Kindred Hearts (40 page)

Tristan laughed. “If I did not, I know now.
Pace
, Lady P. I need not be brought immediately up to date on all the activities of the good residents of Brussels. I’m not leaving for at least a fortnight.”

“Oh, good. There will be quite a lot of enjoyable activities, now that the weather has improved. Lady Alvanley is in town, with Kitty and Fanny; I am sure they will be hosting something, and I will be certain to get you a ticket to that. And the Richmonds, of course, and oh, a dozen other people!”

Tristan gave the crowded drawing room a quick glance and said dryly, “Yes, just a dozen or so.”

She laughed and thumped his arm with her fan. “Oh, hush,” she said. “May I say, Mr. Northwood, how
good
it is to see you smiling again! You seem quite your old self. Charlotte told me that you were quite ill this winter, but you seem quite recovered! I must tell you that I have been worried over the last year; the last time I saw you, you seemed not at all your usual gay self.” She smiled delightedly up at him. “But I see the old Tristan Northwood again.”

“Thank you for your concern,” he said soberly, but smiling with his eyes down at her. “Now, much as I have enjoyed getting caught up on the entertainment awaiting me here, I did really come to see my brother-in-law, and was told he would be here. I sent him a message at his quarters, but have not heard from him yet.”

“Oh, the Duke has him running about,” Lady Passingwell said. “He is here, somewhere. He came with the Duke an hour since. Let’s go find him.” She patted his arm and steered him off into the crowd.

Hunger
abated by a roast beef sandwich and a tankard of ale shared with Randall in the warmth of the busy kitchen, Charles checked back with His Grace and when told to “go off and enjoy” himself, wandered out of the overheated drawing room and onto the terrace. He took a cheroot from the breast pocket of his uniform coat, lit it at one of the flambeaux illuminating the terrace and gardens below, and leaned on the balustrade, gazing sightlessly out over the quiet scene and smoking. Behind him a quartet began playing a sprightly Bach piece, and he listened to the music absently.

He was tired. Not just from the sixty-mile round trip out to Blucher’s headquarters; he’d done longer rides in less time under more stressful conditions in the Peninsula. But the endless rounds of meetings and reviews and messages back and forth along the long line of Wellington’s troop spread from here to Ostend, followed by the intense social demands of his position and then, finally, at the end of a very long day, a late retiring to a cold, empty bed and the promise of an early rising—all these were wearing on him.

He hadn’t expected to be back at this. A year ago he’d made up his mind that the military no longer needed him, and that he no longer needed them, that he was ready for a peaceful life spent helping others instead of figuring out how to kill them. Three months ago he thought he’d found what he wanted: days at the hospital, nights in Tristan’s arms. And then it was all taken away from him and he was forced back into the life he’d happily given up.

Temporarily
, he reminded himself savagely.
Temporarily
. Soon this would all be over, Bonaparte back on Elba or wherever they’d decided to put him—some of the men at the Congress had been agitating for a safer spot even before the disastrous escape, someplace like the barren volcanic island of St. Helena in the middle of the Atlantic, or the South Seas somewhere—and he’d be able to finally sell out and settle down.

Always before, in moments like this, he’d just assumed there would be an afterward. That he’d come through unscathed—or very minorly scathed, he thought wryly, thinking of a few of the scars he’d acquired—and ready to move on to the next challenge, the next adventure. So why was it that this time he wasn’t so sure? No, more than that. This time he was
afraid
. Was it because he’d got out of the habit of thinking of himself as a soldier? Was it the hours he’d spent in the hospital, sometimes doing nothing more for some poor patient than trying to make him comfortable? He’d seen death aplenty before, had dished it out, had held the hand of some comrade until the eyes had glazed over, had picked up pieces of men who’d been standing beside him only minutes before. He’d always known intellectually that it could easily have been him, but it wasn’t until now that he felt it in his gut. He could be hurt. He could
die
. And leave Tristan alone again.

He dragged in a deep mouthful of cigar smoke and let it out in a slow steady stream. Tris had been such a mess when he’d left. Charlotte had reassured him in her regular letters that he’d recovered quickly afterward, was still pursuing his surgical studies, and had in fact seemed more like his old self, only less brittle. Happier, she’d said. Missing Charles, of course, but happier with himself and full of plans for when Charles came home. He’d even begun a tentative relationship with Baron Ware. Charlotte had said they were like two dogs sniffing around each other, but still, it was more than it was before. Charles was glad of that. Perhaps if he didn’t return, Tris would be all right, with the support of his wife and his father.

It was odd, thinking of Tris like this. His presence was so strong in Charles’s mind that he almost felt that his lover was present, was a shadow at his back….

“Charlie?”

He jumped and spun around in shock, the cheroot falling from his fingers. Tristan grinned uncertainly and bent and picked up the cigar, holding it out to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Charles took the cheroot unthinkingly and said in disbelief, “Tris? What the devil are you doing here?”

The grin faded. “You sent the name of that businessman, Bellocq, to Charlotte. She arranged it.” Tristan cocked his head and said quietly, “You aren’t pleased to see me?”

“Oh, God, Tris!” Charles wrapped his arms around him and squeezed. “Not pleased? The devil I’m not! I just didn’t expect you for weeks yet! Is Charlotte all right?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have left her if she weren’t. I took her down to the country more than a week ago. She and your new niece and Jamie are fine.”

Charles released him and held him at arms’ length, studying him critically. “You look well.” He glanced over Tristan’s shoulder at the brightly lit French windows and let his hand slide down Tristan’s arm, brushing his fingers gently before letting go. “When did you arrive?”

“A few hours ago. I sent a message to your billet but didn’t get an answer. Your landlord said you’d left earlier.”

“Rode to Namur on the Duke’s business,” Charles said. “Got back this evening and came nearly straight here. Haven’t been back to my rooms yet today. God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Come on.” He cocked his head in the direction of the end of the terrace, away from the lights and the windows. “I need a proper greeting.”

The light in Tristan’s face was nearly enough to illuminate the darkest shadows in the garden. He followed Charles down the terrace to the end, and when they were safe in the dark, Charles drew him into his arms, finding his mouth with his own. Tristan’s lips were warm and soft and welcoming; Charles groaned in relief and suppressed hunger. He felt Tristan’s hands in his hair, digging in to hold him; he slid his own arms down around his lover’s hips, pulling him in hard against him, feeling Tristan’s desire against his own. Half-laughing, half-groaning, he pulled away, clutching Tristan’s waist and holding him apart. “God, Tris,” he gasped, “this had better not be a dream. Where are you staying?”

“Number 4, rue de Valois,” Tris said. “Do you know it?”

“No. I’ve had a little time to explore the city outside the immediate area around headquarters, but not the residential areas. Mostly scouting out entertainment opportunities for Wellington and his coterie.”

“Not a problem.” Tristan drew out his card case and a pencil. On the back of one of his cards, he wrote the address, then a rough map. “Here’s the rue du Marais, here’s Richmond’s, here’s rue de Valois. Not difficult.” He tucked it into Charles’s inside breast pocket. “Keep it with you always.”

“Sentimentalist,” Charles jeered, but he patted Tristan’s hand where it lay on the coat, then reached up to cup Tristan’s cheek. “Damn,” he breathed, “you’re here. I’ve been dreaming of you, you know.”

“Which part of me?” Tristan teased, rubbing his fingers over the lacings of Charles’s coat.

Charles groaned. “God. Your mouth. Your hands. Your bloody beautiful arse.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing Tristan’s ear. “Your stiff prick,” he whispered, and licked the whorl of his ear, laughing softly as Tris shuddered in his arms. Then he drew back and regarded Tris soberly. “Your laughter. Your eyes. Your voice. The way you think, the way you talk, the words you use, the smile you give me just before you drop off to sleep…. God, Tristan, there isn’t anything about you I don’t miss, including the way that you look when you’re quashing some mushroom: the sardonic eyebrow, the sneering lip. The insufferable drawl.”

“Ballocks,” Tristan said, embarrassed. “I don’t drawl.”

“You do. You’ve got the role of the disdainful aristocrat down. I see that and all I can think is that worldly, bored aristocrat is
mine
, and I can wipe that disdain from his face with a touch.”

“You can,” Tristan whispered. “Will you come to me tonight?”

Charles sighed and shook his head. “I doubt it. I’m in His Grace’s train tonight and there are a few more stops on his progress. He won’t bed down ’til four, if I know him, and we’ve a meeting with the Prince of Orange and some of his less-than-happy Belgian subjects at eight. We’re trying to stave off a repeat of the disaster with the Saxons under Blucher.”

“What disaster?”

“Mutiny,” Charles said grimly, releasing Tristan. “The Saxon king was a satellite of Napoleon, and the Congress divided the country between Prussia and Russia. What a mess. There were almost fourteen thousand Saxon troops conscripted for this campaign, and a fortnight ago a handful of them nearly murdered Blucher in his bed. He had to execute a couple of them, and he hates having to do things like that. The old bastard has a temper like the devil and hates the French with a passion, but he loves his men like children. But there’s no way we can trust the Saxon contingent now, despite the fact that the vast majority of them are loyal to Blucher—or at least to their officers. It doesn’t make anyone happy, but it looks like we’re sending them all home. The meeting tomorrow’s to discuss that and how we can keep it from happening with the Belgians—there’s a strong pro-French faction here as well; a good percentage of the Belgian-Dutch contingent cut their teeth as French troops. And most of them are under the Prince of Orange—who is less than fond of his father’s new subjects, let alone the French.” He shook his head. “They don’t like him. He’s a decent enough lad, though a bit too… enthusiastic. Eager to prove his worth, and too damned inexperienced to boot.” He took a draw on his almost-forgotten cheroot and blew the smoke out impatiently. “Half of our troops are inexperienced, half of them pro-Bonaparte, and would to God they were the same half—we could tuck them in an out-of-the-way spot and ignore them. But the problem is that the pro-Bonaparte half are some of the best soldiers in the corps. Say what you will about the French—their system of advancement beats the British advancement-by-purchase method, hands down, when it comes to turning out decent officers.”

“Careful,” Tristan murmured, “that sounds almost treasonous.”

Charles let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Add it to the list of things that can hang me,” he said bitterly.

He looked up to see Tristan’s face. “Ah, God,” he groaned. “I didn’t mean to say all that to you, Tris. I should have just kept my mouth shut and been happy you’re here. But I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about this and it’s driving me mad.”

“And you’re exhausted, and you don’t want to be here any more than I want you to be,” Tristan said.

“That’s true enough. Well. Let me take you to His Grace. He’ll like you—he’s a snob, and you’re wellborn. I warn you, though, he’s even better than you with the disdainful expression. I think it’s the nose. Come on, then.” He stubbed his cigar out on the balustrade and dropped the end into a nearby flowerpot. “Let’s find him before he decides to move on to his next event without telling me.”