What a Lady Most Desires (25 page)

 

Chapter 55

S
tephen looked up when Nicholas threw open the door without knocking and strode into his bedchamber, every inch the Devil Stephen remembered from battle, feared by his enemies and a good many friends as well. He braced himself, certain Nicholas was going to haul him up by the collar and slam his fist into his jaw. He waited for the first blow. He wouldn't fight back.

“I understand you can see,” Nicholas said.

Stephen held Nicholas's gaze. “Yes. I wasn't certain it would last. Is Delphine—­”

“Feeling betrayed, angry, hurt? Oh yes. In fact, she's leaving.”

Stephen felt his stomach cave in. He did his best to keep his expression flat, but he wasn't entirely sure Nicholas hadn't seen his dismay. He turned away. “It's for the best.”

“Yes, I can't help but agree. I only wish I'd sent her away weeks ago, before the harm was done.”

Stephen felt his skin heat. “I'll speak to her in the morning, apologize.”

“Let her go, Ives. You've done enough.” It was a command, and Stephen straightened.

“She's been kind to me, from the moment—­” He stopped. From the moment he'd been brought to her door, blind and half dead. She'd been his companion, his friend, his lover. Did Nicholas have the right to keep him from speaking to her, thanking her? “I only want to wish her well,” Stephen muttered. And return her letters. “Do you suppose she'll marry him?”

“Who?” Nicholas asked.

“Durling.” He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth
. The match she'd been hoping for
.

“That's for Delphine to decide.”

“She'll be a viscountess, then a countess,” Stephen said.

“
If
they marry,” Nicholas said, making it sound as if the slight edge of doubt was entirely Stephen's fault.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked Nicholas.

“That would be impossible, I'm afraid. You're in my custody until the court-­martial.”

Stephen stared at him. “I'm your prisoner?” he asked.

“It was either that or a jail cell, old friend. I gave my assurance to Fairlie that I would keep you close.”

Stephen threw his head back and laughed. “All this time, I thought I was a guest. I'm surprised you didn't lock me up at night.”

“I trusted in your honor,” Nicholas replied dryly.

Stephen looked up. “And now? I take all blame for this, of course.”

“All the blame? Oh, no. I know Delphine. She is a most determined lady when she wants something, but she's more innocent than she knows. You, on the other hand understood exactly what you were doing. The Stephen Ives I knew in Spain would never do such a thing, never dally with a lady he wasn't free to marry, lie to her, break her heart.”

No, he would not have. Stephen thought. It was against everything he stood for. He'd never meant to touch Delphine, or kiss her, or make love to her. Once he had, his own heart had been involved, despite all his experience, wisdom, and good sense. He'd ended up acting out of jealousy, desperation, and foolish pride. If things were different, he'd be on the way to see Ainsley now, to offer for her hand. It was ironic that she thought he wanted her to leave. Every stupid thing he'd done had been meant to make her stay. He was a fool.

He could hardly tell Nicholas any of this. “I will apologize,” he said again.

Nicholas shook his head. “It's too late. She's leaving now, today. She doesn't want to see you again.”

Stephen felt the blood drain from his limbs. “Now?” he croaked.

“She wanted to leave at once, so I arranged a coach to take her to Neeland.”

Stephen tried to push past him, and Nicholas caught his arm. “She doesn't want to see you, Ives. Let her go.”

Stephen shook him off. “I can't, not like this. I have to tell her—­”

“That would be crueler than what you've already done. It's over.”

Pain filled Stephen's breast, worse than broken ribs, worse than bullet wounds or blindness. He went into the gallery, needing to walk, to make sense of this, to still his own anger and hurt. He looked out the window.

On the steps below, Delphine was bidding Meg good-­bye. She looked up and her eyes met his. She did not smile. He kept his eyes locked on hers as long as he could, pleading mutely for forgiveness.

But the door of the vehicle opened, and he watched as she got in, turned her eyes to the road ahead, and drove out of his life.

 

Chapter 56

P
eter Durling stood in his bedchamber at his father's elegant London town house, packing to go to Lord Ainsley's house party. He was broke again—­in debt, actually, for a rather large amount. Fortune had not been kind to him at the tables of late. He'd been forced to send his valet out to pawn a few bits and pieces to provide enough cash to ensure he was well dressed at Neeland, since his tailor had stopped extending him credit, and he could hardly ask his father for more. He'd received his quarterly allowance, plus a generous extra amount to fund his search for a bride, all of which had been spent in a fortnight.

His luck was about to change. He could imagine the look on his father's face when he rolled up at the door with Lady Delphine St. James in tow, his affianced bride.

He took a ring box out of his dresser drawer and ran his thumb over the flawless ruby that graced the family betrothal ring, so like a drop of blood—­a very large drop, indeed. He was tempted to sell it. It would fetch a fortune, and with that kind of blunt, he could easily win the money back, and replace the ring. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, and shut the box before temptation got the better of him.

He needed a rich wife with a huge dowry. While he didn't care what she looked like, it didn't hurt that Delphine St. James was a beauty. A trifle outspoken for his taste, perhaps, but he'd curb that quick enough once they were married. Her fortune would fix everything, and wipe the look of disdain off his father's face.

He tossed the ring box into the trunk, where it landed on his military tunic. The pristine glow of the scarlet wool rivaled the ruby. He intended to wear his uniform at the formal ball at Neeland, to impress Ainsley and dazzle Delphine. She'd been in Brussels, would know a hero when she saw one. He rubbed his mouth again, a nervous habit he'd picked up, along with nightmares, after his visit to the battlefield in search of Ives.

Whenever he thought of Waterloo, he remembered Ives's battered body, how his eyes had opened to stare up at Peter as he throttled him. Peter's skin crawled even now, and he crossed to splash brandy into a glass.

Apparently Ives had survived after all. God knew how—­he'd been all but a corpse on the battlefield. Peter's hands squeezed the glass. If he'd only had another moment . . . then he grinned. He'd settled the matter. Peter had the vowel, and it hadn't taken long to discredit the major, in case he was still intending to press charges against him. He'd put a few trinkets into Ives's quarters where they were sure to be found once the rumors he started began to spread. Ives kept to himself, and that made his fellow officers suspicious. They were willing to believe anything, to embellish the tales, even. A dozen men had given damning statements, though he himself had refrained when asked. He had some honor.

The letter from Sergeant Hallet, delivered to Fairlie, had capped it. Ives had been arrested and removed from Brussels to await trial. There was no way Ives could refute so many claims against him, or point a finger at Peter and be believed. Peter was quite proud of himself. And now, he was about to win the hand of Delphine St. James, and the good major would not be able to whisk her away this time, the way he'd done at the duchess's ball.

Peter wasn't sure where Ives was now. Rotting in prison, he hoped, awaiting trial. The bastard probably wished now that he'd done the decent thing and died.

He looked down into his trunk, at the souvenirs he'd collected in Brussels. There was a locket with a portrait of a lady inside—­he recalled Jamieson showing off the little painting, daring to boast of his fiancée's beauty and fortune. There was a silver flask, beautifully engraved with someone else's crest—­he couldn't quite recall whose. There were other things as well, taken and forgotten, or sold when the need arose.

He heard the door open and his valet returned with a disappointingly small pouch of coin. He slammed the lid of the trunk and took the purse.

“Finish packing,” he ordered. “Don't forget my evening clothes.”

He must win Delphine's hand. He was handsome and witty. He knew how to please a woman, and with Sebastian whispering in her other ear, telling her all about Peter's fine points, she was as good as his already.

He'd already won over the chit's mother. With nothing more than a few flowery compliments, a besotted expression, and a stolen kiss or two, he would have Delphine and her dowry in hand. He paused in front of the mirror and practiced the sexy pout women adored. He tossed the purse into the air, caught it deftly, and smiled. His luck was about to change.

 

Chapter 57

D
elphine looked back across the lake at her father's grand and elegant home. Neeland's golden stone glowed against the green hills that lined the horizon.

“Only the second week of September, and already there's a chill in the air. It won't be long until the leaves fall,” Eleanor said, wrapping her shawl tighter. Her three children tumbled across the wide lawn, chasing a ball.

Eleanor was due to depart tomorrow, before the party guests began to arrive. “Will Fairlie be home soon?” Delphine asked.

“He's expected back in London in time for Major Ives's court-­martial in a few weeks. I've missed him.”

“Is he—­does he think—­” Delphine swallowed. “Does Fairlie think Stephen—­Major Ives—­is guilty?”

Eleanor studied her sister for a moment, and Delphine felt her cheeks heat under her assessment. “I understand Major Ives was at Temberlay, in Nicholas's custody. I suppose you must have seen him there,” Eleanor said.

Delphine's heart lurched. “Custody? He was a prisoner?”

“Of course. He's facing serious charges, Dilly. He couldn't be allowed to wander free. It's only because of Temberlay that he wasn't put under full arrest. Nicholas offered assurances.”

“It wasn't necessary, Ellie. You saw how badly injured he was, and he was blind. I doubt he could have escaped,” Delphine said. “Nor do I think he would have. He intends to prove his innocence.”

Eleanor looked sympathetic. “Poor man. I know you fancied him. He is—­was—­a handsome man, dashing enough, with a brilliant career, but I always found him rather quiet, and Fairlie says it's the quiet ones who are—­”

“Is,” Delphine interrupted. “He is still all those things.”

“I hope you haven't been foolish enough to form an attachment to him.” Eleanor sniffed. “Nothing can ever come of it. Fairlie is almost certain he'll be convicted.”

Delphine steeled herself. “What will his punishment be?”

“Disgrace, at the very least, I expect.” She made it sound as if Stephen deserved it.

“How will he live?” Delphine said.

Eleanor shrugged. “What does it matter? I assume he'll retire to an obscure corner of the country or take ship for America, or whatever it is that outcasts do.”

“But he's innocent, Ellie!”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He never said one way or the other,” Delphine said.

“At least he is honorable enough not to protest his innocence when he was caught red-­handed, and was seen running away.”

Anger blazed. “I can't believe you would say such a thing, Ellie! You saw his wounds—­did those look like the injuries of a coward?”

Eleanor remained unmoved. “I am not the judge in this case. There is a signed statement from a sergeant who saw him leaving the field, abandoning his command. No one has disputed it. If he was a good officer, would not someone step forward on his behalf?” Eleanor paused. She stopped talking and looked at Delphine. “Oh, Dilly, you've gone as white as linen. You have lost your heart to him, haven't you? This is a
man
, not a stray kitten.”

Delphine felt tears sting her eyes.

Eleanor pushed her handkerchief into Delphine's hand. “Mother wrote me that she's invited a whole flock of handsome men to the house party for you.”

Delphine shook her head. “I don't want to meet them. I don't think I want to marry at all.”

“Mother won't be pleased to hear that, and I agree with her. You're too young and beautiful to consider such a choice yet.”

Delphine didn't reply, and Eleanor took her arm and began to walk toward the children. “You were always the stubborn one. I should not promise, but you are my sister. If I tell you what evidence has been gathered, what solid proof there is of his guilt, will that help heal your heart, let you forget him, and go on to love someone more worthy of you?”

Would
she
change her mind? She loved him still, but their affair—­and that was all it had been—­had come to an end. She would never see him again.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want to know.”

 

Chapter 58

W
hen Meg's mother arrived at Temberlay Castle for an extended visit, Nicholas took his prisoner to London to wait out the last days before the court-­martial.

Stephen gave his word that he would not attempt to escape, and was housed at Hartley House, Nicholas's London home. Still, now that he knew he was a prisoner, even the most luxurious confinement chafed, and Stephen found himself pacing the floors, counting the steps it took to reach the library, or the salon, or the back garden, the way he'd done when he was blind.

He saw Delphine everywhere. He was sure if he turned his head, she'd be standing behind him, or coming in from the garden, her arms laden with the last fall roses. He saw her in the shadows in the morning room, the library, and his bedchamber. He woke with her name on his lips, her face in his mind. He read the newspaper alone, and wondered what she might say about the latest news. He searched the library shelves for books she might have found interesting. He caught glimpses of ladies in open carriages as they drove past the house, and his heart jumped, certain it must be Delphine behind the feathers of a fashionable bonnet.

But she was at Neeland Park, with Durling, and he had other things to worry about.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Rothdale had started the rumors, planted the stolen items in Stephen's room. He'd seen them in the captain's hands—­well, some of them. He clenched his fists as he paced. He could not prove that Rothdale had removed the vowel from his pocket. It would have been after the battle, on the field. Had the man truly been so desperate?

Perhaps the truth was that he had Rothdale to thank for his survival, and he'd been the one to carry Stephen off the field. He wished he could remember, but after he'd fallen, there was nothing until he'd woken to the sound of Delphine's voice. His stomach tensed again at the thought of her, and he pushed away remorse and loss.

He tried to remember if he'd even seen Rothdale during the battle. He had not, of course, seen anything at all after the fighting was over, but surely if the captain had come to the villa and searched Stephen's tunic, someone would have noticed.

He told Nicholas about the vowel.

“Have you any proof?” Temberlay had asked him.

“Of course not. The vowel's gone. But I intended to have charges brought against him, Nick. I told him that before we left to join the regiment.”

Nicholas shifted uncomfortably. “Did anyone overhear the conversation, or see Rothdale with you?”

“We were the only ones there. I showed him the vowel, taunted him with it, put it in my pocket,” Stephen insisted. “He had a flask that belonged to someone else, told me the officer owed him money, gave him permission to collect it on his way out.”

“What's so odd about that?” Nicholas asked.

“Rothdale owed everyone else money, but no one owed him anything.”

“As far as you know.” Nicholas sighed. “Look, there are a million ways your vowel could have been lost—­Eleanor might have dropped it when she checked your tunic, or it might have fallen out during the battle.”

Stephen had felt his spine turn to lead. “Can we at least question Rothdale?” he asked. “Have him account for himself?”

“What would you accuse him of? Accosting a lady at a ball? A lady you later—­” He broke off. “He left when you asked Delphine to dance, and that is the only interaction between you and Rothdale that was likely to have been witnessed. You're clutching at straws. Accusing someone else won't make the charges against you go away. In fact, I'd say it would detract from any credibility you have left.”

Nicholas got to his feet, and Stephen felt frustration like a burning ball in his gut.

“I'm going to Horse Guards to see if there's any word on Hallet. The statements made by your fellow officers are on my desk. You're free to read them, to look for something we can use, but if you've got no proof against Rothdale, drop it.”

Stephen had watched his only remaining friend walk away. Stephen's word, his honor, was no longer good enough, even for Nicholas.

He began to wonder if he was imagining things. Was Rothdale—­the rake, the cheat, the bully—­really that clever? It seemed impossible. But if he knew where to find Peter Rothdale now, he'd slap a glove in his face, and shoot the bastard.

S
tephen put down the final document—­yet another signed statement from a lieutenant he barely knew—­and rubbed his eyes. The statements from other men sat at his elbow, in an intimidatingly thick pile. Everyone he'd ever met, it seemed, was certain he was either a coward, a thief, or both.

Men in his regiment had been questioned, fellow officers he'd known and fought with for years, drank with, and gambled with, were now remembering slights and comments he didn't recall, innocent things that suddenly seemed sinister.

The case against him appeared to be gossip and rumor for the most part, but there were no outright lies, which he had hoped to find. It appeared that any man alive, no matter how honorable, could be made to look guilty of heinous crimes.

He rifled through the stack of paper until he found Hallet's letter. It was addressed to Colonel Fairlie, and written by a surgeon who signed it as both scribe and witness. Sergeant Hallet had also added his own signature in an indignant scrawl. His anger was justified, of course. If the bullet in Hallet's arm had gone an inch to the left, he might have lost his arm, or even his life. Such cowardice should not go unpunished, the letter concluded. Stephen agreed, but he was not the officer the sergeant was so certain that he had seen.

The battle had been chaos. Stephen had been focused on the charge. He didn't even remember who was riding by his side, though he'd probably known most of those men since Spain. He recalled the belch of fire from the guns ahead of him, the power of the horse beneath him, the sting of the first bullet, and then nothing.

What if he
had
ridden off the field, his mind affected somehow? But he wasn't new to battle. He'd been in a dozen or more fights before Waterloo, and nothing of that kind had ever happened before.

He was damned sure he had not stolen from his fellow officers, especially when he looked at the list of purloined goods—­lockets and purses and keepsakes, for the most part. It was petty, pointless, and childish, and he could only think of one man who would behave that way.

“Rothdale,” he growled through clenched teeth. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that somehow the captain was part of all this.

But Stephen was under arrest, a prisoner. There was nothing he could do. Or was there? He had to see Rothdale, face to face, eye to eye, and read the truth for himself.