Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (47 page)

Ty gave himself a congratulatory
smile, tucking his walking stick beneath his arm to rap on the door. It sounded
to him like the sort of thing a good friend would do.

And when it came to Matthew, Ty
considered himself the very
best
of friends.

*          *          *

If Ty had knocked, Matthew hadn't
heard it, which did not surprise him. He'd grown adept over the last week at
hearing little beyond his butler replacing dirty glasses with clean ones. The
hall clock's chime was an indistinct murmur, and he did not hear when guests
called because Pendley knew better than to tell him. Liquor came up from the
cellar and food did not, all of which suited him perfectly.

Ty slipped into the study with the
deftness of a paper under the door. He glanced around the dim study like prey,
seeming to object more to the drawn curtains than the general mess. “How long
have you been in here? Not since I last saw you...”

“Since waking.” The admission lay
thick on his lips, the syllables bending uncomfortably. Matthew barely stopped
his gin-soaked brain from sharing that he had woken
in
the study. On the
floor, if one cared to know.

Commandeering a chair from under the
window, Ty brought it alongside the desk. Matthew used the toe of his boot to
scoot the white porcelain bottle of MacKinlay's across the mahogany, its
unglazed base stuttering, digging for traction as though it had been abused
enough and could bear no more.

Ty shook his head. “Don't worry. I
won't tip the bottle and risk dislodging you from the bottom. How much have you
put down today?”

“By God,” he drawled, “It's as
though my mother's here. More than a monk and less than West-Indies deck hand.
Satisfied?”

Making a show of checking his watch,
Ty nodded slowly. “Satisfied with your stamina, but pace yourself. It's only
now past three.”

He laughed, immediately hating the
sound and that it had come unbidden. Snatching back the scotch, he did not
bother a rendezvous with his cup, bringing it straight to his lips. Burn and
smoke filled his nostrils and lungs, threatening to choke him should he fill
his mouth any further. He swallowed, grimacing, and smacked the bottle to the
desk harder than he'd meant. “Why have you come?” He knew why, and Ty knew why,
but he wanted to know if Ty would tell the truth, or if they would make a game
of it as they often did.

“Not for the reason you imagine, as
a matter of fact. I passed the door of White's on my way to Jermyn street and
was seduced by a most heated exchange. Never would have stopped or taken notice
if the noise weren't so uncharacteristic for a group of Hazard-playing clothes
hangers.”

“And what is the
on dit
?” He pretended
to care for Ty's sake.

Ty fiddled with the neat stitching
at his cuff. “Mercier Pitt means to call you out, this very moment. Says you
failed to defend Caroline's honor against claims of her adultery with Sir
Perry. He'd worked up quite the crowd when I left.”

His mind could not have wrapped
around it were he sober. “How can she be unfaithful with Sir Perry when she
never leaves Pitt? Why is no one fighting anything in
my
honor?”

As if conjured, commotion out in the
hall robbed him of any answer. He counted hammering steps from the entry to the
study, still surprised when the door flew open. Mercier Pitt filled the
doorway, a fashion plate from a gentleman's magazine come to life. He was newly
accessorized with a curling black mustache that would have been impressive on a
six-foot Prussian grenadier, but was merely ridiculous on a British prig half a
foot shorter. He raked a boot at the threshold, nostrils flaring and ready to
charge the moment he saw red.

Matthew put his foot down and sat
forward, waving off his poor butler who fretted behind Pitt. There was no hope
of shooing him away. Pendley's retreat made the major bold enough to take
strides into the room. Ty shot up from his chair, but Matthew held up a hand
for him to stay put, pondering the sudden concern for his well-being from all
sides.

Pitt threw his gloves to the floor
in a move calculated for drama. Matthew felt his patience slip before Pitt
spoke a single word. “By God, Webb, I'll have satisfaction! If you believe for
a moment that I do not know it's you who's falsely –”

He didn't remember coming off the
chair, but it tumbled over somewhere behind him.

The human fist connecting with the
jaw was painful. Matthew had no idea why that always surprised him.

Pitt skidded over the rug and clutched
his face, retching, launching a bloody gob of spit onto the marble. Matthew was
on top of him, grabbing a fistful of collar to raise Pitt a little off the
floor. When they were eye to eye, he leaned in. “As you were, Major Burrell.”
Ty froze halfway around the desk, knowing from Matthew's tone not to interfere.

His own breath reflected back was
staggering with fumes, causing Pitt's face to turn away as he spoke. “My aim
with a pistol is equal to that of my fist. Will it be dawn at the Fields, or
no?”

Silence
.

Fed by liquor, fury kindled in his
chest. Burning knuckles hungered to pummel the man's face until neither of them
had feeling left. Instead, he exhaled and wrung some slack from the major's
cravat. “The Fields...or no?”

Lips trembling, Pitt rattled his
head furiously, slinging crimson spittle onto his white linen shirtfront.
Disgusted, Matthew dropped him and stood up. Rage drained away enough to leave
him feeling very old, very tired, and
very
drunk.

Pitt twisted away, scrambling back
and onto his feet, brushing at his coat. “Caroline has asked me to say –”

“Who?” Matthew raised his fist just
a fraction.

“Car...Caroline?”

Pitt's heavy swallowing disgusted
him. He cupped an ear, leaning in fast enough that the man flinched. “
Who
?”

“Lady Webb...?”

Matthew nodded, smirking. “Better.”

Pitt did not dare meet his eyes. “
Lady
Webb
has agreed to divorce terms. For... for two-thousand pounds
settlement.”

“Hah!” He laughed, doubling up when
he caught sight of Ty's stricken face. “To keep her pet in a reasonable
fashion? You certainly won't do the job on half-pay. Or have you finally got
the deed done, and no one from here to Paris is going mistake your bastard for
mine?”

Pitt studied his boots and said
nothing.

He turned to his desk, clucking his
tongue at Tyler's wide eyes. “Could have had an earl, had she muddled through a
bit longer.” Matthew snapped the leather bank book open with a crack, startling
Pitt but still not capturing his eyes. Scrawling Caroline's name over the note
without a dram of trust for Mercier Pitt, he waved it out, forcing Pitt in
close to reach for his prize.

Plucking it back from eager fingers,
he raised it high a moment. “Here is
one
thousand, all you and the lady
will wring from me without a brace of pistols. Not because I fear your threats
or her tongue, but out of gratitude at being rid of you both.”

Pitt snatched forward and he raised
the paper again. “And I will
never
see you again. If you spy me on the
street, you had better cross before I catch your face.”

He was satisfied enough with the
man's saucer-eyed nod to part with the bank note. “Come on, then.” Matthew
waved the check. “You had no trouble taking my wife under my roof. My money
should not give you greater pause.”

With enough decency to look ashamed,
Pitt took the paper. He blew through the door like a wisp of smoke, closing it
behind him.

Falling into his chair Matthew
relaxed, letting it cradle limbs shaking from drink and agitation. He watched
Ty produce a handkerchief and press it to the green-glass mouth of a nearly empty
gin bottle. Saturating the cloth, he raked fingers, gesturing at Matthew's
damaged hand. “Let me have it.”

Kate would have done the same,
taking care of him and seeing to his wounds without offering any quarter for
his stupidity. His heart began to ache, his eyes ached. He felt sick, and the
tide of bitterness washed over him again. He winced as Ty dabbed the cloth to
the knuckles of his left hand, and he jerked away. “Do not touch me. In fact,
it is time you left.”

Ty pressed harder, branding his torn
flesh with the liquor. “How completely selfish of you. You are not the only one
who lost her. Or loved her, you unfathomable ass.”

The news was a fist to the gut.
Matthew sat slack-jawed, throbbing left hand all but forgotten. Ty rammed the
handkerchief into his pocket, feeding it in with two angry fingers. His face
was turned down with anguish and tight with rage. “I told you once that any man
who trifled with Kate had to be willing,
able
to give her what she
deserved. Just because I could not, that doesn't mean my feelings for her
ceased to exist.” Ty was furious, as much as he had ever seen.
            “I
asked
you once if we were in competition for her,”
Matthew accused.

“And I told you,
truthfully,
that
we were not. A competition implies we had equal chances.”

“I don't understand.” Suddenly he
regretted the copious amount of spirits he had consumed since waking.

“You were never in any danger from
me. My affections could not have been constant enough for her. Remember, I knew
her before we all landed in Belgium. She was a quick enough study to see my
stripes.” Ty sighed. “Besides, it was plain from the first moment I spotted you
together, you were cast from the same mold.”

“I'm sorry, Tyler.”
In more ways
than one
.

The hall clock interrupted,
bellowing out four long chimes, and Ty stepped back. “I won't overstay myself.”

No longer quite so saturated with
drink, he realized how much of the day still stretched out ahead, and felt
afraid of being alone. Matthew dreaded the maw of loneliness waiting to gobble
him up the second Ty quit the house. “The company is welcome, even if I'm not
much of it myself,” he offered.

Ty shifted from one foot to the
other a little guiltily, eyes pointedly fixed on the floor. “I am engaged to
take Miss Fletcher riding in the park.”

“Olivia Fletcher, Portsmouth's
daughter?” Matthew was curious, despite himself. “She's not your sort.” She was
young, and certainly not a widow.

Ty chewed his lip thoughtfully at
the protest, and when their eyes did meet, his were raw. “I find my tastes have
changed. As well as myself.” He reached into his pocket, and Matthew
anticipated the resurrection of Ty's handkerchief. Instead he produced a long
vellum envelope. “I brought this for you. Do with it as you like, and you'll
have no quarrel from me either way. For my part, I think it will help.”

Ty tossed it to the desk. “You're in
a bad way, Matthew. May as well be miserable there instead of here.”

Matthew let the small parcel sit
until the door closed and he heard the tell-tale clip clop of Ty's horses on
the stones out front. Dragging it close with a finger, he turned it over a few
times, trying to guess the contents before finally unfolding it.

First-class Berth – The Halifax

Bound for New York, United States

Departure July the 29
^th
,
1815

Ridiculous.
Why had Tyler
believed for a moment that a ship's ticket would hold any interest?

He tossed it away, trying not to
look at it. It was too much effort, following Ty's reasoning just then.

It was early in the day, but not too
early, though he usually waited till later. Matthew pulled open the desk's
left-hand drawer, took out his medal case and set it just so in front of him.
He did nothing but steel himself for a moment. It always took some time to
brace for the opening.

When he lifted the lid, it was sweet
and euphoric and miserable. He twisted the length of hair around his finger,
strands drunkenly woven into a narrow braid one night when he could not bear
putting it back away just yet. Her pin was next, the points of the ivy leaf
poking dully at his callous. Three of her letters sat folded beneath, two of
business which he'd barely saved from McKinnon's efficient purge of his camp
correspondence, and one of a more personal nature.

He plucked it from the bottom. The
letter already had insubstantial places along the crease where he had folded
and unfolded it countless times. He first brought it to his nose, her smell on
the paper vibrant enough for him to believe she stood at his shoulder, just out
of sight. She had sent it the morning after they became lovers, while he'd been
away from the garrison on patrol. It was mistakenly the
first
thing he
had read upon finally settling down to work that night, set awkwardly off to
the side by McKinnon who must have realized by the smell that it was not a
hospital inventory.

He would never have admitted it
then, but the note had cast a spell, and he could not for all the world have
resisted when she had appeared in his tent an hour later.

No longer sated with just the
memory, he opened it. He knew the words by heart, but read them again anyway.

We have dared!

Bruised, exhausted but
overflowing – it must be the same for you. Our precious secret must be kept,
but all morning it has felt a little like lighting a house on fire and then
pretending we can hide it from everyone by standing shoulder to shoulder. You
are the one to relieve my torment, and you are too busy saving Europe today to
sooth my fever, or to check my garters as promised.

Until tonight...

-K

Even deep in the well of his grief,
his pulse quickened. Her breath whispered the words hot against his ear,
fingers raking the hair above his collar. Groaning, Matthew planted his
forehead against the desktop, hand raking at the passenger slip against his
will, until he got it half crumpled into his fist.