Книга - Wicked Wager

Wicked Wager
Julia Justiss


She is the one woman who can reform his wicked ways…Lord Anthony Nelthorpe has committed many sins – including his attempt to seduce well-bred Jenna Montague Fairchild. But now Anthony’s injuries from the Waterloo battlefield are being nursed by the very woman he wronged…Though he’s the last man on earth Jenna wants to see, Anthony shocks the wealthy young widow out of her frightening apathy. Since Jenna has saved his rascal skin, does she not owe it to society to make a better man of him?Now Jenna is to reform him by Christmas, the season of miracles, while Anthony must figure out how to win this wager without wanting her all over again…









Praise for Julia Justiss


A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH

‘Justiss captures the true essence of the Regency period in this sweet, gentle romance. The characters come to life with all the proper mannerisms and dialogue as they waltz around each other in a “most unconventional” courtship.’

—RT Book Reviews

ROGUE’S LADY

‘With characters you care about, clever banter, a roguish hero and a captivating heroine, Justiss has written a charming and sensual love story.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE UNTAMED HEIRESS

‘Justiss rivals Georgette Heyer…by creating a riveting young woman of character and good humour…[The] complexity and depth to this historical romance, and unexpected plot twists and layers also increase the reader’s enjoyment.’

—Booklist

THE COURTESAN

‘With its intelligent, compelling characters, this is a very well-written, emotional and intensely charged read.’

—RT Book Reviews

MY LADY’S HONOUR

‘Julia Justiss has a knack for conveying emotional intensity and longing.’

—All About Romance

MY LADY’S TRUST

‘With this exceptional Regency-era romance, Justiss adds another fine feather to her writing cap.’

—Publishers Weekly


Spurring his horse to a gallop, he reached Jenna before her groom even noticed his mistress had fallen.

Quickly he secured his horse and limped as fast as he could to where she lay, still ominously unmoving.



Jenna moved at last. Eyes still shut, she murmured and nestled against him, as if snuggling into his warmth. Or as if, slowly rousing from sleep, she were seeking her lover.



His body stirred at the thought and, despite his worry, he had to grin. Often as he’d dreamed of having Jenna Montague in his arms again, he’d never envisioned it happening quite like this…




Wicked Wager

Julia Justiss











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first plot ideas for a Nancy Drew novel in the back of her third-grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After such journalistic adventures as publishing poetry and editing an American Embassy newsletter she returned to her first love: writing fiction. Her Regency historical novels have been winners or finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™, RT Book Reviews magazine’s Best First Historical, Golden Quill, National Readers’ Choice and Daphne Du Maurier contests. She lives with her husband, three children and two dogs in rural east Texas, where she also teaches high school French. For current news and contests, please visit her website at www.juliajustiss.com

Novels by the same author:

THE WEDDING GAMBLE

THE PROPER WIFE

MY LADY’S TRUST

MY LADY’S PLEASURE

MY LADY’S HONOUR

A SCANDALOUS PROPOSAL

SEDUCTIVE STRANGER

THE COURTESAN

THE THREE GIFTS (part of A Regency Lords & Ladies Christmas anthology)

THE UNTAMED HEIRESS

ROGUE’S LADY

CHRISTMAS WEDDING WISH (part of Regency Candlelit Christmas anthology)

THE SMUGGLER AND THE SOCIETY BRIDE (part of Silk & Scandal mini-series)

A MOST UNCONVENTIONAL MATCH




Chapter One


AS LORD ANTHONY NELTHORPE, formerly captain in the 1st Royal Dragoons, stepped across the threshold of his London townhouse one foggy fall morning, a giggling, mostly naked woman burst onto the upper landing and fled down the stairs. A balding, half-naked man followed, eyes focused owlishly on his hand clutching the rail as he maneuvered the steps and then lurched off after her.

“So, Carstairs,” Tony remarked to the retainer in threadbare livery who had opened the front portal for him, “I see my father is engaged in his usual pursuits.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man replied, his age-spotted hand trembling as he struggled to close the heavy door. Tony turned to assist him, remembering only at the last minute that this wasn’t the army anymore, where a man in battle helped another man, regardless of rank. Carstairs would be as embarrassed as he was shocked, should his master’s son and heir lower himself to assist the butler.

Curling the fingers he’d extended toward the servant into a fist, Tony turned away. “I expect the earl will be too…preoccupied to receive me this morning. At a more opportune moment, would you tell him I’ve arrived—and have some beef and ale sent to the library now, if you please?”

The butler bowed. “At once. On behalf of the staff, may I say ‘welcome home,’ Master Tony.”

“Thank you, Carstairs.” At his nod, the old man shuffled down the hall in the direction of the servants’ stairs.

Mouth setting in a thin line, Tony watched him retreat, noting the hall carpet was as worn as the butler’s uniform and dirty besides. Shifting his weight painfully, he limped toward the library, noticing as he went the layer of dust that veiled the few pieces of furniture and the ornate arches, which in his youth had sheltered exquisite Chinese vases set on French marquetry tables. Long gone now, of course.

Evidently Tony’s esteemed father, the Earl of Hunsdon, still preferred to squander whatever income could be wrung from his heavily mortgaged estates on liquor and the company of lovelies such as the one who’d recently tripped down the stairs, rather than keep his house in good order.

Welcome home, indeed.

Gritting his teeth, he made himself continue the rest of the way down the hall, sweat popping out on his brow at the effort. The surgeons who’d put the pieces of his shattered knee back together had predicted he’d never walk again. He still wasn’t very good at it, he admitted as he reached the library door and clung to the handle, panting. Thank God riding was easier.

A high-pitched squeal interrupted him, followed by a rapid pad of footsteps. The bawd ran into view, pausing with a shocked “oh, la!” when she spied him.

With matted hair dyed an improbable red that matched the smeared paint upon her lips and nipples, powder caked in the wrinkles of her face and beneath her sagging breasts, she was not an enticing sight, even had he been in better shape to appreciate the appeal of a mostly naked female. But then, with his ugly limp and post-hospital pallor, he was none too appealing himself.

Still, he’d seen his father unclothed, and Tony was twenty-five years younger besides. Not wishing to give the tart an opportunity to change targets, he ducked into the library, slammed the door and limped toward the desk.

With a groan, he collapsed in the chair. Well, Tony, despite the carnage of war, you made it home, he thought. No longer a captain, but once again Viscount Nelthorpe—whoever the hell that is.

Certainly not the self-absorbed, vain aristocrat so confident of his position in the world who’d left this house one drink-hazed night three years ago. Having lost more gaming than he could borrow to repay, he’d staggered home to ask his father for a loan. When that gentleman consigned him to the devil, with the threat of debtor’s prison hanging over him, he’d had little choice but to leave his debts of honor unpaid and flee England, taking with him only the clothes on his back, his horses, and a commission in Wellington’s Fighting Fifth Infantry—won in a card game.

Nothing like privation, terror, hunger and pain to give one a fresh perspective, he observed wryly.

Though he wasn’t sure yet what he was going to do with that hard-won wisdom. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom within the curtain-shrouded room, he noted the library was as dusty and unkempt as the hallway. Lord knows, he thought, puckering his brow in distaste, there was work enough to be done here.

A knock interrupted his reflections, followed by the entry of Carstairs. The butler carried a tray from which emanated such appealing odors that, for the moment, Tony forgot everything except that he’d not eaten since last night. Fool that he was, he’d thought to reach London before nightfall despite the slower pace necessitated by his recovering knee. Darkness having overtaken him on the road, he’d been forced to engage a room for the night and had not had cash enough to pay for his accommodations, dinner and breakfast, too.

Grimacing, Carstairs balanced the tray while he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and hastily wiped clean a spot on the desktop. “Begging your pardon for the conditions, Master Tony, but last winter his lordship let go all the servants but me, Betsy and one parlor maid—a good girl, but she can’t manage all alone. Betsy’s as fine a cook as ever, though, so you needn’t be worrying about your dinner. She sends along her welcome, too.”

As he spoke, Carstairs removed the cover on the dish, sending Tony a drool-inducing waft of beef-scented air. “Tell Betsy that, after what the army ate—or more often, didn’t eat—in the Peninsula, she could give me no finer welcome home than this! As for the estate—I know you have done your best. I mean to do something about…conditions.” Though heaven knew what, as he was nearly as pockets-to-let now as the night he’d run away.

But instead of returning the skeptical lift of brow a Nelthorpe’s promise of improvement should merit, the old man’s face brightened. “We know if anyone can turn it around, you will, Master Tony. After all, you be one of the Heroes of Waterloo!” After giving him a deep bow, as if he deserved the highest respect, the butler left.

Hero? he thought as he gazed after Carstairs with a self-mocking curl of his lip. If you only knew.

But surviving such a battle made one practical as well as philosophic. No sense letting the bleak memories spoil what appeared to be an excellent breakfast and some fine English ale. He’d wait until after he tucked into it to begin pondering his future.

Somehow he hadn’t thought beyond the driving imperative to return home. After years of giving and taking orders in the army, followed by the day-by-day struggle to recover from his wounds, he found it disconcerting rather than relaxing to admit he had no plans whatever.

He must talk with Papa and determine just how grim their financial condition was—though judging from what he’d already seen, that looked to be grim indeed. Given the scene he’d happened upon as he arrived, any such conference would have to wait until this afternoon at the earliest.

With the ease of long practice, he submerged the sense of hurt that, despite having sent a letter informing his sire of his imminent arrival, his father hadn’t bothered to remain sober long enough to personally greet the son he’d not seen in three years. So, what to do next?

He could write to tell Mama that he was back, but as she’d not corresponded with him in all the months he’d been away, he wasn’t sure at which of Papa’s remaining estates the countess currently resided. Probably the one with the handsomest footmen, he thought sardonically.

He’d ride to the park, he decided. The exercise of the knee muscles required for riding was beneficial, the doctors had told him, and paradoxically seemed to ease rather than aggravate the aching, as long as he didn’t keep at it too long. And though this late morning hour was still unfashionably early for anyone in the ton to be about, he might spy an acquaintance with whom to share a drink at White’s—where, he presumed, he was still a member.

His spirits lifted as soon as he’d climbed awkwardly into the saddle. The army must have changed him more than he knew if an excursion into the lingering smoke haze of a chilly London morning had more appeal than remaining in a cozy, if admittedly dusty, library with a snug fire.

Pax, the gray gelding given him by a grateful fellow officer whose life he’d saved at Quatre Bras, was proving an easy, even-gaited mount, though he lacked the spirit most cavalry officers preferred in a mount. But if God had any mercy to spare for the battered carcass of one Anthony Nelthorpe, he thought with a shudder, he’d never again have need of a good cavalry horse.

As he rode down Upper Brook Street toward Hyde Park, a tepid sun began to break through the remaining haze. A happy omen for his return, perhaps.

Then he saw her—a slender lady mounted on a showy chestnut mare. Having watched her on innumerable marches from Badajoz through Toulouse, he recognized her immediately, though he was half a street away.

For a moment he halted, admiring as always her erect carriage and perfect form. Even on a sidesaddle, she rode as one with her horse, as if she naturally belonged there. Which, having spent the greater part of her life in the saddle, he supposed Jenna Montague did. Lovely Jenna—unattainable, unapproachable, his first colonel’s daughter and the woman he’d once tried to coerce into marriage.

Except for when she found him on the field after Waterloo, Tony hadn’t seen Jenna, now Lady Fairchild, up close since their ill-fated encounter at the abandoned monastery outside Badajoz. His fingers reached automatically to touch his throat, where beneath his cravat, he still bore the scar from the knife wound she’d inflicted while successfully resisting his misguided attempt at seduction.

The mark she’d left on his mind and heart had proved just as indelible.

As always, though he felt immediately drawn to her, he hesitated. Then he remembered that the man she chose to marry instead no longer stood watch, his steely gaze promising dire retribution if Tony dared to so much as approach his wife. Colonel Garrett Fairchild had died of wounds sustained at Mont St. Jean.

However, given that he’d nearly ruined her reputation, tricking her into meeting him without a chaperone at that deserted rendezvous, should he try to hail her, he’d probably receive at best a cold nod, at worst, the cut direct.

Which would it be? he wondered. Before he could decide whether or not to try his luck, she pulled up her horse before a handsome townhouse and handed over the reins to a waiting servant. No chance now of reaching her before she slipped inside—once more beyond his reach.

He watched until she’d ascended the stairs and disappeared into the entry. How differently might his life have turned out, had he secured her hand nearly three years ago? Her hand, the enjoyment of the curves concealed beneath her pelisse—and the rich dowry that would have allowed him to pay off his debts, abandon his nascent army career and return to comfortable decadence in London?

Instead he’d spent the following two years sleeping on the ground or in vermin-infested billets and foraging for provisions, his mind and heart branded with the searing iron of a dozen successive battles. Nightmarish vistas of smoke-obscured chaos, the smell of hot gun barrels and fresh blood, the screams of dying men and horses amid the din of rifle and artillery, haunted him still.

But over those years he’d also witnessed countless episodes of selflessness and self-sacrifice. He no longer believed, as his father had preached, that honor was a concept for schoolboys and fools. And he himself was no doubt a better man for having met the challenge of that hard, bitter trial.

Better, perhaps, but not of course the equal of Colonel Garrett Fairchild and the other truly courageous heroes who had perished in the woods and fields of Waterloo. In a supreme stroke of irony, two of the lost were the men to whom he’d owed gaming debts, their deaths effectively canceling Tony’s obligations and freeing him to return to London without fear of being clapped into prison.

He kicked his horse into action and rode up to the gate. “Whose house is this?” he called to a young man in livery loitering at the foot of the steps.

“Viscount Fairchild’s, m’lord,” the boy answered.

So she was staying at the home of her late husband’s family, Tony thought. Perhaps, even though she was likely to greet him with scorn, he ought to call on her. Garrett Fairchild had been a dedicated officer and an exemplary solder, and Tony did regret his loss. Besides, by the time he’d been lucid enough to carry on a conversation, he had been moved to a hospital, so he had never had the opportunity to thank Jenna for her care after the battle. Given the debt he owed her for that, he should deliver his thanks in person, even if she took that opportunity to administer a well-deserved snub.

Yes, he decided, urging his horse back to a trot, he would definitely pay a call on Jenna Montague.




Chapter Two


ACCEPTING THE GROOM’S HAND, Jenna Montague Fairchild stepped down from the sidesaddle and looked with a sigh at Fairchild House. Riding in London’s parks, though better than remaining at home, barely allowed for a decent gallop.

After three days in the metropolis, she was already wishing herself back in Brussels. Or Lisbon or Madras or anywhere near some vast open plain where she might ride for hours and escape the emptiness that echoed through her rooms, in her shattered heart, with Garrett gone.

Four months had dulled the agony of losing him to a barely tolerable pain. Unconsciously her hand slipped down to rest on the swell of her abdomen. Were it not for the child she carried, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to force herself to return to the native land in which she’d lived exactly two months of her life, to reside as custom demanded in the house of her husband’s relations whom she’d met only once, and briefly.

But with most of the casualties from June’s battles either dead of their wounds or gone home to finish recovering, Jenna could no longer use the excuse of nursing duties to justify lingering in Brussels. With the future of Garrett’s heir to consider, she’d been forced to leave the bittersweet comfort of the rooms they’d shared, the bed in which their child had been conceived, the simple grave in the rose-garlanded cemetery on the hill beyond Waterloo where she’d had his remains laid to rest.

Hoping Aunt Hetty had slept late today, so she might avoid the unpleasantness of dealing with the woman until afternoon, Jenna made herself walk up the steps.

The querulous feminine tones that reached her ears as soon as Manson opened the door told her that hope was not likely to be realized. Wishing Garrett had never invited his widowed aunt to move into Fairchild House, she put a finger to her lips to forestall the butler’s greeting.

Silently she handed over her wrap. Perhaps she could creep by the front parlor and reach her room undetected.

But a board creaked as she crossed the landing and a moment later Aunt Hetty called out, “Jenna, is that you? Come in! We are planning Garrett’s memorial service.”

Swallowing her irritation, she bowed to the inevitable and reluctantly entered the parlor. From his seat beside Aunt Hetty, Lane Fairchild, one of the two cousins who had also accepted Garrett’s invitation to reside at the family townhouse, rose at her entrance. The other cousin, Bayard, seated at a distance from his other relations, continued to stare out the window, apparently oblivious to her arrival.

Slighter and darker than his golden-haired first cousin, Bayard wore the abstracted expression that, she’d noted on her previous sojourn with the family, seemed to be his habitual mien whenever he was forced to remain in company. Probably he was mulling over one of the alchemy experiments on which, Cousin Lane had told her with faint contempt, he spent most of his time, hidden away in the basement room he’d converted into a laboratory.

And to which, if the pattern she’d observed held true, he’d soon escape. A privilege that, as Heir Presumptive and supposed head of the family, Aunt Hetty allowed him.

Lucky Bayard, Jenna thought with a sigh.

A thin, older woman wrapped in a quantity of shawls, Aunt Hetty inspected Jenna with disfavor. “About time you returned. I cannot comprehend this penchant for riding! To promenade in the afternoon with the rest of the ton is quite proper, but to hare about at all hours with naught but a groom is simply not suitable in a viscountess.”

“Now, Aunt Hetty, she has been a viscountess for less than a year and a Londoner for but a few days,” Lane said soothingly as he came over to kiss Jenna’s hand. “After a time, she will master the intricacies of ton behavior.”

Giving her fingers a sympathetic squeeze, he continued, “How could anyone object, when the exercise seems to agree so well with you? The roses in your cheeks are as lovely as our Damask’s finest late blooms. Manson, a dish of tea for Lady Fairchild, please.”

“Prettily said, cousin,” she replied, allowing Lane to lead her to a place beside him on the sofa and accepting the steaming cup the butler poured for her.

After the butler bowed himself out, Aunt Hetty sniffed. “Well, I think it’s more than past time that Jenna gave due thought to her condition.”

Stung, Jenna lost her grip on her temper. “I am quite protective of my ‘condition.’ After Waterloo, the doctors assured me most particularly that if riding eased my mind—and it does—I need on no account give it up. Do you really think I would risk Garrett’s child?”

The peevish look on Aunt Hetty’s face faded and Lane’s expression turned shocked. “Do you mean to tell us,” he said slowly, “that…that you are carrying Garrett’s child?”

“Of course that’s what—” she began. Stopping abruptly, she glanced at Bayard, still sitting distracted near the window. “I wrote Cousin Bayard several months ago, as soon as I was certain. He…he didn’t tell you?”

“Aunt Hetty, did you know?” Lane demanded.

“I had no idea!”

“Well, this does put a new complexion on things,” Lane murmured, pacing over to his cousin.

“Bayard,” he said, giving his shoulder a shake, “did Jenna write informing you she was in a delicate condition?”

Bayard flinched, as if unwilling to be brought back to the present. “Oh, that,” he said, jerking away from Lane’s fingers. “Yes, she did. Of what importance is it to you?”

“It’s of importance to any Fairchild! Dammit, man, she might be carrying the next heir!”

“Precisely. But since that eventuality would affect only me, I cannot see why you expected to be informed.”

“Trying to play autocratic head of the family, Bayard? ’Tis a role that don’t suit you.”

“Boys!” Aunt Hetty reproved. “This is excellent news!” she said to Jenna. “After the despair of Garrett’s loss, what a joy that he shall have an heir!”

“A joy indeed, Cousin Jenna,” Lane said, smiling. “Please don’t think that I am not also delighted. ’Twas only—” he threw an aggrieved glance at Bayard “—that it came as somewhat of a shock.”

“The babe could just as easily be a daughter, so it’s quite possible Bayard will still inherit,” Jenna reminded them. “As the child is not due for some months, I would prefer not to make any public announcement just yet. ’Tis…’tis my last link to Garrett and I should prefer to keep it a private matter.”

“We shall respect your wishes, of course,” Lane said. “But you must take special care! Are you certain riding is wise? Bayard, as head of the family—” he imbued the words with a trace of sarcasm “—do you not think you should forbid Jenna to put herself at risk?”

Bayard shrugged. “I expect she knows what’s best.”

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of Cousin Bayard’s personal servant. A swarthy bear of a man, he resembled less a manservant, Jenna thought with an inward smile each time she encountered him, than one of the convicts who’d chosen to join Wellington’s army rather than face punishment at home.

The man bowed to the assembled company with a swagger that belied the deferential gesture. “Beggin’ your pardon, your ladyships. Master, the supplies you ordered are being delivered. You need to show me where to stow ’em.”

“Thank you, Frankston. I’ll come at once.”

“Bayard, you cannot leave now! We haven’t yet settled the details of Garrett’s service!” Aunt Hetty protested.

“I’m sure you can arrange something suitable without me,” Bayard said. “I’ve more important work.” Ignoring Hetty’s wail of protest, he strode out the door.

Frowning, Lane watched his cousin leave. “Work more important than upholding the honor of the Fairchild name? Dash it, Jenna, I hope to heaven Garrett’s child is a son!”

“As long as the babe is healthy and safely delivered, I shall be content,” she replied.

“So do we all hope! Finish your tea, cousin. You must keep up your strength now—and we shall have to take special care to see that she does, shall we not, Aunt?”

“Naturally. Now, about the service.” Hetty glanced at Jenna, the frown returning to her face telling Jenna her sojourn in that lady’s good graces had just ended. “It must be something suitably solemn and impressive. Though ’tis scandalous, to be reduced to holding a memorial service for a viscount whose family can trace its roots back to the Conqueror! I can’t imagine why you had Garrett buried in heathenish foreign land, rather than bringing his bones back to rest among his ancestors at Fairland Trace.”

Half-choking on her tea, Jenna swallowed the mouthful in one gulp. Did the woman have no discernment? Given the extent of Garrett’s wounds—knee, thigh, chest, shoulder—did she not realize to what condition his poor lifeless body would have been reduced after the several-day transit in July heat from Brussels to distant Northumberland?

A flash of memory seared her—finding Garrett, after a frantic all-day search, lying among the dead on the Waterloo plain, no more than a valiant spirit stubbornly holding on in a ragged scrap of flesh. Nausea seized her stomach and her throat closed in anguish.

She couldn’t bear to remember. Tea sloshed over the rim as she set her cup down. “It—wasn’t possible.”

Shooting Aunt Hetty a warning look, Cousin Lane took her hands in his and rubbed them gently. “I’m sure it wasn’t. You did everything you could, under the most ghastly of circumstances. We realize that.”

The older woman sniffed. “All the more reason to hold the most impressive of services. St. George’s, Hanover Square, I should think. Prinny and the cabinet will certainly attend, and Wellington, of course. We could have a funeral cortege from the house—”

“No!” Jenna cried. “No funeral. I’ve buried him once. I will not do it again.”

“Now that I am aware of your delicate condition, my dear,” Hetty said with a thin smile, “I will make some allowances, for ladies in your circumstances sometimes take the most peculiar ideas into their heads. But the decision isn’t yours alone. There’s the family’s honor to be considered, and I would be failing in my duty if I allowed Garrett’s passing to be commemorated in less than a fashion befitting a Viscount Fairchild of Fairland Trace.”

“What was being viscount to Garrett?” Jenna exclaimed. “He never expected it, was shocked to learn of the accident that brought him the title. Garrett lived and died a soldier. He’s buried near the field where he fell. Let him rest in peace!”

“Please, ladies, don’t upset yourselves!” Cousin Lane appealed to them. “Surely we can arrange something which will accommodate Jenna’s grief while still upholding the dignity of the family. Aunt Hetty, why do you not plan on a memorial service like the one we discussed? I believe Society would understand if Jenna does not attend, given the recentness of her bereavement. She could receive the mourner’s condolences at the reception here afterward.”

He turned to Jenna. “Do you think you could bear that, Jenna? Just a reception, to honor Garrett and let his friends mourn with you?”

Jenna took a shuddering breath. Could she force herself to nod and shake the hands of the gawking curious, most of them strangers? But at least she’d be spared the torment of a long funeral service lamenting Garrett’s loss and extolling his many virtues.

She had that litany of regret by heart.

Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly weary, tired of tussling with Aunt Hetty over the running of the house, of dealing with her petty criticism of everything Jenna did—or didn’t do—of carrying the crushing burden of grief. Slumping back, she said, “Yes, I suppose I can endure it.”

“You look fatigued, my dear,” Lane said with concern.

“I am, a little,” she admitted.

“Why not go upstairs and rest? Aunt Hetty and I will finish here. I’ll walk Jenna up,” he said to his aunt.

“If you must,” Aunt Hetty said, her tone implying she felt Jenna sadly lacking to shirk so important a duty.

Putting a solicitous hand under her elbow, Lane escorted her from the room. When they reached the hall, he said softly, “Please try to forgive Aunt Hetty’s pettishness. She’d been living in straited circumstances after her husband’s death and was thrilled when Garrett invited her to come here to look after Fairchild House while he remained away with the army. Now that you have arrived, she’s terribly afraid you will supplant her and send her back to her modest lodgings in Bath.”

“If she fears that, I should think she’d be making herself agreeable, rather than crossing me at every turn.”

He smiled wryly. “So one would think. But of course, she adored Garrett, and feels strongly that his demise should be commemorated with all due pomp and ceremony. An aim, I must admit, with which I am entirely in sympathy. All the years I was growing up, Garrett was my hero.”

Jenna felt her eyes filling. “He was mine, too. Do you not think I wish him suitably honored?”

“Of course, and you are being wonderfully brave about all this. ’Tis so difficult, even for me, to accept his loss. I cannot imagine how terrible it must be for you.”

There being no answer to that, Jenna gave none.

As they ascended the stairs, Lane hailed a passing footman. “Tell Lady Fairchild’s maid to bring up tea in an hour.” After the man trotted off, he turned to Jenna. “I’m sorry, that was rather presumptuous. Forgive me?”

Too tired to resent a usurpation of her authority for which, in another life, she would have given him a sharp setdown, she shrugged. “It appears everyone wants to dictate my actions. At least you, cousin, seem to have my welfare at heart.”

They reached the door to her chamber, but when she turned to go in, he retained her hand, halting her. “I’m sorry you must suffer through this all over again. I hope you indeed realize I will do everything within my power to make things as easy as possible for you.”

His kind words brought tears once again to the surface. “Thank you, cousin. I appreciate that.”

Grief and the coming child did exhaust her, for she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She woke an hour later at Sancha’s knock, feeling much refreshed. Before she could decide whether to ride yet again, choose a book from the library downstairs, or take a carriage to inspect the selection at Hatchard’s, a footman knocked to inform her that she had callers below.

She wondered who it might be. Since she had no acquaintance in London beyond her husband’s family, it must be someone from the army who had learned of her return.

Ah, that it might be Major Hartwell or Captain Percy, good friends and two of her late father’s finest subordinates! Feeling a stir of interest for the first time since arriving in England, she instructed the footman to tell the visitors she would be down directly.

But her enthusiasm checked the moment she stepped across into the parlor. Rather than those old compatriots, smiling at her from the sofa was Mrs. Ada Anderson, wife to the colonel of the Fighting Fifth’s neighboring brigade.

Before she could utter a word, the woman spied her. “Jenna, so you left Brussels at last! I had to call as soon as I learned you’d arrived and convey my deepest, sincerest sympathy!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson.” Jenna pasted a smile on her face while mentally kicking herself for coming down without first ascertaining the identity of her visitors. Now she would have to remain at least half an hour or be thought unpardonably rude. “Please, do sit down. How kind of you to come with—” she indicated the tall, angular woman in the modish bonnet and pelisse.

“Lady Fairchild, allow me to present my sister Persephone, Lady Montclare. You may remember I intended to send you back to her in London after your papa died at Badajoz. Except that you snabbled yourself a husband first! I was, you will recall, quite vexed at you for throwing away your chance at a London Season and entrusting your hand and fortune to a mere younger son. Who knew then he’d turn out to be viscount one day, eh, you clever girl?”

“Charmed to meet you at last, Lady Fairchild.” Lady Montclare rose from her curtsy to subject Jenna to a penetrating scrutiny. “My sincerest condolences.”

“Oh, yes—such a tragedy!” Mrs. Anderson lamented. “With his ability and your fortune, I expect he should have become a general. Not that he had any need of a military career, once he inherited, of course.”

“Given his responsibilities as the new viscount, after his brother was lost in that storm off Portsmouth, I am surprised Garrett did not immediately resign his commission,” Lady Montclare said.

“After Bonaparte escaped from Elbe, Garrett would not have considered leaving the army, nor, I suspect, would the Duke have permitted it had he asked. With so many Peninsular veterans dispersed from India to the Americas, he needed every battle-tested commander.”

“Given how things turned out, I imagine you now wish Lord Fairchild had not remained with the army,” Lady Montclare observed.

“I would not have had Garrett shirk his duty or disregard his loyalties,” Jenna replied stiffly, “regardless of how ‘things turned out.’”

“Well, ’tis no matter,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You must now think to your future—which means carefully evaluating the new contenders for your hand.”

“Contenders for my—?” Jenna gasped. “I hardly think it necessary to concern myself about that yet!”

“I know you were sincerely attached to Garrett,” Mrs. Anderson said. “But a widow with a fortune as vast as yours is not likely to be left to mourn in solitude. As soon as the ton finds out you are established here in London, you can expect all manner of invitations.”

“Your husband’s aunt is charming,” Lady Montclare said, “but I fear she doesn’t move in the first circles. Since you quite rightly wish to pay proper honor to poor Garrett’s memory, ’tis of the utmost importance that you know which invitations to accept, which you should refuse. Ada and I will be happy to assist you.”

“It will be our privilege! The first thing you must do—” Mrs. Anderson cast a pained look at Jenna’s three-year-old gown “—is procure a proper wardrobe.”

Reining in the temper that urged her to demand that the visitors leave immediately, Jenna forced herself to speak politely. “Mrs. Anderson, Lady Montclare, I appreciate your kindness in offering to help, but I haven’t the least interest attracting ‘contenders’ for my hand.”

“Come now, Jenna, you were with the army long enough not to be missish about this,” Mrs. Anderson countered. “You wed Garrett before your papa had been dead a month!”

“That was…different! I couldn’t remain with the army alone, and I loved Garrett.”

“Desire it or not,” Lady Montclare said, “your youth, beauty and wealth—added to the connection you now boast to the ancient name of Fairchild—will catch the interest of every bachelor of the ton on the look for a bride.”

“Since you cannot avoid scrutiny, ’tis only prudent to plan on it,” Mrs. Anderson advised. “Reconnoiter the ground and use it to your advantage, my husband would say! And as one of Lady Jersey’s bosom bows, Persephone stands in perfect position to advise you on the most select entertainments—and most desirable gentlemen.”

Both ladies beamed at her, appearing supremely confident that Jenna must be thrilled at their offering to guide her in her choice of beaux. Appalled by the notion, for a moment Jenna contemplated informing the ladies of her pregnancy. Surely a widow who was increasing would be less appealing to discerning ton courtiers.

But though her condition would soon be obvious, for now she did not wish to share the news of her secret joy with these sisters whose supposed concern for her welfare barely concealed their relish for obtaining a social pawn they might manipulate.

As the mantel clock chimed, signifying the elapse of the requisite half hour, Jenna rose and offered a curtsy. “Ladies, I am quite…overwhelmed by your offer. Please know I will carefully consider it.”

Obligated to rise as well, the sisters returned her curtsy. “I’m staying with Persephone while Walter prepares for his next posting,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Call on us any day—your butler has the card with our direction.”

“Indeed,” Lady Montclare said. “I shall be very happy to take you under my wing, dear Lady Fairchild.”

Stifling the impulse to tell Lady Montclare just what she could do with that wing, Jenna made herself incline her head politely. “Good day, ladies.”

Long after Manson had escorted them out, Jenna stood staring at the closed door, recalling the various ton gentlemen she’d observed during her rides—Dandies and Bucks in skintight coats and trousers, elaborately arranged cravats, ridiculously high shirt collars. She’d found their appearance quite amusing.

The idea of such men calling on her was less amusing.

Men who had remained safely at home while other men fought and bled to protect their liberty. Indolent men with nothing better to do than drink, gamble away their nights—and entice widows of large fortune into marriage.

The handsome face of one such dark-haired, gray-eyed man materialized out of memory, his lips curved in a sardonic smile that was half interest, half disdain. Heat rose in her cheeks as she forced the image away.

Cousin Lane seemed thoroughly familiar with the London ton. Perhaps she should ask him whether the sisters’ prediction about the interest she would arouse among its gentlemen was likely to prove true.

For if dealing with reprobates like Lord Anthony Nelthorpe was to be her fate in London, the convention about living with Garrett’s relatives be damned, she would start immediately looking for a residence elsewhere.




Chapter Three


TWO WEEKS later, Jenna sat in the parlor, trying to keep a polite smile pasted on her lips while the notables of the ton paraded past to offer their condolences, their gimlet eyes and assessing glances evaluating the dress, manners and breeding of Viscount Fairchild’s widow. She’d even overheard one dandy, in a whisper just loud enough to reach her ears, compare her unfavorably to the Lovely Lucinda—the fiancée who had jilted Garrett for an earl.

Nearly as annoying, Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare arrived early “to support dear Jenna through her first public reception.” Effusing with delight at their thoughtfulness, Aunt Hetty had chairs installed for them beside Jenna’s, where the two were now dispensing sottovoce commentary on each caller who approached.

Jenna had thrown an appealing glance at Lane, seated beside Aunt Hetty on the sofa, but he’d returned nothing more helpful than a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. While Cousin Bayard, alleging anyone who wished to convey their regrets to him had had ample opportunity during the service at St. George’s, abandoned the parlor minutes after the reception began.

Not that she’d really expected to escape the function—or her two watchdogs. Apparently Lady Montclare did wield as much influence among the ton as she’d claimed, for Aunt Hetty had been both shocked and ecstatic to learn of her call, and did everything she could to promote the connection. In her listless state, Jenna had neither sufficient interest nor strength to oppose them, and had soon found herself trotted around to all the merchants Lady Montclare favored, pinned and prodded and led to purchase a vast quantity of items those ladies deemed essential for a recently bereaved viscountess.

She’d felt a twinge of conscience at expending blunt on gowns that in a matter of a few weeks she’d be unable to wear. Someday soon, when the simple business of waking, rising, and surviving each new day didn’t exhaust all her meager mental and physical reserves, she’d sort out what to do about the sisters—and her life without Garrett.

Onward the crowd continued—like buzzards circling a kill, Jenna thought—an endless progression of names and titles. In vain she looked for the real comfort that might have been afforded by the friendly faces and heartfelt condolences of “Heedless” Harry or Alastair Percy or other men from Garrett’s regiment. By now, she realized with resignation, her military compatriots had doubtless returned to their respective homes or rejoined the army.

Then a stir from the hallway caught her attention. As she’d hoped, a few moments later His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, walked into the salon, trailed by a crowd of well-wishers eager to shake the hand of the great general.

“Excellent! I so hoped he would appear,” Mrs. Anderson said in Jenna’s ear.

After exchanging a brief word with Lady Montclare and Mrs. Anderson, he took Jenna’s hand.

“It’s been a long and difficult road since India. England owes her safety to the selfless service of your father and husband. Take solace in that, Jenna.”

“I do, your grace.”

She blinked back tears as he kissed her hand, bowed and walked away, the crowd parting respectfully to allow the passage of England’s Savior. Who, it was said, had wept while he wrote his dispatch after Waterloo at the loss of so many good friends and soldiers.

Napoleon’s Vanquisher would be going on to other important duties. What was Jenna Montague Fairchild, soldier’s daughter and soldier’s wife who had lost father, husband and army, to do with herself now?

Think of the babe, she told herself, fighting back grief and despair. Rebuild your life around the child.

“How excellent of the Duke to show so singular a mark of favor,” Lady Montclare murmured.

“We are old acquaintances,” Jenna replied.

In the wake of the Duke’s departure, the crowd in the drawing room began to thin. “My sister has presented you to everyone of note in London this afternoon, including most of the gentlemen who will be your potential suitors,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling her satisfaction.

“And your conduct has been excellent, my dear!” Lady Montclare reached over to press Jenna’s fingers. “A grave demeanor indicative of continuing grief, with just the right touch of hauteur.”

The woman obviously believed Jenna was assuming the role she’d been urged to play. She wasn’t sure whether to dissolve into hysterical laughter—or tears.

“Oh no—not him!”

At Mrs. Anderson’s gasp, Jenna’s looked to the door, through which a gentleman now strode with languorous ease.

Jenna exhaled in relief. Though the half-mocking, half-amused smile on the handsome face of the man now approaching was reminiscent of the grin she’d so disliked on another gentleman, this man’s hair gleamed guineagold rather than blue-black and his eyes were the turquoise of a tropic ocean’s depths—not, praise heaven, gunmetal gray.

“The effrontery!” Mrs. Anderson whispered.

“We’ll soon send him to the rightabout,” Lady Montclare soothed. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Jenna—a notorious rogue and gambler. ’Tis said he mended his ways since he beguiled a rich widow into marriage, but I doubt it. His aunt, Lady Charlotte Darnell, is the daughter of a duke and a Society leader, so you cannot, regrettably, cut him, but his reputation for seducing foolish women was well-earned. Take care to avoid him whenever possible.”

A moment later the blond man bowed before them. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Fairchild, at your service.”

As if fully conscious of the condemnation that had just been pronounced by her companions, after nodding to them, he seized Jenna’s hands and gave them a long, lingering caress that sent heat rushing to her cheeks.

She had just opened her lips to deliver a sharp set down when he gave her a quick, conspiratorial wink, so fleeting she wasn’t sure whether she’d seen or imagined it. Then he tugged on her hands and pulled her to her feet.

“By the saints, dear Lady Fairchild, your grief has rendered you pale as the shades of my Irish kin! Let me assist you to stroll down the hall, that exercise might return a little color to your lovely face.” Before she could think what to reply, over the sputtering protest of her chaperones, he nudged her into motion.

Not until they reached the hallway did she realize how great a relief it was to escape the confines of the parlor. Nonetheless, torn between amusement and irritation, she felt moved to protest.

“Gracious, Mr. Fitzwilliams, you are a rogue indeed!”

“That, Lady Fairchild, is for you to decide.” Turning to her with an unexpectedly sympathetic look, he continued, “Nonetheless, your expression so clearly called out ‘rescue me!’ that I could not help but respond.”

That reading of what she’d thought to be her impassive countenance belied the carelessness of the grin with which he had, she suspected, deliberately taunted her chaperones. Though she heard again Lady Montclare’s warning to avoid him, she found herself curious to know why he’d called.

Besides, over her years with the army she’d encountered men who truly were seducers and reprobates. The instincts that had protected her on more than one occasion were now telling her this man was neither.

“You are right, Mr. Fitzwilliams. I did long for rescue.”

He rewarded her honesty with a smile of genuine warmth that lit his handsome face and set mesmerizing lights dancing in those intensely turquoise eyes.

Heavens! she thought, shaken by the force of his charm. If he were a rake, small wonder women succumbed!

“If what I’d heard of your adventures with the army had not already convinced me of your stalwart character, I knew Garrett would marry none but an enterprising lady.”

“You were…acquainted with Garrett?”

His eyes dimmed and she read real sorrow on his face. “I had that honor and so offer you my deepest condolences. I cannot boast to have been one of his intimates, but at Eton he stood my friend, and when I became the focus of some…unpleasantness at Oxford, he continued to recognize me when few others, including my own family, did. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

His heartfelt testament moved her more than all the grand tributes glibly offered by the influential of the ton. “He was indeed,” she replied, her voice trembling.

“Respecting Garrett as I did, I felt I must call today, even though my aunt, Lady Charlotte, is out of town and unable to lend me countenance—or protect you from the censorious who will take you to task for having strolled with me. For which injury, I do apologize. Despite the appeal in your eyes, by whisking you off, I fear I have doomed you to almost certain criticism. I really should not have kidnapped you with you unaware of that danger.”

“I’m still most grateful that you did! I have no fear of idly wagging tongues.” Indeed, if a walk with Teagan Fitzwilliams rendered her less attractive to the potential suitors they were pressing on her, so much the better.

“When she returns, Aunt Charlotte will call upon you and set all to rights, so I may soothe my conscience by believing that I’ve caused you no permanent harm. Now, let me return you to the parlor.”

“Wait!” Jenna cried, halting him. “’Tis a privilege to talk with one of Garrett’s true friends. And I…I’m not ready to go back in. Not just yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Already trying to pull and twist you into their mold, are they?”

“I shall have to fight them tooth and claw,” she said with a sigh. “Once I manage to summon the energy.”

He nodded. “It’s walking the hallway for us, then.” Tucking her hand back on his arm, he continued, “Did you really escape a bandit ambush in India?”

“It wasn’t so extraordinary as it might sound. Papa’s batman and I both had our Baker rifles—and faster horses.”

He laughed. “It’s a crack shot you are, I’ll wager!”

She grinned, warmed by his sympathetic understanding. “Naturally. I’ve spent all my life with the army.”

“I hear you fended off an attack in Spain as well.”

“So she did.”

At the sound of that deep, uncannily familiar voice, a chill of alarm raced up Jenna’s spine. She whipped her gaze toward the entry where, before her astounded eyes, the rogue she’d hoped never to meet again began climbing the stairs, limping slightly. “As I can personally attest.”

Jenna blinked, still not believing his audacity. “You!” she said in a strangled voice.

Viscount Anthony Nelthorpe reached the landing and swept Jenna a bow. “Lady Fairchild, how good it is to see you again.”

No doubt divining from the sudden stiffness of her body—and the low fury of her voice—that she did not welcome the newcomer, Fitzwilliams stepped forward to block the viscount’s approach. “Nelthorpe, I didn’t know you’d returned to England.”

“Just back from Brussels, Fitzwilliams.”

Though Fitzwilliams nodded pleasantly, his eyes stayed watchful as he remained between her and Lord Nelthorpe. “Lady Fairchild, may I take you back to the parlor?”

“Allow me,” Nelthorpe said, holding out an arm. “I served in the same command as Lady Fairchild’s late husband and can express my regrets as I walk her back.”

Fitzwilliams glanced from Jenna’s face to Nelthorpe’s extended arm and back. “Lady Fairchild, would you prefer that Nelthorpe escort you in—or that I escort him out?”

Jenna tried to shake her mind free of anger and outrage to determine what would be best. She’d already failed to deliver the cut direct she’d previously decided would be the most appropriate response, should her erstwhile ravisher ever approach her again. She might still have the satisfaction of turning her back on him.

But he had just demonstrated that, despite what had passed between them, he possessed the gall to confront her. Perhaps she ought to do the same and establish right now that though Garrett was no longer here to watch over her, she intended to have no dealings with Anthony Nelthorpe.

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliams, but for this occasion only, I shall accept Lord Nelthorpe’s escort.”

“You are sure that is your wish?” Fitzwilliams asked.

“It is.”

“Very well, ma’am.” He made her a bow. “Returning to an unfamiliar land, even the land of your birth, can be unsettling, as I have reason to know. Call on me if I may help in any way. My aunt will visit you soon. Nelthorpe.”

The two men exchanged stiff nods. After one last, quizzical look, Mr. Fitzwilliams walked away.

“You miserable cur!” Jenna hissed as soon as Fitzwilliams was out of earshot. “With Garrett barely cold in his grave, how dare you approach me? Not even you could be arrogant enough to think you might still recoup your fortunes by trying once again to force me into wedlock!”

For an instant he stood utterly still, surprise—or was it chagrin?—on his face, giving her the satisfaction of knowing her attack had rendered him speechless.

“Excellent as that idea might be,” he replied, “I must confess ’twas not my intention—for the moment. I wished only to offer my condolences and my sincerest thanks for the mercy that saved my sorry skin.”

Though she watched closely, she could find no undercurrent of mockery, no hint of arrogance in the tone of his self-deprecating words. Even the sardonic smile she’d come to associate with him had been replaced by an expression at once wry—and charming. Her face heating, she wondered if her harsh words had been overhasty.

After all, she had not spoken to Nelthorpe—when he wasn’t out of his head with pain and fever—in three years.

Three years with the army could bring about a lifetime of changes in a man, for good or ill.

Before she could decide how to respond, he swayed slightly and had to take a half step to catch himself. Sweat glistened on his forehead and she noted shadowed, redrimmed eyes that hinted of nights with little sleep.

Had he come here still half-disguised from last night’s carousing? Perhaps her verbal assault had not been premature, if he’d lost no time after returning to London in resuming his habits of dissipation.

“You wish to return to the parlor?” he asked, offering his arm.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring it, “as soon as I have delivered this message. Though I appreciate your…courtesy in coming to convey your regrets, in future you will not be received in this house—or in any other in which I reside. Nor do I intend to recognize you, should we meet by chance elsewhere. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

His lips curved in a smile that looked—regretful? “Perfectly. And, I grant, you have a perfect right to feel that way. But if I’m not to be permitted to speak again, I beg a few minutes more now. Please, Lady Fairchild?”

She opened her lips to reply that she had no interest in anything further he could say, but something about his appearance made her hesitate. Though she would never have believed it possible, the wretch looked…penitent?

A ruse, no doubt, but perhaps she could permit him one last speech. “I suppose I can spare another moment.”

“Thank you,” he said with what must be false humility. “When you found me on the field below Mont St. Jean, I thought you an angel. Though—” he broke into a grin “—before you feel moved to point it out, I hasten to add that I realize, were I to make my final crossing of the river Styx, it’s unlikely angels would be dispatched to greet me. Given what you know of my character, I’m surprised you didn’t leave me to finish the job of bleeding to death. Had you not stopped, I most certainly would have. And though at times during my recovery I wasn’t sure surviving was truly preferable, I still want to thank you.”

She could read only sincerity in his expression, which made him so unlike the Nelthorpe she’d known that she was uncertain what to respond. At last she said, “I would hope I would offer assistance to any wounded, friend—or foe.”

“Which just shows my initial impression was correct. You are indeed an angel.”

Baffled, she shot her gaze to his face, but could detect in his tone neither sarcasm nor irony.

Perhaps he had changed. If his pallor and unsteady gait were the vestiges of a drinking spree, he’d hardly be the only soldier to enjoy a liquid homecoming celebration.

Feeling guilty again, she said, “I am nothing of the sort. I…I should not have spoken to you as I did. Pray forgive me.”

His smoky eyes lit and his lip quirked in a smile reminiscent—and yet unlike—the sardonic look she’d come to know when he served under her father in the Peninsula. A steady, unnervingly intense regard that had prickled her skin with a curious mix of anticipation and dread whenever she caught—or more often sensed—him watching her.

As her skin prickled now.

Disturbed by that reaction, she abandoned her attempt to determine what exactly had changed about him. Dismiss him at once, some instinct for self-preservation urged her.

“Best not apologize too quickly,” he said. “Now that I consider it, teasing you into marrying me might be too tempting a prospect to resist.”

“I should think nearly getting your throat slit would have cured you of ever risking that folly again.”

He tapped his fingers below the knot of his cravat. “Ah, but I bear your mark still. How could I resist you?”

Though she’d fully intended to send him away, the intensity of his gaze held her motionless. A little thrill shocked through her, like when she’d run into warm ocean shallows off the Portuguese coast, only to find the water deeper, the current more dangerous than anticipated.

Except for the morning she discovered him more dead than alive on the battlefield after Waterloo, they had not spoken since that afternoon after the battle of Badajoz when she’d foiled his attempt to compromise her into wedding him, sending him away instead, humbled and bleeding. Yet how many times over the intervening years had she felt resting on her that steady, unnerving gaze?

Riding on the march, across the tent-filled enclosure of an encampment, from the other side of a dining room or ballroom…Though she knew after her marriage, Garrett must have warned Nelthorpe away, from Salamanca to Vittoria to Toulouse, even in Paris after the victory, she had sensed his gaze and looked about her—to find him watching.

With Garrett no longer standing guard, what was she to do about it?

While she hesitated, unsure whether to deliver a final dismissal or simply walk away from the unsettling force that seemed to emanate from him, she heard the slam of the entry door, followed by Manson’s urgent murmur. A moment later, a thin woman dressed in mourning black rushed up the stairs, spotted them, and stopped abruptly.

Her eyes widening, she raised her arm and pointed at Nelthorpe. “That reprobate lives still? Then I am doubly glad you lost your husband, Lady Fairchild!”

While Jenna recoiled in shock, the stranger advanced on her.




Chapter Four


BEFORE JENNA COULD SAY A WORD, the woman continued in shrill tones, “Losing Colonel Fairchild was only what you deserved, after choosing to rescue men such as him—” the widow jerked her chin at the viscount “—whilst leaving good soldiers like my husband to die in the mud!”

’Twas no point trying to reason with this obviously grief-maddened widow, Jenna realized, trying not to let the cruel words wound her as she wondered what supposed incident had led to this outburst. Better to simply soothe and send her away. “I am so sorry—”

“Keep your regrets!” the woman cried. “Just wait until you, like I, have lost everything you hold dear!”

Before Jenna could imagine her intent, she hauled back her arm and slapped Jenna full across the face.

Reeling with the force of the blow, Jenna would have fallen but for Nelthorpe. After steadying her, he moved with surprising speed to seize the wrists of the widow, who’d drawn her hand back as if to deliver another slap.

“Madam, remember yourself!” he barked.

After a brief struggle, the woman’s fury seemed spent and she burst into tears, going limp in her captor’s grip.

As the butler and two footmen hurried up to assist Nelthorpe, Cousin Lane entered the hallway at a run. “Manson, what the devil is going on?”

He stopped short, taking in with a quick glance the milling servants, the weeping woman hanging in Nelthorpe’s arms—and Jenna, with her palm to her stinging cheek.

“For the love of God, Jenna, are you all right?”

Fighting back a sudden faintness, Jenna nodded. “I am fine, cousin. I—I should like to retire, however.”

“I’ll escort you up at once. James, keep watch over this…person while Manson fetches a constable.”

“No need for that,” Jenna interposed. “’Twas a…a misunderstanding. Manson, have a hackney summoned. I’m sure the lady is anxious to return home.”

Frowning, Fairchild seemed as if he would countermand her order before waving an impatient hand. “As you wish, Jenna. But, madam,” he said, turning to the woman, “if you ever approach my cousin again, I shall prosecute you.”

As the weeping woman was led away, he turned a hostile gaze on Lord Nelthorpe. “Did you bring that creature?”

Apparently her cousin’s opinion of Nelthorpe was no better than her own. Little as she liked the viscount, though, Jenna couldn’t let this pass. “Indeed not! In fact, he acted immediately to assist me.”

Lane Fairchild’s frosty gaze didn’t thaw. “Did he? How convenient. I suppose I must thank you for that.”

Lord Nelthorpe nodded. “Any paltry assistance I may have offered Lady Fairchild was entirely my pleasure.”

With some concern, Jenna noted that Nelthorpe was breathing rather heavily and looked even more unwell. Although grateful for his aid, Jenna hoped he wasn’t about to end the binge that had brought on that unhealthy pallor by casting up his accounts on the carpet.

Before she could intervene to speed him on his way, to her intense irritation, the parlor door opened and Lady Montclare stepped into the hallway, followed by her sister.

“Dear Jenna, whatever could be keeping—oh!” Lady Montclare ended on a gasp, her widening eyes taking in Jenna’s red cheek, Cousin Lane’s grim face and Nelthorpe, once again swaying unsteadily on his feet.

“Nothing to concern yourselves about, ladies,” Fairchild said. Ignoring the viscount in unmistakable insult, he took Jenna’s arm. “My dear cousin is rather fatigued. As soon as I’ve seen Jenna to her room, I’ll return to thank you more properly for your gallant support of the Fairchild family this afternoon.”

“Of course she is exhausted!” Mrs. Anderson said, her avid gaze flitting between Jenna and Nelthorpe. “But do allow us to assist. Sister, let us take dear Jenna upstairs and offer what comfort we can.”

“Nonsense, ladies, I am quite capable of going up alone,” Jenna objected. “I need only some solitude in which to repose myself. Please do return to the parlor with Mr. Fairchild and refresh yourselves with some tea.”

Then she felt it again—the almost palpable touch of Nelthorpe’s gaze on her. Without conscious volition, she looked over to him.

“I shall take my leave now, Lady Fairchild,” he said quietly. “Thank you again for your time.”

“A most thoughtful suggestion, ladies,” Cousin Lane interposed, again ignoring Nelthorpe. “Cousin, let me give you into these kind ladies’ care.”

She might not like Anthony Nelthorpe, but neither did Jenna approve Fairchild’s rude treatment of the man who had just rendered her timely assistance. Turning her back on the sisters, she extended her hand to the viscount.

“Thank you again, and good day, Lord Nelthorpe.”

He took her fingers. Her nerves jumped at the first contact of his gloved hands, then again at the unexpectedly intense heat of his lips brushing her bare skin.

“The honor was mine, Lady Fairchild,” he said, giving her fingers a brief squeeze that sent another glancing shock through her. Then he turned and, leaning heavily on the balustrade, descended the stairs.

Mrs. Anderson imprisoned Jenna’s still-tingling hand in her firm grasp. “Come along, my dear. After that encounter, I can well believe you need a respite!”

Suddenly weary, Jenna gave up attempting to escape the sisters’ unwanted attentions, though she suspected this sudden urge to accompany her stemmed more from a desire to determine all that had just transpired than any genuine concern for her welfare.

Confirming her suspicion, as soon as they’d distanced themselves from the servants, Lady Montclare whispered, “Whatever happened to your cheek, my dear? Surely that wretch didn’t have the temerity to touch you!”

If she hadn’t been so tired, Jenna might have found it amusing to be in the novel position of defending Anthony Nelthorpe. “Of course not! I—I stumbled and struck my cheek,” she invented. “Nelthorpe came to my assistance.”

Lady Montclare sniffed. “Indeed. Though he served in the army, apparently with some distinction, Nelthorpe is exactly the sort of man you must avoid! A fortune hunter who fled England to escape his debts, I’m surprised he wasn’t clapped into prison the moment he landed. Though the title is ancient, he and his father, the Earl of Hunsdon, have made the name such a byword for vice that Nelthorpe’s uncle, who was to have settled a sum on him, decided to disinherit him. Without a prospective fortune to offset his other failings, Nelthorpe is completely ineligible.”

“Indeed?” Jenna said, wrinkling her brow in mockconfusion. “Mrs. Anderson, do I not remember you praising Nelthorpe to me as an eligible parti after Papa died at Badajoz, before I married Garrett?”

Lady Montclare threw a look at Mrs. Anderson. “Sister! Surely you did nothing of the kind!”

Mrs. Anderson’s plump face colored. “’Twas before I’d learned of the gaming debts that prompted him to flee to the Peninsula, nor had I yet heard his uncle had cut him off. As a future earl, you must admit, he would otherwise have been considered an exemplary choice.”

Waving away her sister’s excuse, Lady Montclare continued, “In any event, suffice it to say that Nelthorpe is a man to avoid. In fact, since he’s been away from England long enough that he no longer has ties with anyone of importance in the ton, I believe you can safely give him the cut direct.”

From recommended suitor to ineligible in the blink of a fortune, Jenna thought cynically. Little sympathy as she had for Nelthorpe, she could only be disgusted with the shallowness of the standards by which Society measured men.

“I assure you, there is no chance of my being taken in by Lord Nelthorpe,” she said dryly.

Having reached the hall outside her room, Jenna decided with an unexpected spurt of determination to rid herself of her unwanted guardians before the sisters tried to insinuate themselves into her bedchamber.

Hands on the door handle, she said, “Ladies, thank you most kindly for your help. As I dare not keep you any longer from your tea, good day.” With a nod, she slipped inside and closed the door in their faces.

She leaned against it and exhaled a long breath, feeling for the first time in many days a warming sense of satisfaction. Ah, but it felt good to take charge again!

Perhaps it was time to shake off this lethargy and find a new sense of direction.

As she wandered to the window and glanced idly down, her gaze caught on the figure of Lord Nelthorpe. The viscount stood motionless halfway down the entry stairs, both hands braced on the railing, his head hanging between hunched shoulders.

He must still be feeling ill, she thought with a dismissive shake of her head. At least he’d made it out the front door before another wave of nausea overcame him.

Then Nelthorpe straightened and, arms locked above hands still gripping the railing, stepped down—dragging his left leg. After hauling that limb down two more steps, he halted again, as if fighting off a wave of dizziness.

Her perceptions of his appearance suddenly realigned into a drastically different conclusion. Having nursed casualties after many a battle, she wondered with shame how she could have so badly misread the clammy skin, the shadowed eyes, the nausea and vertigo—of a man in pain.

Nor, now that she thought about it, had there been about him the odor of spirits or the cloying scent some men used to cover up the stench of liquor.

If she hadn’t been so self-righteously preoccupied by nursing instead a three-year-old sense of grievance, she might also have noted the fact that he’d only just arrived in London. All but the most severely injured of Wellington’s troops had returned months ago. Nor had she troubled to ask whether he’d recovered from whatever injuries had left him bleeding on the field after the end of June’s great battle.

When she’d literally stumbled over Nelthorpe that day, she’d been frantic with worry, knowing Garrett would have returned to her unless he were gravely wounded—or dead. She’d expended as little time as possible seeing Nelthorpe received treatment before resuming her search for him.

And after she found her husband—confirming her worst fears about his condition—she’d devoted three weeks to the ultimately losing battle to save him. Numb, devastated, denying, she’d continued on nursing other survivors until, realizing she must be with child, she’d slowed her pace. Even then, she’d not been able to make herself leave the room she’d shared with Garrett or her life as a soldier’s wife and daughter, the only life she’d known.

Colonel’s daughter indeed! Shame deepening, she acknowledged that not once in all her weeks in Belgium had she thought to inquire about Nelthorpe’s fate after he’d been carried away that awful afternoon. This, for a man who had once been under her father’s command.

Regardless of what might have transpired between them, Father would have expected better of her than that.

Gauging by the trouble it had given Nelthorpe to navigate the stairs, she knew from her nursing experience that simply remaining upright must be akin to torture. Seized by conflicting emotions, she could not seem to tear her gaze from where he remained stoically standing, evidently awaiting the return of his horse.

The nurse in her urged her to rush downstairs and check his condition. The woman and the patriot ached for the obvious pain he was suffering.

The soldier in her saluted the pride and fortitude that had prompted him to mask his injuries and come to her aid, despite what it must have cost him to restrain the widow who’d attacked her.

She would not shame that pride by revealing that she’d observed him in his weakness.

When finally a groom appeared leading a tall gelding, she exhaled with relief. Apparently he’d mastered mounting and riding, for he managed those tasks without a falter.

Nelthorpe still rode with the same effortless grace she remembered from observing him in the Peninsula. Indeed, seeing him in the saddle, she would never have suspected his injury.

Long after he guided his mount out of sight, Jenna remained at the window, staring into the afternoon brightness as she recalled their conversation and each detail of his appearance and expression.

It appeared her first assessment had been correct. Anthony Nelthorpe had done more than just exchange his swagger for a limp.

And she owed him another apology.



IN LATE AFTERNOON of the following day, Tony Nelthorpe sat tying his cravat in preparation for dining at his club.

He’d been relieved to discover upon waking that, despite the wretched condition in which he’d returned home yesterday, he was now able to walk fairly well—so his exertions at the Fairchild townhouse had not, as he’d feared, set back his recovery. Which meant, praise heaven, that his leg must be healing at last.

Heaven knows, he’d seen little evidence of it yesterday. After having secluded himself at home for several weeks while he practiced walking, he’d decided it was time to attempt his first excursion into Society—at the reception being given to honor Colonel Garrett Fairchild.

Much as he might deserve Jenna’s disdain, he rather dreaded receiving it, so the Fairchild’s reception provided an ideal opportunity to meet her and attempt to offer his thanks. She would, he speculated, be less likely to publicly insult a Waterloo veteran during a reception honoring her husband’s military service.

Regardless of her opinion of this particular soldier.

He’d just been congratulating himself on having actually spoken with her—and on managing the stairs without limping too dreadfully—when that widow assaulted her. His whole leg flaming in agony by the time that episode concluded, he had only the haziest of memories of the ride home, his dwindling strength being invested in the battle to remain conscious and in the saddle.

Out of yesterday’s agony one bit of good news had arisen, he thought with a smile. Once he had progressed beyond simple survival, he had grown concerned that his amorous inclinations seemed to have been snuffed out by the same injuries that had shattered his knee. Having had no blunt to test the fact, even if he’d had the desire, he’d relegated that worry to the back of his mind.

But a few moments in company with Jenna Fairchild had proven that though his longer members might never fully recover, his shorter one now functioned perfectly. Jenna Montague had roused his senses from the first day they met and time, it seemed, had not dimmed that instinctive response. Indeed, her appeal was if anything stronger—for Jenna was no longer an untried girl, but a widow who had tasted passion’s full measure.

And, he was certain, she’d sensed as well as he the almost tactile pull between them yesterday. Though not surprisingly, she was no more willing to recognize it than she’d been three years ago.

Having nothing better to do at the moment, he might just have to live down to her expectation that he was planning to pester her about marrying him. His grin widened as a certain part of his anatomy offered solid support to the idea of pursuing Jenna Montague.

He was making no other progress. After three weeks at home, he still didn’t know the current status of the Nelthorpe finances, his father having not yet seen fit to meet him. Anger flared and he fanned it, irritated at how much hurt lurked beneath.

But then, when had the earl ever paid any attention to his only son’s activities, no matter how scandalous? Perhaps because Lord Hunsdon had always been too occupied with even more scandalous activities himself.

Well, Tony was no longer a stripling waiting with pathetic eagerness for any crumb of parental attention. As heir to the Hunsdon earldom, he had a right to know how things stood with the estate he would one day inherit. Though by all the signs, his father would bequeath him little more than a pack of debts and a soiled reputation.

Dusting off his beaver hat, he limped out. He’d return early enough to catch his father before the earl began his evening’s celebrations, hopefully while Hunsdon was sober enough to converse with some intelligence.

Three years ago, Tony had associated with a group of dissolute young men with whom he’d indulged in highstakes gaming and dissipated revelry. Though during his three weeks of recovery, he had not called on any of them, the fact that he had returned to England would have been speedily telegraphed to the ton through the infallible network of servants’ gossip.

With a sense of anticipation sharpened by unease, he hailed a hackney to White’s. Would the members there greet him as a lost sheep returned—or see only the black sheep who’d disgraced himself by fleeing England with his debts of honor unpaid?

Despite his soldier’s service, he suspected that a bad reputation, thoroughly earned, would prove long-lived.

Certainly Lane Fairchild had shown yesterday in what little regard he held Viscount Nelthorpe.

Half an hour later, his heart pounding—and not just, he knew, from exertion of having climbed yet another infernal flight of stairs—he stood at White’s, scanning the occupants. Spotting two of his former compatriots seated around a bottle, he limped toward them.

Lord St. Ives noticed his approach and raised his quizzing glass. “Can it be?” he asked. “Despite that drunken sailor’s gait, the face is familiar. As I live and breathe, I do believe ’tis Tony Nelthorpe!”

Aldous Wexley looked over in surprise. “Why, so ’tis. Didn’t I hear you’d died after that great battle over in France, Nelthorpe? Watergreen or Watermarket—”

“Waterloo,” Tony inserted.

“Ah, yes. Months ago now, though.” Wexley waved a dismissive hand.

“So, Tony, tell us all about it, do! Soldiering bravely to keep England safe for—” St. Ives gestured with one languid hand “—reprobates like us.”

“Damme, Grantham told me that after he joined up, he was informed he might travel with only two trunks in his baggage,” Wexley said. “Two! Under such circumstances, how could a gentleman maintain a proper appearance?”

“There is the small matter of transporting food and munitions,” Tony observed dryly.

“I hear the mud was dreadful,” St. Ives said. “And the blood! Worse than a cockfight, I should imagine.”

Against his will, Tony’s mind returned to the battlefield as he’d seen it from his resting place beneath the two Polish lancers he’d killed after a cuirassier cut him off his horse: a sodden, muddy field of fallen men, some still, some writhing, under a pall of smoke reflected in the puddle whose reddened water lapped at his chin…

A shudder ran through him as bile rose in his throat. “Much worse than a cockfight.”

“Speaking of,” Wexley said with a broad wink, “have you seen the new dancers at Covent Garden? There’s a brown-haired chit who reminds me of my last ladybird. Such ankles! Such thighs!”

“You must present me to her tonight,” St. Ives replied. “Or there’s that new hell that just opened on Russell Street. Offers fine brandy and deep play, Nelthorpe, if you’d like to join me there. As I recall, you were a bit under the hatches when you left this sceptered isle.”

Wexley raised his glass. “To each his own vice.”

“Let’s broach another bottle before we go our separate ways, gentlemen.” St. Ives lifted his glass to Tony. “In honor of our dear Nelthorpe’s return from the dead.”

Tony silently returned the salute, the momentary warmth he’d felt at their offering a bottle in his honor swiftly dying. They don’t really want to know what happened in Portugal or the Pyranees or on the plain at Waterloo. Nor would they understand, even if you could find words to describe it.

As the chat continued through another bottle and then a third, talk of wagers and women punctuated by an argument between St. Ives and Wexley over the proper trimming of a waistcoat, Tony felt more and more isolated.

Once he had sat here, guzzling and chatting and thinking like these men, oblivious to anything beyond the streets of Mayfair. But the man who’d done so had died somewhere between the barren, windswept canyons of Spain and the bloody fields of Belgium.

Tony didn’t know who had taken his place. But whoever that man was, he no longer fit in here.

At length, the group stood to leave. “Which shall it be, Nelthorpe?” St. Ives asked, swaying on his feet. “Gaming with me? Or wenching with this fine gentleman?”

“I’m afraid I shall have to decline both offers tonight,” Tony said, not at all sorry. “My father awaits.”

St. Ives nodded gravely. “Matters of finance, of course. Chouse the old gentleman out of a few extra guineas, eh? He ought to owe you a stack of yellow boys for saving his purse by absenting yourself so long.”

With a final witticism from St. Ives, the men parted. Foreboding gathering in his gut, Tony hailed a hackney to return to the Nelthorpe townhouse—and confront at last his revered father, the Earl of Hunsdon.




Chapter Five


DESPITE REMINDING HIMSELF that he was a man grown, as he stood outside his father’s chamber, Tony had to quell the urge to straighten his neck cloth. After forbidding himself to do so, he rapped at the door and limped in.

Sipping from a mug of ale while his valet fastened stays around his bulging waist, the Earl of Hunsdon looked up in surprise. “Nelthorpe? Blast you, cub, how dare you barge in here with me en déshabillé, as if I were some damned theater strumpet you wanted to ogle?”

Anger welling up, Tony remained silent, subjecting his father, whom he’d seen thus far only from a distance, to a closer inspection. In addition to the increased girth the earl was attempting to conceal beneath a corset, his years of dissipation were clearly written in his reddened face and bloodshot eyes. Little remained of the strikingly handsome, godlike figure who had awed Tony in his youth.

“It’s good to see you, too, Father,” he said at last. “Had you summoned me any time this past three weeks, I should not have had to disturb you in your dressing room.”

The earl regarded his only son with disfavor. “I suppose you expect me to say I’m pleased you survived the war. Though why you had to go haring off on such a misadventure I never understood.”

“There was a small matter of pecuniary embarrassments that rendered my immediate removal from England rather imperative,” Tony replied through tightened lips. Apparently the earl chose not to recall—or had been too drunk that night to remember—Tony’s impassioned plea for funds to stave off disaster until he could make a recover. In reply to which the earl shouted for him to take himself off and not bother Hunsdon with his problems.

“Taken himself off” he certainly had, catapulting totally unprepared into the midst of Wellington’s army. But now to concentrate on the matter at hand.

“Let us dispense with the usual courtesies and proceed to the point. I need to know how things stand with our finances—what the current income is, what funds are available for me to draw upon. You must have realized some economies by pensioning most of the servants.”

Waving away his valet Baines, who discreetly withdrew, the earl replied, “Didn’t pension ‘em off, just dismissed ’em. Why should I pay to feed ‘em in retirement when they could go make themselves useful elsewhere? Would have sent Carstairs, too, but the old goat wouldn’t go.”

Though he immediately recognized Hunsdon’s comments for the diversionary tactics they were, his father’s blatant breach of an earl’s duty to his retainers brought Tony’s simmering rage to a boil.

“Are you implying you’re no longer paying Carstairs?”

“Damme, why should I? Told the old relic to leave.”

“How could someone of his advanced age find other employ? Besides, he has worked here all his life!”

“And had the satisfaction of serving the Nelthorpes, whose forbears rode with the Conqueror while his ancestors were dirty Saxon serfs living on roots and berries.”

The satisfaction of serving the Nelthorpes. As he gazed at his father’s bloated face, a succession of images flashed through Tony’s mind: the gritty marble of the entryway…the faded draperies at every window…the parsimony of furniture, most of it dust-covered…Carstairs’s shabby livery and careworn face.

“Well, why are you still standing there?” the earl demanded. “Take yourself off and leave me in peace.”

In a rage too deep for words, Tony held his father’s gaze until, flushing, the earl dropped his eyes. With hands that trembled, he seized his ale and drank deeply.

Tony continued to stare at the man he’d once so admired and feared, whose rare praise he’d previously tried so hard to earn. A man whom, perhaps subconsciously, he’d spent most of his life seeking to emulate. But this aging roué was no longer the man Tony Nelthorpe wanted to see when he gazed into his own mirror twenty-five years hence.

He might have little idea how to avoid that fate, but he could stand firm against his father today. I fled my responsibilities once at your command, he thought, setting his jaw. I’ll not do so again.

“I shall leave once I know the status of our funds.”

“If you’re so concerned about blunt, then by all means do something!” his father retorted. “Since you managed to survive the war—though the devil knows how, as you’ve never been successful at anything before—make yourself useful. Indeed, I had intended to discuss this with you directly upon your return, but I couldn’t abide that revolting limp. Which, I’m relieved to note, has improved.”

“Thank you, Papa, for your concern about my health.”

The earl threw him a dagger glance but, to Tony’s surprise, did not deliver the hide-blistering reprimand he’d expected. Clearing his throat instead, his father continued, “Snabble yourself an heiress to restore the family coffers, like I did. Preferably a landed chit. You can send her back to one of her properties when she gets tiresome, while her lovely blunt stays here in London.”

As you did. For the first time, he began to understand his mother’s penchant for young footmen.

“Before I begin ‘snabbling,’ I must know just how empty the family coffers are.”

Giving him a petulant look, his father shrugged. “Talking pounds and pence like some damned clerk! That’s what comes of your overlong association with army riffraff. Hardly a true gentleman to be found among ‘em.”

True men, if not gentlemen, Tony thought. But it was useless to attempt conveying such an idea to his father. “I’ll act the clerk if I must.”

“Can’t expect me to keep something as vulgar as figures in my head. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he waved Tony toward the door “—I must finish dressing.”

“I shall be happy to withdraw, as soon as you sign this document—” Tony drew out a paper from his pocket “—authorizing me to act on your behalf.” Striding to the desk, Tony seized the quill and presented it to his father.

“Accosting me in my own chamber, preaching like some damned Methodist,” the earl grumbled. But under Tony’s unwavering gaze, he reluctantly took the pen and scrawled his signature. “Don’t come here again until you can tell me you’ve bedded an heiress.”

Pocketing the note, Tony made the earl an exaggerated leg that sent an immediate shaft of pain through his knee. “You may be assured of that, sir,” he said, and limped out.

Snabble an heiress, he thought as he traversed the hall. A directive, he supposed, given to sons from time immemorial by profligate fathers who’d run their estates into ruin. Was he supposed to prowl the City, searching for a Cit seeking a title for his daughter and with little discrimination about who provided it? Or travel to India to sweep some Nabob’s widow off her ill-bred feet?

He had to smile wryly. Only one heiress had ever interested him—a nabob’s daughter, who was now a widow.

Unfortunately, being the widow of that exemplary soldier and hero, Colonel Garrett Fairchild, she would never seriously consider the hand of a reprobate-turned-who-knew-what like Anthony Nelthorpe.

No matter how many sparks struck between them.

Melancholy settling over him, Tony wandered to the library. Though he’d not awakened until midafternoon, he felt unaccountably weary. For three long years of boredom and battle, through fear, privation and pain, he’d cherished the notion that once he finally returned to England, life would resume some normal, satisfying pattern.

Well, Tony old man, it appears homecoming wasn’t quite the deliverance you’d anticipated.

Though he’d never really fit in with his fellow army officers, still there had been the bond that comes from shared danger and privation and the knowledge that one is doing something important. As he sat in the darkened library, Tony had never felt more lonely.

His knee ached and his grumbling stomach reminded him of the dinner he’d not eaten at his club. Neither the beauties in Covent Garden’s Green Room nor the green baize tables of Pall Mall beckoned.

With a sigh, he limped to the shelves to find his favorite volume of Cicero. He could wait until morning for a meal; Betsy had doubtless already retired for the night, and he’d been hungry before.

Tomorrow he’d ride into the City to the solicitor’s office and finally discover just how low the Nelthorpe fortunes had fallen.



SHORTLY AFTER DAWN the following morning, the lure of Betsy’s fresh hot coffee and perhaps a bit of last night’s stew lured Tony down what still seemed an endless number of stairs to the kitchen. After leaning against the door while he caught his breath, he hobbled in and called a good morning to the rotund woman standing before the stove. “Ah, that coffee smells like the elixir of the gods!”

“Master, ye be up early this morn!” the cook said.

“Army habits are hard to break, I suppose.”

“No need for ye to clamber down all them stairs. If’n you was to have rung, I’da sent up your coffee.”

“But then I wouldn’t be able to try to charm you out of some toast to accompany it—or perhaps something from last night’s supper?”

“It ain’t fittin’ fer ye to be eatin’ here, not with ye a man grown, but no sense ye takin’ that leg up two flights of stairs. Sit ye at the table and I’ll have ye some kidneys, eggs and bacon ready in a trice.”

Once, Tony might have thought himself too important to take his porridge in the servants’ kitchen, but after reaching the Peninsula he’d eaten in much humbler venues. Gratefully he took the seat indicated. “What would I do without you to watch over me?”

“Haven’t I been doing so, ever since you sneaked down here begging more of my gingerbread when you wasn’t but a lad?” She sniffed, her brows creasing in disapproval. “Seein’s how them what shoulda watched ye seldom did. Besides, I’ll never be forgettin’ what you did for my da, may he rest in peace!”

Uncomfortable, Tony opened his lips to make some light remark, but the cook cut him off with a wave. “Nay, don’t go on about bein’ too castaway to remember all the blunt ye gave me for his medicines. For all yer seemin’ careless ways, ye’re not like him.” Her face darkening, she jerked her chin toward the ceiling. “Ye may tell me I oughtn’t be sayin’ it, but say it I will! I woudda left last winter with the others and took Carstairs with me, too, save fer knowin’ sooner or later ye’d be comin’ home.”

As disturbed as he was touched by her confidence, Tony searched rather desperately for some teasing remark to defuse it. Don’t be looking at me as if I were some sort of savior, he wanted to shout.

“I…I’m afraid your confidence may be misplaced,” he said instead.

“Stood up to him last night, Baines said.” Betsy nodded approvingly. “’Tis the first step, Master Tony.”

“I shall certainly try to put things right, Betsy.”

She nodded again. “Well, here’s yer breakfast now, so tuck into it! Bye-the-bye, if’n ye is to need aught at any hour, ye just ring, and me or Sadie will see to it. Can’t be healing that leg on an empty stomach.”

He should know by now, Tony thought ruefully, that there was nothing one’s servants didn’t learn. He might have attempted a reproving reply, but at that moment Betsy placed in front of him a plate heaped high with such a delicious-smelling assortment of bacon, eggs, sausage and kidneys that his mouth was fully occupied watering in anticipation of that first bite. To delay would be an insult to Betsy’s skill.

“Good, hearty food and lots of it—that’ll do the trick,” she said as she refilled his coffee cup.

“Excellent! Ah, the times out of mind we slept on a soggy field, dreaming of waking to a meal like this!”

She smiled with gratification. “Thank’ee, Master Tony. Meadows said to tell you your horse be ready whenever you are.”

Half an hour later, Tony guided Pax into Hyde Park and gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of a hard gallop.

Good fresh English air did do wonders to clear the mind, and with a full belly, he could almost believe he was capable of anything. By now it was blindingly clear that at least Hunsdon’s London retainers were looking to the heir, rather than the head of the family, to halt the downward slide of the family fortunes.

But by the time he guided the spent gelding to a walk, his initial euphoria began to fade.

He was near to thirty, with a face most women called handsome and a tall figure that, in the days before a limp disfigured it, had been deemed striking. He still rode well, played—despite his sire’s disparagement—an excellent hand of cards or dice, could drink nearly any man under the table, and was accounted a witty conversationalist. But he had no profession, little knowledge of estate management, none of handling investments and, most likely, next to no blunt to start with.

How was he to rescue the fortunes of his family—and safeguard the retainers in his care?

Well, he might be a farce of a “hero,” who’d puked his stomach dry before every engagement and barely been able to hold the reins, his hands shook so badly before the charge, but somehow he’d managed to get through years of war with most of his troopers alive. Even better, England held no adversaries wishful of putting a bullet through him.

Except perhaps, he thought with a grin, Jenna Fairchild.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, suddenly he saw in the distance a lady whose graceful carriage on horseback proclaimed her identity as loudly as a herald’s trumpet. Signaling Pax to slow, he gave himself up to admiring her.

A little voice whispered that Lady Fairchild’s fortune would go a long way to restoring his shattered finances. But attractive as the idea might be of wedding—and bedding—the delectable Jenna Montague, he couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter in London who’d have less chance than he of getting his grubby fists on the Montague wealth.

Though he might—depending on just how dire was the news soon to be imparted to him by the family solicitor—be able to stomach cozening up to some Cit’s daughter more interested in his title than his person, Jenna Montague’s kindness, valor and integrity demanded more in a partner than a half-crippled man with a sordid past. She would want another Garrett, a man of substance, courage and impeccable reputation—none of which virtues Tony had any pretense of possessing.

Best to think of her as his battlefield angel and leave it at that. As he’d learned long ago, depending too much on one’s paragons was a mistake.

A memory suddenly flooded back, bringing a slight smile to his lips. He hadn’t thought of Miss Sweet, his much-older sister’s governess, in years. Probably because the young man he’d become after leaving childhood had not been looking to angels for his model.

She’d been the only friend he could remember from his lonely childhood, scolding when he tormented his timid tutor, challenging him to prove he could learn Latin and Greek, praising his efforts, laughing with him.

Listening to him.

And then one winter night, Miss Sweet had suddenly left Hunsdon Park without a word of goodbye.

Gathering his courage, he’d inquired about her, prompting his father to a diatribe on the perfidy of females in general and Miss Sweet in particular. Giving almost no notice, the ungrateful jade had abandoned them, his father said, to accept a better-paying position.

Tony had been devastated.

Yes, admiring from afar allowed one to focus on the inspiring illusion that perfect goodness existed. Heaven knows, he could use some inspiration.

Despite the sensible conclusion that he ought to keep his distance, as always, something about Jenna drew him irresistibly. Knowing no one would forestall his approach—her groom was grazing his horse at the opposite side of the park—he couldn’t help but follow her.

She was riding a different mount this morning—surely not her own, for even now that she’d reached the open expanse of Rotten Row, the placid beast seemed disinclined to exceed a trot. Wondering how long so intrepid a rider would content herself with so stodgy a pace, he had to grin when, a moment later, she gave the mare a light tap with her riding crop.

The smile faded when the horse jerked to a halt, then reared up, lunging and bucking as she attempted to unseat her rider. Before he could even shout a warning, Jenna tumbled sideways out of her saddle and landed facedown on the rocky path.




Chapter Six


SPURRING PAX TO A GALLOP, Tony reached Jenna before her groom even noticed his mistress had fallen. Quickly he secured his horse and limped as fast as he could to where she lay, still ominously unmoving.

Awkwardly he lowered himself to the ground, the familiar taste of fear bitter in his mouth. “Jenna!” he called, patting her shoulder. “Jenna, can you hear me?”

There was no response. He touched her wrist, overjoyed to feel a faint pulse against his shaking fingers. Though she lay with her face in the mud, he dare not move her until he knew the extent of her injuries.

Detachment settling in, he traced down her limbs, then up from the base of her neck. Relief flooded him when he determined that, as best he could tell, the spine appeared intact and no bones had been broken.

By this time the thunder of approaching hoofs told him the groom must have finally seen his fallen mistress. A moment later, a panic-faced lad skidded to a stop beside Tony. “Cor, m’lord, be she dead?”

“She breathes still—no thanks to your diligence,” Tony said acidly. “Help me turn her—gently!”

Tony discovered, as he’d suspected, a purpling contusion on her temple. Her even breathing and steady pulse reassured him somewhat, but he knew a brain injury could be as dangerous as a fracture to the spine. She might also have suffered other, not yet apparent hurts.

Though he was tempted to wait for a carriage to convey her home more gently, his battlefield experience argued that the longer she lay on the cold ground, the greater the danger that she might never recover consciousness or that the chill might settle in her lungs.

Horseback it must be.

“You—” he gestured to the boy “—fetch my horse, over there. Once I’ve mounted, you must hand Lady Fairchild up to me as gently as you can and lead us back to Fairchild House. I don’t want to jostle her any more than necessary, but we must get her home as quickly as possible and summon a physician. Return for her mount later.”

While the lad did as he was bid, Tony thanked God he had his horse available. With his arms well-developed from wielding a saber, lifting Jenna from the groom and balancing her before him in the saddle proved easy enough a task. He knew he’d never have been able to support her weight, slight as it was, were he on foot.

For an instant Tony wondered why Jenna’s seemingly docile mount had suddenly turned so fractious. Far too worried about her condition to spare more than that moment on the thought, he hugged her limp body to his chest.

The transit home seemed to take an age. By the time Upper Brook Street came into view, he was sweating, even his well-trained muscles strained by the effort of holding her as motionless as possible.

Just as they reached the townhouse, Jenna moved at last. Eyes still shut, she murmured and nestled against Tony, as if snuggling into his warmth. Or as if, slowly rousing from sleep, she were seeking her lover.

His body stirred at the thought and, despite his worry, he had to grin. Often as he’d dreamed of having Jenna Montague in his arms again, he’d never envisioned it happening quite like this.

Finally a Fairchild servant noticed them. “Someone from the house will assist us now,” Tony called to the groom. “Ride with all speed for the doctor.”

A moment later, a procession of servants began streaming out, among them Sancha, the Spanish maid who had accompanied Jenna all through the Peninsula.

“Madre de Dios, mi pobre señora!” she cried as she ran down the steps toward them. “What happened?”

“She fell from her horse,” Tony answered.

As the maid’s gaze lifted from her mistress to the man holding her, her eyes widened. “The Evil One!” she gasped.

So much for Sancha’s good opinion. But concern for Jenna outweighing his chagrin, he continued, “Get her into a warm bed as quickly as possible. A doctor was sent for.”

After carefully handing Jenna to a stout footman, he dismounted to follow. “Nay!” Sancha cried, stepping forward to block him and making the sign of the cross, as if to ward off the Evil Eye. “You may not enter!”

Before Tony could remonstrate, Lane Fairchild trotted down the stairs. He paused for a moment as the footman carrying Jenna passed him, his grim gaze scanning her pale face, then proceeded to halt before Tony.

“What outrage is this? If you have harmed my cousin, I shall call you out, even if you are a cripple!”

“Lady Fairchild fell while riding,” Tony said, ignoring the jibe about his condition and trying to hold his temper in check. “I assisted in carrying her home.”

Fairchild raised his eyebrows. “Jenna fell from her horse? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t give a damn what you believe. Question the groom about it—indeed, I’d like to ask him myself how such a thing happened. But for now, Sancha, go to your mistress. The doctor should be here any moment.”

Fairchild looked as if he would comment further, but chose to refrain. “I do thank you for seeing her home,” he admitted grudgingly. “Now I must tend to my cousin.”

With that, Fairchild ran back up the stairs. As the front door shut behind them, the rest of the servants dispersed. For a few moments Tony stood alone, debating whether or not to continue up the stairs and demand entry. But given Fairchild’s plainly demonstrated animosity, it was unlikely he’d be able to inveigle his way in. Though it galled him to leave before finding out how she was, there seemed little point in remaining.

He’d return later after the physician had examined her, he decided. He’d done all he could for Jenna, save keep vigil until the doctor came. What happened now was in the hands of her maid, her physician—and Jenna herself.

“Fight like the good soldier you are,” he murmured. And then, shoulders aching, he mounted Pax and set off.



TWO WEEKS LATER, Tony sat in one of the new hells off Pall Mall, an untasted drink at his elbow as, hand after hand, he raked in the guineas of his opponent, a lad too drunk to count the cards in his unsteady grip.

He felt a bit ashamed, relieving this castaway stripling of so much blunt. But the grim news imparted by the family solicitor when Tony had finally consulted him, after being turned away three times from the Fairchild mansion after Jenna’s accident, made the necessity of finding an immediate source of income starkly clear.

The earnings from the Nelthorpe estates, financially crippled like so many farming communities after the war’s end, had diminished to a trickle that would barely pay to seed this year’s crops. Not attempting to hide his disapproval, the solicitor told him that his father had sold or gambled away the investments left by Tony’s grandfather, mortgaged nearly every property it was possible to mortgage, and was in arrears in paying back even the interest.

Like his father, the solicitor advised him to head off the disaster by marrying an heiress. At least this man had the grace to remain silent when Tony, angry and despairing, snapped back at him to ask which fair flower of virginity had a rich Papa, still in possession of his senses, who might agree to offer Tony her hand.

Perhaps something could be worked out, the man had said weakly. On that hopeful note, they’d parted.

He’d gone back to gaming to pay off the most pressing bills he’d found stuffed in his father’s desk. Thanks to a merciful Providence, thus far, he’d been winning.

But he’d gambled too long not to know that, skillfully and soberly as he was now playing, his luck wouldn’t last forever. The blunt he’d accumulated after two week’s play offered a small cushion against immediate ruin, but gaming could be no more than a temporary solution.

His only real chance to recoup their fortune would be, as everyone suggested, to marry one.

However, Tony’s few forays into polite Society had confirmed that his soiled reputation, no doubt reinforced by the activities of his sire, remained intact. Society matrons with marriageable daughters in tow took care to avoid him. His older sister, now Lady Siddons, had distanced herself from her Hunsdon kin immediately after her marriage and could not be looked to for any assistance.

His chances of finding a suitably wealthy aristocratic bride were thus virtually nonexistent. Accepting that fact, he’d started a list of wealthy men in the City who, rumor said, had pretensions of seeing their daughters rise in Society. He still had no idea how he was to wangle introductions to those fathers, much less charm one into gifting him with his daughter and her fortune.

The question of how he’d manage to coexist afterward with a woman who was little more than the prize in this most high-staked of card games, he avoided considering.

As Tony watched his opponent struggle to extract a card, the lad’s face went slack and he slumped forward onto the table. With a resigned sigh, Tony hopped up to catch him before he slid onto the floor, then plucked a coin from the stack before him to give the servant who relieved him of the lad, instructing him to transport the boy home.

Who had ever done as much for him? he asked himself, irritated by the unpleasant taste that still lingered in his mouth as the youth was carried off. He could easily have trebled the bets, come away with a stack of the greenling’s vowels as well as all his blunt. A true Captain Sharp would have done just that.

As he idly gathered up the boy’s coins, his mind wandered back to Jenna. Though he’d called nearly every day, finally coaxing his way into seeing Sancha, he’d never been admitted to Jenna’s presence.

She was recovering, Sancha assured him. She thanked him for his flowers and the book he’d brought, one he’d laughed through and thought she would enjoy.

If only these long nights of smoke and liquor and bad company could earn him a future with a woman like that, a woman he could respect and care about and look forward to sharing his life with, maybe he wouldn’t feel so…alone.

Tony my lad, you’re growing maudlin, he told himself. When, after all, had he ever not been alone?

“Tony Nelthorpe! By heaven, I see you made it out of hospital after all!”

Recognizing the man who’d hailed him, Tony’s melancholy dissolved in a surge of gladness.

“Ned Hastings!” he cried, rising to shake the hand being proffered. “You’re looking well yourself. Fully recovered from that episode in Belgium, I trust?”

“Yes, thanks to your timely intervention. And you?”

“Much better than when last you saw me.”

“Praise the Lord for that! But what are you doing here?” Hastings looked about them with disdain. “Thought if you wished to play, you’d take a chair at White’s.”

Shrugging, Tony offered him wine. “I decided to amuse myself in a setting with a more…varied clientele.”

“Everyone from old aristocracy to jumped-up Cits to Johnny Raws straight from the country.” Hastings’s grin faded as he took a glass. “Too many of our old Oxford mates now forever missing at White’s, eh?”

Leaving it to the jackals who never served.

“And the tulips who remained while the rest of us answered the call, one doesn’t wish to see,” Hastings concluded, giving voice to Tony’s thought.

“Indeed.”

After staring into the distance, Hastings shook himself, as if to break free of the ghostly fist of memory. “So, what are you doing, now that you’re up and about?” Hastings asked. “Understand the earl is up to his usual tricks. Can…can I do anything to assist?”

Tony felt his face flush. Having known him since Oxford, Hastings also knew he was perpetually purse-pinched. Discovering Tony in an establishment that possessed no pretensions to being aught but a gambling den, he could surely guess how things currently stood.

“You’ve already helped enough,” Tony replied. “Pax is a superior mount. Given my recent difficulties in navigating on my own two limbs, I should have been in bad case indeed had you not generously provided me with him.”

Hastings waved away Tony’s thanks. “’Twas little enough, considering that if you hadn’t ridden down the cuirassier who was about to gut me in Quatre Bras, I’d not be here drinking wine with you tonight.”

“If I hadn’t gotten him, someone else would have.”

“Perhaps, but you did, and I shall never forget that.” Hastings took a sip before saying diffidently, “My father’s investments in the India trade prosper. Should you find yourself a trifle under the hatches, I’m sure he—”

“No need. I shall come about shortly. As soon as I decide which tender virgin to honor with the offer of my hand,” he added, trying to keep bitterness from his voice.

“’Twould be a sensible solution,” Hastings said with a nod. “Have you anyone in mind?”

“I’m still, shall we say, reconnoitering the ground.”

Hastings’s eyes brightened and he set down his glass. “You remember ‘Guinea’ Harris, don’t you?”

“That corporal in first company who could shoot the center out of a yellow boy from fifty paces?”

“Yes. I saw him just last week. His father’s some sort of banker in the city, full of juice, if rumor can be believed. Perhaps you ought to call on him. Mr. Harris might be able to suggest suitable bridal candidates for a man who, like his son, survived Waterloo.”

Probably Banker Harris, like most people awed by the great and terrible victory over the French, thought “Waterloo survivor” was synonymous with “courage.”

Tony knew he didn’t qualify. But he couldn’t afford to be too finicky about honor. An influential City banker would be of great help in finding him an heiress to marry.

And so, despite his discomfort, he made himself say, “If the opportunity should arise, I’d like to meet him.”

“I’d be happy to arrange it. Mayhap ‘Guinea’ Harris’s papa can send some golden coins rolling in your direction!”

Tony murmured his gratitude. He ought to feel encouraged—and virtuous, that he’d made himself take this first step toward the solution everyone was recommending. A solution that was both logical and commonplace. Most men of his station married to secure alliances and fortunes.

Hadn’t he, once upon a time, urged Jenna to make just such a match—with him? Though, he recalled with a grin, the bargain had been rather one-sided: her fortune for his somewhat tarnished title. Ah, what a coxcomb he’d been!

But though he had certainly coveted her fortune, there had been something about Jenna, something beyond an undeniably strong physical attraction, that had drawn him and made the idea of marrying her compelling even to a man who scoffed at the notion of love and fidelity.

Her serenity, sense of honor and courage, perhaps, qualities that had resonated when tried by the adversities of war like the steel of the finest saber.

Qualities that drew him still.

Miss Sweet’s final legacy, he thought with a self-mocking smile. Somehow in his youth she’d managed to instill deep within him an ironic yearning for purity and valor, qualities he himself had never possessed. A yearning unlikely to be satisfied in the match between avarice and social advantage he was now contemplating.

Though he’d lately come to believe that courage, honor and fidelity were possible, he wasn’t sure he yet believed in lifelong, selfless love. Not for Anthony Nelthorpe.

So why did the notion of binding himself in a loveless marriage of convenience continue to seem so distasteful?




Chapter Seven


A WEEK LATER, JENNA REPOSED in the sitting room adjoining her chamber while Cousin Lane settled a shawl about her shoulders. “Rest a while longer, Jenna. I’ve business this morning, but this afternoon, if the weather holds fair, I shall try to tempt you out for a carriage ride.” He stroked her cheek gently. “Promise me you’ll consider it, eh? That pretty face is far too pale.”

“Thank you, cousin. I will consider it,” she answered politely, then sighed with relief when he exited the room.

She turned her gaze to the window. It was fair today, she noted, though whether it was sun or rain mattered little to her. A book lay on the table beside her, a gift, Sancha told her, from Lord Nelthorpe—of all people! And though she found the author, one Jane Austen, quite clever, Jenna hadn’t read more than a page.

Her unfocused gaze caught on the play of dust motes as they rose and fell in a sunbeam. Drifting, like she was.

Sancha would push her to ride out with Cousin Lane. Probably better to go with him than be maneuvered into accompanying Lady Montclare, who was sure to press her once Aunt Hetty informed the sisters during their daily call that the doctor had pronounced her fully recovered.

“Fully recovered.” How little the doctor knew!

It seemed someone was always trying to bully her into doing this or that, when all she wished to do was sit in her chair or lie in her bed with her face to the wall and remain in that blessed, blank place without thought or feeling in which she’d floated since her accident.

She remembered nothing between riding toward the park that morning and waking, like a swimmer submerged, to a flicker of shapes and a distant murmur of voices. Compelled by some urgency, despite the pain in her body, she’d made herself battle upward to the light, struggling to stay conscious and focus on the words the doctor was uttering to Sancha. A weeping Sancha, who wrung her hands and whispered “My poor lady.”

Blow. Head. Recover. Lost. Son.

With a supreme effort she moved one hand to her belly, suddenly aware of pain there that nearly equaled the pounding in her head.

Sorry. Nothing. I. Could. Do.

“Here’s tea,” Sancha’s voice startled her. The maid set the tray on the side table. Frowning, she plucked the shawl from Jenna’s shoulders and tossed it aside.

“No more sitting, lazy one! Today you go out into the sun.” The maid went to pull a pelisse from the wardrobe.

Jenna eyed the garment with distaste. “I don’t wish to go out.”

“You did not wish to stop medicine. Or see cousins, or los señoras with fancy gowns and scorpion tongues. Ah, much you have lost! But you must go on.” Sancha poured a cup of tea. “Drink now. You are colonel’s daughter, eh?”

I don’t know who I am, Jenna thought. But after a moment, having neither strength nor interest enough for a battle of wills, as she had since Sancha had weaned her from the laudanum and forced her back to the world of consciousness, Jenna followed orders and took a sip.

“I bring this.” Sancha held up an envelope. “From the Handsome One with the rogue’s eyes who waits below.”

Nelthorpe? Jenna wondered with a faint stir of interest. But that brief emotion faded once she discovered the note Sancha presented came from Mr. Fitzwilliams.

Idly she scanned his standard expression of regret, about to put it aside when the last two lines snagged her attention. “Though I hesitate to intrude upon your grief, my aunt, Lady Charlotte, begs leave to visit. She has suffered as you suffer and earnestly desires to help.”

Could anyone help? Kind thoughts aside, Lady Charlotte Darnell was but a stranger, and Jenna was already surrounded by surfeit of well-meaning strangers.

How she longed for the strong, sympathetic shoulder of Harry or Alastair, the comforting arms of her dead mother! Only Sancha knew her intimately enough to appreciate the devastation of her loss—and she had never borne a child.

Suddenly a deep desire swept through her to meet this woman who, if Jenna were interpreting Fitzwilliams’s note aright, had lost a child, as she had.

“Is Mr. Fitzwilliams still below?”

“Aye, mistress. A beautiful lady waits with him.”

“Show them up, please. And fetch more tea.”

Sancha smiled and dipped a curtsy. “Si, mistress!”

The moment after Sancha left, Jenna regretted the impulse to allow their visit. Had she not already sustained a steady stream of visitors, patting her hand and expressing their deepest condolences?





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