Chapter Eighteen

The sound of laughter gave them away. Stanley had guessed his brothers’ location correctly on the second try. They were on the back acres, following the property line between Lampton Park and Layton’s estate, Farland Meadows, just past a copse of trees they’d more than once pretended was Sherwood Forest when they were children.

“Halloo!” Stanley called out as he rode toward them.

Both blond heads turned in his direction. “Halloo yourself, you sluggard!” Philip called back. “About time you got a little exercise.”

Layton chuckled, and Philip grinned.

“What convinced you to finally join us?” Layton asked when Stanley came within conversational range.

“Philip, you have to return to the house.” Stanley locked his gaze with Philip’s, who grew instantly grave. “Sorrel’s had a fall”—Philip drew in a sharp breath—“on the stairs.” Stanley saw the panic in his brother’s face. “She appears to be well enough. Habbersham’s been sent for.”

Philip didn’t pause for even a moment. His powerful black horse sprang at his command and flew across the grounds toward the manor house.

Stanley followed, surprised that he maintained his seat with less effort than he would have expected at a fast canter. He didn’t dare try a full gallop, however.

Layton matched his horse’s gait to Stanley’s. “Was Sorrel badly hurt?” he asked.

“She was conscious, and though she seemed to be in some pain, I do not believe she was badly injured. I’m more concerned that she seemed ill.”

“Philip said she’s been unwell.”

Stanley nodded. “How is Marion feeling?”

No hints of concern entered Layton’s expression. “She is still running us all into the ground. She is a force of nature, my wife.”

She was also precisely what Layton had needed to breathe life back into his home and family. All of Stanley’s older brothers had found women who brought them joy and made their lives whole. They, lucky dogs that they were, actually got to keep their beloveds with them.

Beck informed Stanley and Layton upon their arrival at the house that Lady Lampton was safely in her chambers with the dowager countess at her side, along with Lord Lampton, who had only just arrived. Where, then, was Marjie?

“And the doctor has been sent for?” Layton pressed.

Beck managed to look haughtily offended without undermining his demeanor of servitude one iota. “Captain Jonquil’s orders were carried out to the letter, I assure you, Mr. Jonquil,” he said with palpable dignity.

“I’m in the suds now,” Layton muttered under his breath, turning back toward the front steps, where a groom held his horse in anticipation of his departure. “No one questions Beck’s competency with impunity.”

Stanley smiled a little at that. All the Jonquil boys had at one time or another felt the steely stare of their butler’s disapproval.

“Send word to the Meadows if there is anything I can do.” Layton mounted his horse with a fluid grace that had once marked all the brothers’ equestrian endeavors. Stanley had made a quick and exceedingly awkward dismount when they’d reached the house, doing so at precisely the moment Layton was most occupied with his own dismount.

Stanley didn’t watch him ride off. He recognized the stirrings of jealousy and bitterness and preferred not to wallow in them. He, thankfully, had regained his ability to sit a horse and reminded himself of that fact several times as he crossed to the stairwell and slowly made his way up.

For months, people had been spouting lists of all the things he had to be grateful for. As he’d been faced with the army sawbones amidst the cries of his fellow mutilated soldiers, he’d been told to be grateful the amputation was to be below the knee and not above. While he’d screamed in agony as his uniform had been ripped free of the oozing burn that covered his lower arm and hand, he’d been told to be grateful the burn wasn’t larger. As the infectious fever he’d fought afterward raged, he’d been assured he was lucky he was still alive. Except, if he’d been dead, there would have been no pain.

Such maudlin sentiments generally indicated he was in need of rest. He walked slowly toward his room, moving a little awkwardly, the ride having jostled his artificial leg slightly out of position. He really needed to figure out how to improve the fit, preferably before being recalled.

Marjie sat in a chair in the corridor, head hung, hands clasped in her lap. Was Sorrel worse off than he’d thought?

“Marjie?”

She looked up, and his heart felt as though it had stopped. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, Stanley!” The way she said that exact phrase tugged at him every time. Her voice held the oddest mixture of sadness and budding hope—as though she were entirely certain that he alone had the ability to soothe and comfort her.

Did she feel that way about Lord Devereaux? Before he had time to determine if that thought arose more out of triumphant satisfaction or pure and simple jealousy, Marjie rose from her chair and essentially flung herself into his arms. In an instant, his uncertainty and frustration melted away. Holding his angel was all the salve he ever needed.

He put a hand out to the wall to steady himself. He needed a place to sit before he fell over. “Let’s find a quiet room,” he suggested.

She didn’t object but stayed tucked against his side, his arm wrapped about her as they stepped out into the corridor and began a quick search. A small sewing room not far distant sat empty. He left the door quite appropriately open as he guided her inside and helped her onto one side of the small sofa before sitting beside her. She needed comforting, and he needed her presence to ward off the last remnants of his own heavy mood.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, turning her face in toward his chest—an unforeseen but much appreciated arrangement. He carefully shifted his right arm and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“What has happened, dearest?” he said.

“Sorrel threw me out of her room.” The sobs she attempted to hold inside shook against him. “She told me I had turned into a fussy old dragon, and the moment Mater came inside, Sorrel ordered me to ‘take myself off.’”

“My sweet Marjie,” Stanley whispered. How desperately she wished to help her sister. How much she worried over her. If Sorrel weren’t so determinedly independent, Marjie’s sometimes overly solicitous ministrations would not rub her so entirely the wrong way.

“I tried so very hard not to fuss,” Marjie said. “I only said that I hoped she had not hurt herself badly.”

“Your words were quite thoughtful and not at all fussy.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked with a hint of relief.

“I really do,” he said. “You must remember that Sorrel dislikes feeling dependent upon people, so she would have taken exception to your words regardless of how innocuous they were.”

Marjie raised her head and looked at him. How was it possible that even with a reddened nose and tear-streaked face, she was still the most beautiful woman Stanley had ever seen?

“She did not complain when Mater asked her essentially the same thing.” Her eyes were positively pleading with him for a reassuring explanation.

“I suspect she feels her dependency even more acutely when she requires assistance from or is a source of concern to you because you are her younger sister. As the elder, she likely believes she ought to be the one doing the worrying and assisting.”

Marjie’s brow furrowed in obvious contemplation. “Mater is rather like a mother to her.”

“Yes. And one does not feel awkward being assisted and coddled by one’s mother.”

“I suppose not.” Another tear leaked from her eyes. Stanley wiped it away with a gentle swipe of his thumb. Marjie covered his hand with hers where it rested against her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into the caress.

It was not, he thought with a jolt of sudden hope, the action of a lady engaged to someone else. Perhaps she had not as yet accepted Lord Devereaux’s proposal. Perhaps he had not lost her as entirely as he’d feared.

He didn’t allow the idea to remain. He had only that moment and perhaps a handful of others before he returned to his duties. With an effort of Herculean proportions, Stanley broke the contact between them. He kept a soft smile on his face to take any sting out of his pulling away.

Marjie returned his smile with a slightly tremulous one of her own. She leaned her head against him once more. Heaven help him, he didn’t have the strength to pull away. “Thank you, Stanley.”

“Thank you?”

“I always feel better, happier, when you are with me.”

“As do I,” Stanley whispered, hardly believing he had made the admission.

They sat in silence as the minutes passed. Stanley kept his arm around her shoulders, breathing in the sweet scent of her and forcing thoughts of his departure out of his mind.

“Please do not take this amiss,” she said after a moment, “but I hope the army does not wish for you to return anytime soon.”

Stanley smiled. How could he possibly take that statement as anything other than a sentiment in complete accord with his own feelings on the matter?

“I do hope to see you recovered, but I will miss you when you are gone. Things will not be the same with you away. I have been hoping, at the very least, you will be here for Christmas. That is only seven weeks from now. Certainly you will be allotted that much time.”

“Actually—” The words seemed to catch in Stanley’s throat. He hadn’t admitted to anyone that his time was swiftly coming to an end.

Marjie must have sensed his sudden tension. She pulled away from him and twisted enough to look directly into his face, her expression quite noticeably worried.

“I have received word from Horse Guards that a representative is being sent in three weeks.” Stanley pushed the words out quickly.

“Only three weeks?” Her face paled as she spoke.

Stanley nodded.

“Do you think—” She blinked rapidly. “Do you think you will be recalled to your regiment?”

“I do.”

Her eyes locked with his, a question lurking in her gaze, though Stanley couldn’t say what that question could be. “In France?”

Stanley nodded.

Her look had not grown any less questioning. She watched him with an air of expectation. “When do you think you will return to England?”

Stanley dropped his gaze to her hands clasped together on her lap. Tension radiated from her posture. “I do not anticipate returning anytime soon,” he said. There was no predictable schedule in the army.

When she did not respond after several long moments, Stanley lifted his eyes to her face. Still she wore that expression of uncertain anticipation. “Will you miss . . . England when you are gone?”

That slight pause caught Stanley’s attention. He did not think she had asked about potential homesickness. “I will miss England,” he said. “And I will miss you.”

To his surprise, she didn’t look reassured or relieved at his admission. If anything, her countenance seemed to fall further. She gave a tiny nod, her eyes dropping away from his face.

“I—I should—” She rose from the sofa and glanced only briefly back at him before hurrying from the room.

He knew he’d said something wrong but had no idea what it might be.