.

“Certain rumors have come to my attention.”

“I see.” Garrett nodded. “No, I didn’t sleep with Lady Beaumont, ruin the virginal Miss Peoples, or proposition the Dunford twins, either separately or together. Yes, I relieved both
Lord Bradbury and Viscount Morrell of over a hundred pounds each, but I gave them fair warning that I held the better hand.” He shrugged. “Of course, they were too drunk to listen to reason. Unfortunately for them, I was sober, which is the real news. Now, shall I show you out or give Poole the honor? I wouldn’t—”

“The talk concerned a business venture,” Arthur’s voice rose. “Regarding your pursuit into the manufacturing of ale on one of your properties.”

Garrett didn’t respond.

“Well?” Arthur snapped. “Is it true?” He lifted his handkerchief and irritably swiped it across his sweat-drenched brow.

Garrett pursed his lips. The man should be bedridden, rather than delivering lectures that Garrett had long outgrown. He really was a brazen ass. Pity that he was his half sister’s father. However, if arrogance killed the man, it would save Garrett the trouble—and Kit’s anger. He shook his head. “No.”

“No, you’re not manufacturing ale, or no, you’re not venturing into trade?”

“No and yes.”

“For God’s sake, man, give me a straight answer. You are a peer of the realm. You cannot venture into trade and be accepted at court. More important, you cannot tarnish the Kendall name and title with whatever sordid business machinations you are dredging up when deep in your cups.”

Garrett clenched his teeth but bit off his rebuttal.

Arthur rose and began to pace the room, gesturing with his hand. “Kendall Ale,” he sneered. “It’s scandalous! Particularly as your presence here to discuss a ‘delicate matter’ with Warren, as Poole phrased it, tells me that you’re dragging him down with you. Well, I won’t have you bringing a stain to the whole family. Think of your nephews. You could lose everything. Think of Beau and Will.”

“Maybe I am. Should I make a success of it, I’ll give the profits to Will.” He shrugged. “Seems only fair, as Beau inherits Warren’s title, Will as the spare heir might need the income.”

Arthur’s eyes nearly bulged from his head, and his mouth opened and closed before he could put voice to his anger. “Stop being an ass and answer me straight, man!”

Garrett straightened to his full height and peered down at his stepfather, his words cold. “You forget yourself. I no longer answer to any man but myself.”

“That’s right, and how has that been going? Holing yourself up in one of your country estates, drinking yourself into a stupor, entertaining who knows how many lightskirts and doing God knows—”

“You go too far.” Garrett’s voice did not raise, but the arctic dip to it gave Arthur pause. “I suggest you stop, as Poole wouldn’t like your blood soiling the Oriental.”

Arthur clamped his mouth shut, his cheeks vibrating with the force of it. He studied Garrett and then sighed. “I waste my time speaking to you. I came to see Warren. You don’t perchance know when he is due to return?”

Garrett crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “No.”

Arthur nodded, and refolding his now balled-up handkerchief, he returned it to his jacket pocket and crossed to the door. “I will return another day.”

“You do that. My current
lightskirt
and I will be gone, so you can harangue Warren in peace.” He couldn’t resist goading Arthur. It provided the only pleasure in his relationship with the man.

Arthur paused. After a beat, Garrett heard him mutter under his breath. “You’ll never change. God help us.”

Garrett had no doubt Arthur meant for him to hear the indictment, for his stepfather always liked to deliver the parting salvo. For once, Garrett agreed with him, sharing the opinion in regard to his stepfather. Once a bastard, always a bastard.

Garrett waited until the front door closed before leaving the drawing room. With his stepfather’s departure, the tension coiling through him loosened, and he quickened his pace to escape up the back staircase before Poole could waylay him. He’d had enough lectures for the day.

He dismissed Arthur as he had learned to do throughout the years. He had also spoken the truth about his imminent departure, or rather the partial truth. He didn’t have a mistress waiting, but he and Miss Daniels were leaving.

Garrett’s lips curved as he pictured her reaction to his
calling her his current lightskirt.
I won’t be your mistress
. She’d probably take up the sword Arthur had just laid down and skewer Garrett through. He didn’t understand why the thought improved his mood, lightened his steps, and made him smile, but it did.

All the more reason to keep her near.