London, England

September 1815

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A cannon blared in the near distance, followed by a command to charge, and the firing of muskets. It was so close, Lady Colette Hughes flinched, halting her neat stitching long enough to calm herself and steady her hand once more before plunging her needle into the broken, torn flesh of the soldier on the gurney. The thread pulled easily through the ripped skin, staunching the flow of blood from where the tip of a bayonet had been thrust into her patient’s side during battle.

She pulled the thread taut and doubled back before leaning close to tie and bite off the end. There was no time to cut the string or for proper cleansing. Men would die long before infection set in if she did not complete her tasks efficiently and with swift, deft fingers.

The mud beneath her feet sucked at her worn boots as she stepped away from the table to allow another man to give the injured soldier a dose of laudanum to keep the pain from overtaking him.

She was uncertain when the rain from the storm had seeped into her workspace as the hours had melted into days of endless labor.

Acidic rust, the stench of fresh blood, filled the small medical tent she’d been assigned once the battle had begun two days prior. She’d argued men could not be properly treated when exposed to the harsh elements and the rain that pelted the area. Within the enclosure, the smell of rotting flesh, blood, and human waste was overpowering, yet Colette—Lady Lettie, as the soldiers called her—was determined to complete her task of aiding the wounded, regardless of the subpar conditions.

Lettie understood how fortunate she’d been to be chosen to journey with her husband’s infantry regiment, and she would not let these men down. Six years of endless, mind-numbing travel, battles spanning several countries, and caring for wounds as insignificant as a dog bite to injuries as shocking as severed limbs and missing eyes.

War was not a kind master who rewarded the loyal with a future of happiness. It was a cruel bitch who stole a man’s innocence and left him with nightmares he could not escape—even during his waking hours.

For the few women like Lettie, who’d dedicated and lost their own innocence to the hardships of battle and military service, the visions of wrecked bodies torn apart by cannon fire, musket shot, or rifle bullet did not ever go away. Alcohol to dim the hell of each waking hour was not an option for her. Many men—and their families back home in England—depended on her skill with a needle and thread, her steady hand when extracting shrapnel, and her knowledge of mixing powders to help with the brutal pain of the most severe injuries.

“Lady Lettie!” a man shouted, pulling back the flap on the tent. “M’lady. I brought him as quick as me feet could run.”

Gus hurried into the tent, dropping the flap closed behind him and cutting off the sparse light from outside. A man was slung over his shoulder, not moving, and Lettie could see the blood soaking into Gus’s coat. Clothing of any sort was as hard to come by as decent rations of food, and now Gus’s only protection from the cold rain was ruined, the acidic, rusty odor would likely last just as long as the stain.

“Over here, Gus.” Lettie waved the soldier to the only empty gurney remaining. “What injury should I prepare for?” She rushed to the small makeshift cabinet made from the discarded wood pieces of a broken-down wagon. Pulling the door wide, she inspected her ever dwindling stock of supplies. If the battle lasted much longer, she’d be useless to the wounded. Even her scraps of torn fabric for dressing wounds were almost gone.

“He be hit by a cannon and then pierced clean through by a fifer,” Gus huffed.

Lettie heard the man swing the injured soldier onto the gurney as she collected all she’d need to treat the most severe wounds. The hurt soldier didn’t so much as protest the jarring movement when his body hit the stiff board.

With as many supplies as she could carry, Lettie turned to her patient, muttering a quick prayer for the man. She trudged back through the muck, deepening by the hour from the continued onslaught of rain as it seeped into the tent. She sent another prayer of gratitude heavenward that at least she had a tent over her head and wasn’t made to tend the wounded soaking wet.

She organized the bottles, poultices, and dressings on the small, tilting table beside her newest patient. “Gus, is he coherent?”

“No, m’lady.” Gus removed his cap and clutched it before him, water streaming to the ground at his feet as his fingers gripped it, wringing out the rain. “Knocked senseless by the blast.”

Lettie took in the prone form lying face down. “Can you roll him over so I can assess any injuries to his face and head?”

The man hesitated.

“We haven’t all night, Gus,” she huffed. “You know I cannot manhandle this soldier on my own.”

The man sighed, his shoulders hunching, but he stepped forward and grasped the injured soldier by his midsection.

“Easy now,” Lettie coached him. “We cannot risk harming him further. He has lost much blood.”

As Gus carefully rolled the man over, another round of cannon fire erupted, and the ground shook beneath Lettie. Answering rifle shots filled the air, and the clank of swords and daggers rang on the breeze.

Gus’s movement revealed a face she knew not only by sight but also by touch, smell, and even sound. She would know his shallow, leisurely breathing anywhere. Or the smell of the fresh scent he preferred. Even her fingers recognized the soft, even curve of his jaw and the dimple that showed when he laughed.

“Gregory?”

“I didna mean for ye to see him like this—“

“My love!” Lettie dropped the decanter of liquor she’d held in preparation of cleaning the soldier’s open wounds—her husband’s open wounds. The man was no longer a stranger. The bottle struck the ground and sank into the mud, not shattering. “Gregory! Can you hear me?”

But he remained still.

His chest didn’t rise or fall.

His eyes remained open, staring directly at her, yet devoid of life.

---

“My lady.” A rough hand shook her shoulder. “We are arriving at The George shortly.”

Lettie’s eyes fluttered open to find not Gus, but an elderly man who’d joined her in the coaching carriage in Dover. The rocking beneath her was not due to cannon fire but the moving conveyance. And no scent of decay or drying blood hung in the air.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he continued.

She pushed up straight from her slouched position, her head tilted and leaned against the side of the carriage. She’d been lucky enough to gain a seat closest to the window. Her head pounded, and her neck ached from hours slumped awkwardly in sleep—a fitful, dark slumber that had given her no relief from the exhaustion she’d been unable to escape since that June day at Waterloo.

The single instant that had irrevocably changed every moment to come.

She’d awoken that day a married woman of over six years—and had ended it a war widow.

No husband, no home, no money, and no sense of future.

And only given a few days to reconcile all these facts before bidding farewell to Waterloo, packing her meager possessions, and setting off for England.

Lettie pulled her bonnet down to shield her watering eyes, though it was more intended to cover her short hair. In all the years since she’d shorn off her long, brown tresses, Lettie had never been embarrassed by her decision. Short hair was far easier to maintain and keep free of bugs while sleeping on the ground and traveling by foot. When she’d landed in Dover a few days prior, it had been with apprehension that she’d spent her remaining coin on a room with a decent bed to rest before her coach left two days later for London.

The other travelers had gone back to staring out the windows as they journeyed through the crowded, late-afternoon London streets, leaving her a spot of privacy to straighten her gown, button her overcoat, and secure her bonnet, ensuring that any wayward strands of unevenly cut hair were properly tucked. Her parents would likely not recognize her without her treasured tresses, famed as her only shining attribute. Long hair had always been one of the crowning glories of any proper English rose.

“Borough High Street stop!” a shout echoed in the crowded enclosed carriage. “The George. Only London stop.”

Lettie watched as the five other passengers scrambled to collect their belongings and prepare for departure. There was no need for her to do the same. She’d traveled from Waterloo with only a simple sack of her most treasured possessions. Mementos, a portrait of her and Gregory on their wedding day, and an extra set of clothes. It was all she was able to carry on her back after leaving the battlefield and traveling across the Channel back to her homeland.

She’d left England the daughter of an earl—Lettie’s mother a duchess in her own right—and returned a penniless widow.

The life she’d led before her marriage was of no significance to her. Lettie had never missed the finery and extravagance of town life. However, she did miss her husband. The hollowness in her chest grew ever more encompassing with each day that passed. Their love had been strong enough to endure years of hardships, traveling with the soldiers fighting Bonaparte. She’d come to terms with not starting her family and having children or the security of a home. She’d been willing to give all of that up to be with Gregory.

He’d been a brave, courageous man, dedicated to protecting all of Europe.

And now, she was left with no children, no place to call home, and without the man she’d promised to love and serve until her dying breath. She dashed away a rogue tear—she would not be reduced to a sobbing, weak female.

No one had told her his dying day would come before hers.

Every inch of her felt the loss of her soul mate.

Her heart barely beat, having lost the connection when his heart failed to beat.

Her fingers tingled restlessly, knowing they’d never again feel his warm skin against hers.

Her eyes no longer shone brightly at the thought of his return from a hard day’s work.

Her legs scarcely moved, realizing they would never carry Lettie into Gregory’s loving embrace again.

Lifting her gaze, she could only feel envy as she witnessed the couple nestled across from her, their hands clutched as they excitedly stared out the window, waiting for the carriage to stop. Pure jealousy spiked within her as the older man who’d shaken her awake caressed a small pearl brooch in his fingers…obviously belonging to someone he loved dearly and was likely to be reunited with soon.

It only served to remind her of how alone she was.

Soon, she would be reunited with her parents, yet she hadn’t seen them in many years. They hadn’t approved of Lettie’s decision to marry a man without a farthing to his name and no title to speak of—despite her having told them that he could provide for her. And that was only what had happened six years prior. What about all she’d seen and been through since departing England? They could not understand the horrors of battle, the ungodly sight of a man lying prone with missing limbs, or the notion of holding a loved one as they passed on from this cruel world.

What if they never understood her?

What would she do then? With no money, no means of supporting herself, and no home to call hers, Lettie was at the mercy of others.

It was exactly as she and Gregory had lived their married life, but they’d found comfort in knowing they both believed in the war in which they fought. And when things became too overwhelming, they had one another.

Calls of greeting sounded outside as the carriage halted in The George’s courtyard.

None of the good tidings and shouts of celebration were for her.

There was no way of knowing if her father had received her letter, informing him of her impending arrival. At best, her parents would be waiting to collect her. At worst, word had not reached them in time, and Lettie would need to find her own means of travel across London to her family’s townhouse.

She’d done much more with far less.

Though she was remorseful over deciding to spend her remaining coin—collected for her by the surviving soldiers to make her way home—on a warm room and a decent bed. She hadn’t even enough left over for a lukewarm bath to wash away the grime that had clung to her for more years than she cared to contemplate.

Waiting until everyone had disembarked the coach, Lettie stood and navigated the steps to the inn’s courtyard. The driver held her simple tote out to her as her eyes fought to acclimate to the bright afternoon sun.

The yard was eerily quiet for the midday hour.

Lettie glanced around, hoping to see a familiar face among the disbanding people.

Maybe her parents had made better time on their journey than planned; however, the position of the sun as it descended toward the horizon told Lettie it was three o’clock.

There was even the possibility that they had received her letter and had chosen not to come and collect her. It was their right. After all, Lettie had gone against their wishes on more than one occasion.

Instead of making a spectacle of herself by dissolving into tears in the courtyard, she hefted her bag onto her shoulder and made her way into the inn’s taproom to wait. No matter what their pasts held, her parents loved her. They’d often written to her over the years. Lettie was the only child of Lord Percival, and his wife, the Duchess of Essex, Lady Percival. As their only child, she was the heiress to her mother’s Dukedom—even though her father’s title and properties would be inherited by another male in the Percival line.

The dim interior of the taproom gave her a sense of ease that she hadn’t felt in years. A few moments without being under the constant watch of others, whether in camp, on the ship to Dover, or the crowded traveling coach. Maybe the barkeep would take pity and offer her a drink, though she had no coin to pay for it.

If not, Lettie would wait for an hour or two, at most, before setting off on foot.

Glancing around the taproom, filling quickly with afternoon clients, she spotted a table nestled in a darkened corner, away from the door and foot traffic as patrons moved about. The table appeared clean, and the stools acceptable.

The smell of stale food and drink and hints of cigar smoke lingering in the air were far more welcome than the ever present smell of rot and rust on the battlefield. Why then did it cause her unease? Even at its worst—raw sewage clinging to the city streets—the odor of London should infuse her with a sense of hope, yet, on the battlefield, Lettie had known who she was. She’d been infused with an immense amount of purpose.

The familiar aroma of her hometown only highlighted her sense of being alone; no purpose driving her and less sense of who she was.

Lettie started across the room, keeping her head down as she hoped to discourage undue attention, but the smell of a savory, rich meal had her chin lifting and her mouth salivating with hunger. Several men gathered around a table close to the bar, plates overflowing with food, and tankards of ale before them.

It was a meal fit for a king—certainly not the widow of a fallen soldier.

“Barkeep!” the gravelly voice of a patron called, waving his hand to gain the notice of the man behind the bar. “When does the mail coach arrive?”

Lettie halted, turning toward the voice—a very familiar deep tone, though she hadn’t heard it in many years. The rest of the conversation between the patron and barkeep was lost to her as she assessed the back of the man who’d spoken.

A group of men pushed by her and took the table she’d been heading toward.

No matter. She turned back to the gentleman at the bar. His back faced her, but his identity could not be hidden. Lettie knew the man too well, even after all these years.

A tendril of nostalgia coursed through her as the memories flooded her, pushing away her recent loss and filling her with a sense of youthful innocence.

Lettie longed to close her eyes and allow his voice to wash over her, a voice that had always been comforting…a feeling of home and security infused her.

Jet-black hair hung over the back of his collar. The length had been improper during her debut Season, and fashion had not likely changed since. His shoulders were tight, and his chin lifted with the arrogance of a man who knew his position all too well—so different from the young man she’d known, or thought she’d known. His tall frame sat heavily on the bar stool.

If he turned, would his midnight eyes—as black as his hair—be as bottomless as they’d been the final day she’d spoken with him, breaking the harsh news that she would marry another?

Lettie longed to run, depart The George before the man turned to find her staring.

But something deep within kept her rooted to the spot just inside the taproom, fearful that if she moved even an inch, her past misdeed would come crashing down upon her.