What a Lady Most Desires (5 page)

 

Chapter 8

“I
n short, major, you have two broken ribs, and your left arm is also broken. I dug three bullets out of you, one in your shoulder, and two in your back. You're fortunate they didn't hit anything vital. I kept the balls in case you'd like to see—­” The surgeon realized what he'd said and trailed off. Stephen imagined the good doctor's face turning scarlet. He kept his own expression flat, remained silent.

“Some soldiers like to
keep
the bullets—­good-­luck charms and such,” the doctor carried on. “You also have the kind of cuts and bruises one would expect after a battle, but in my opinion, if none of the wounds become corrupt, you will live.”

“My eyes?” Stephen asked, his chest tensing as he waited for the verdict. His ribs ached but he ignored the pain for the moment. “Will I see again?”

Stephen heard the sound of the chair creaking as the doctor shifted, puffing out a tobacco-­scented breath. “I don't know. The eyes themselves are not damaged. Perhaps there was a blow to the head during the fighting? Do you remember that?”

“No.”

“Well, it's not important. I've seen a good many soldiers who can't recall the details of battle. It's possible your vision may return. It is also possible it won't. We'll know in time.”

“How much time?”

“That too is impossible to say.” There was a slight edge of impatience in the doctor's tone.

Stephen stared up at the ceiling, or where the ceiling most likely was, since he could not see it, and might never see it again. He frowned at the idea that simply being able to look up and see a plain ceiling would be a joy beyond measure.

He heard the doctor rise, heard the clink of glass, the spill of water. A familiar bitter scent filled the air. “No laudanum,” Stephen said.

“Come now, Major. It will help you sleep, ease the pain,” the doctor said in the kind of singsong tone he might have used to coax a child.

“I don't want it,” Stephen insisted. His sister had dosed herself with laudanum after the terrible tragedy of losing her first husband and her child. She had become dependent on it, and it had very nearly killed her. He was stronger than that, braver. He could face his demons—­even in the dark, and alone.

There was a quick rap at the door. “Come,” the doctor said. Stephen's ears pricked as he listened for his visitor to enter.

He caught the faint hint of perfume, and knew it was Delphine. He recognized the sound of her footsteps now, quick and light. “Good evening, Doctor. How is he?”

“He's refusing to take anything for the pain, my lady. Can I prevail upon you to convince him?” The sweetness in his voice suggested the good doctor had a great fondness for Lady Delphine. He imagined her smiling, charming the man with a bat of her lashes. He felt a flicker of—­what, jealousy, longing?

“I will try, but he has visitors who insist it is most urgent they speak to him.”

“You can speak directly to me since I'm right here,” Stephen snapped. “My ears still work.” He heard the slight inhale of her breath. Was it guilt or anger at his rebuke?

“Of course. I'm sorry. I only came to see if the doctor had finished examining you,” she said patiently. She appeared to have infinite patience. He wished he had not spoken so sharply. “Nicholas Temberlay and Colonel Fairlie are downstairs. Will you see them?”

“Nick?” Nicholas Temberlay was one of his oldest friends. They'd fought together in almost every battle—­save this one—­side by side. He would be overjoyed to see—­
to visit with
—­Nicholas. Bitterness filled him, and he clutched at the sheets like a cantankerous invalid. He didn't want anyone to see him this way. He was not a vain man, but he wondered if he looked presentable for company. He had no idea.

“Was Nick injured?” he asked.

“No, he's well. A few cuts, a bruise or two, but Meg is taking good care of him,” Delphine said lightly.

“Is she here as well?”

“No. In fact, Nicholas seemed quite—­” She paused. “Serious, formal—­even with me, and I've known him since I was a child.”

Stephen felt his chest tighten. Was it bad news, the kind of thing no one but a friend could tell him? Had something happened to his sister, or Julia, perhaps, or was Nicholas expecting to find him at death's door?

“Come in,” he heard Delphine say, heard chairs being drawn up close to the bed.

“Stephen.” Nicholas clasped his hand. He held it a second longer than was necessary. Pity, Stephen read the gesture. He felt his skin flush, was glad he could not see the emotion in Nicholas's eyes.

“Ives,” Fairlie said, not bothering to offer his hand.

Stephen forced a smile. “I trust you're both faring better than I am. Did we win? Is Napoleon vanquished at last?”

“Yes, we won. It's over, all of it, and this time for good,” Fairlie replied.

“Then it wasn't a total waste,” Stephen said lightly, assuming that the colonel's grim tone was because of Stephen's injuries. He wondered again just how bad he looked. He'd never worried whether or not he was handsome, though he knew he was, he supposed. Or at least he had been. If he was scarred or disfigured now it would be better not to see the horror in ­people's eyes when they looked upon him. “And how is Meg?” he asked Nicholas.

“Never mind the social pleasantries for the moment. Temberlay, we'd best come to the point,” Colonel Lord Fairlie said in his distinctive gravel voice. “Delphine, go down and wait with Ellie. This is not for your ears,” he instructed his sister-­in-­law.

She obeyed as smartly as one of Fairlie's soldiers, crossing the room and shutting the door behind her.

Stephen braced himself, mentally standing at attention since he could not do so physically.

“We've received a report,” Nicholas said. “I doubt there's any truth to it, but we must be sure.”

“Do you know a Sergeant named Hallet?” Fairlie asked.

“No. Is he in our regiment?” Stephen replied.

“Yes, and it appears he knows you,” Fairlie said. “At least by sight. He was wounded during the battle, shot in the arm. He made some startling accusations while he was being treated. The surgeon who dug out the ball insisted Hallet write them down. His statement was delivered to me yesterday.”

“And this concerns me in some way?” Stephen asked.

“Sergeant Hallet has accused you of cowardice in battle,” Nicholas said, his tone raw. “He says he saw you turn and run during the charge, abandoning your duty and your men. When he tried to stop you, you fired on him, wounding him.”

Stephen felt shock fill him. “Surely you can't believe this is true?”

“Of course not,” Nicholas said, but Stephen heard something dark in his voice. His gut tightened.

“Do you honestly believe I'd cut and run in battle, Nick? How many fights have we been through together? How many times have I watched your back while you watched mine?”

“I wasn't there this time,” Nicholas said.

“But you believe a stranger, a sergeant I have no recollection of?”

Fairlie cleared his throat. “We must investigate the accusation. In fact, Temberlay has done little else since this letter arrived.”

“Then you know it's a mistake,” Stephen said. He clasped a hand over his bandaged ribs, tried to sit up to face his accusers, but the pain forced him back.

“There's more,” Fairlie said.

“What else could there be?” Stephen asked.

“Additional accusations. Theft. It seems a number of items were found hidden in your quarters, personal items other officers had reported missing,” Fairlie said flatly.

“Theft?” Stephen gasped. Nausea rose, and he heard the crackle of paper.

“There was a watch belonging to Lieutenant Greenfield, and a purse bearing Captain Jamieson's initials, empty, a miniature portrait of a lady in a gold locket, identified as the sweetheart of Lieutenant Lord Moore, and Moore's signet ring, which had been set with a ruby the last time Lord Moore saw it, though the stone is now missing.”

Stephen felt horror numb the pain for a moment. “These men—­my fellow officers—­think that I
stole
from them?”

“I went to see them, Stephen. Moore was gravely wounded. He identified the portrait and the ring as his before he died,” Nicholas said. “The others added to the list of items that had gone missing over the past weeks, though none of those things were found in your quarters. Some wondered if you'd already sold them, or if you had an accomplice.”

Nicholas had been his closest companion in battle, his oldest friend, yet he sounded as if he believed Stephen was guilty. They'd gotten drunk together, rode together, and fought together. Yet now there wasn't a hint of warmth in Nicholas's voice.

“Do you believe this is true?” Stephen asked again. Nicholas didn't reply. The darkness grew suffocating.

“The investigation has brought a number of other things to light. Not precisely accusations, but damning nonetheless, since they speak to your character,” Fairlie said. “Major Lord Harry Capdale spoke out, for example. He is a close friend of Lord Charles Stewart, Lord Castlereagh's brother. He was in Vienna while you were there. D'you remember him?”

“Of course,” Stephen said. Stewart had been in charge of security for the British delegation, though he'd spent more time drinking and causing trouble. Capdale had been his favorite companion in debauchery. Stewart had wanted Julia Leighton, and when he couldn't have her, he'd made trouble for Stephen, since Julia was in his employ as companion to Stephen's sister.

“Capdale said that you had been implicated in the theft of some jewels that belonged to Lady Castlereagh, that you'd routinely gone outside your duties to consort with ladies of loose morals, thieves, and brigands in Vienna. Once the rumors of your alleged crimes here in Brussels came out, Capdale began to spread those tales to anyone who'd listen,” Fairlie said. “It's brought others forward. Your fellow officers describe you as taciturn, unsociable, and furtive.”

Stephen silently cursed Stewart's name, and Capdale's. Stephen had bested Stewart, helped Castlereagh foil a plot by the French to discredit the English. Yes, it had involved the theft of some documents, and it was true that Julia Leighton had been in his employ because her father had disowned her for ruining her reputation with Thomas Merritt, a jewel thief of some renown. But both Julia and Merritt had assisted the Crown out of some very sticky trouble, and Stephen had helped. It had been a secret mission, an
honorable
mission, and even if Stewart knew some of the particulars of the adventure, he was obviously not aware of the entire truth, which remained classified. Stephen could not reveal the details, even now.

“Will there be a court-­martial?” Stephen asked, his jaw tight.

“You aren't denying any of this?” Fairlie asked him. “Even the theft?”

“Of course I'm denying it!”

“Can you defend yourself against the charges?” Fairlie asked.

“Of course I can. Where's Sergeant Hallet? One look at me should convince him he's named the wrong man.”

“I'm still looking for him. The hospitals are full, and many men are recovering in private houses.” Nicholas said. “Some have already been sent on to Antwerp. I've sent someone to inquire there. Are you missing any personal belongings? It might help prove you aren't the thief.”

Stephen frowned. “I hadn't thought to check, and I can hardly do so now. I carry my watch with me. There's a portrait of Dorothea among my belongings, but nothing terribly valuable.”

Nicholas pressed something into Stephen's hand. “Your watch was found in your tunic, along with a purse of coins.”

Stephen clutched the watch tightly, let the metal warm in his palm. “It wasn't looted, after the battle?”

“Eleanor found it in your breast pocket when you arrived here.”

“What else was in my coat?” Stephen asked.

“Nothing,” Nicholas said. “Was there something else?”

A vowel and a flower, but he could hardly describe to Lord Fairlie how his sister-­in-­law had kissed him before the battle and given him a daisy for luck. Those items might have fallen from his tunic, he supposed, and been lost on the field.

“I'm not a coward, or a thief,” he said instead, knowing it sounded weak. He had no evidence. He lay helpless while his name, reputation, and honor—­the things that defined him—­were stripped away. “Will I be given time to recover from my wounds and find proof of my innocence before the court-­martial? Surely someone saw me on the battlefield. Surely when Sergeant Hallet is located, he'll realize he has identified the wrong man.” He struggled to raise himself again, fighting against the pain this time, insisting that his broken body obey him.

Nicholas pressed him back against the pillow. “We'll petition to delay the court-­martial,” he said. “The aftermath of the battle has every officer occupied at the moment.”

“I can give you a few weeks, perhaps longer.” Fairlie said. “I advise you to use the time wisely if you can, Ives. You've always had a sterling reputation, and I would hate to see you lose your commission if there's been a mistake.” Stephen heard him leave the room.

“Nick?” Stephen murmured.

“Still here.”

“Do you believe me?”

Nicholas was silent for a long moment, and Stephen imagined his friend scanning his face, looking for signs of guilt. He kept his expression flat. Nicholas sighed at last, shifted in his chair. “It doesn't make sense. You are the most honorable man I know, but it looks bad. Very bad indeed.”

“What can I do?” Stephen asked, staring into the dark. He couldn't see—­he could not even sit up.

“First we'll find Hallet.”

“We?” Stephen asked.