Prologue
Robert Andrew Edward Deverall, future fourth Duke of Blackstone and First Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Army, took in the ridiculously handsome young man clutching a letter in his broad hands on his hospital bed. A still, silent, pained figure in a sea of wounded men.
Rob’s stomach twisted with surprising anguish at the man’s rigid frame.
There were no tears streaking down the young officer’s sleek cheeks, but his face was hard and stony as if he’d suffered a thousand blows over the years. Even so, from that resigned yet pained expression, it was clear he could still feel the pain of whatever was in that epistle down to his very bone.
Yes, the young man’s agony was palpable in the thick, putrid air of the hospital tent. One could sense it over the moans and cries of men ravaged by Boney’s best shots, cannon, and sabers.
Robert stood for a moment in the shadows of the tent room in which so many men lay on the threshold of death, one foot over into the unknown, the other here in continual pain.
Despite the moans of men drifting in and out of consciousness, a few men who had not succumbed to their wounds were engaged in the lighter chatter of men playing dice to pass the time.
War could be hell. Hell? Some days he thought hell would be a place of light diversion compared to the things he’d seen. Somehow, he’d survived them, spiritually as well as physically.
It was down to the simple good fortune of having excellent, close friends, all of them future dukes. They’d all been sent to this war by fathers determined to prove their sons were more than limp-wristed, lace-wearing fools that minced about White Hall and the rooms of power tittering away like pox-riddled lunatics. Oh no, their fathers wished to show the world that they were like the dukes of old. Dukes who led men into war and made kings. And over the years, they had all become warrior dukes, each of them climbing to the romantic tellings of the magnificence that was England and its nobles in past generations.
But unlike Rob, this particular young man, sitting on the low-slung, makeshift bed, had no friends. Rob knew. He’d done a good deal of inquiring.
Rumors of the man’s extreme heroism had gone round the regiments’ messes. After all, one couldn’t exactly save several men on more than one occasion then pick up the fallen colors only to be shot in the chest and not be talked about. But it was clear from everything Rob had discerned about this unique hero that he attempted to make no comrades-in-arms. In short, he was quite the mystery.
Truth be told, he was always alone, sitting silently in the otherwise busy hospital tent, always looking as if someone had hacked out his heart. Yet, the young man didn’t yield to his despair.
Rob had first noticed him when visiting one of his own fallen men and he’d been struck by the stony pain emanating from the officer.
It had not taken long to discover that this recently recognized hero was the best shot in his regiment, an excellent card player, the best with a saber, and capable of shouting orders with the best of them despite a slight stutter.
Quite frankly, Damian Avonby, future Duke of Drake was superior to most of the young officers about him. But Robert had come to understand a very disturbing thing. Damian, presently the Marquess of Havenwood, never left his regiment when given leave. Not to go into town. Not to go home. Not for any reason.
Worse, he received no letters from England. A few coins in the orderly’s purse had secured this interesting bit of information. No one sent inquiry about him. He wrote no one. And no one wrote him in return.
And the sneaking feeling in Robert’s gut told him that the young man wouldn’t be getting any letters. Even if he was likely to be mentioned in dispatches. Again.
It wasn’t right. It was a damned disgrace, a hero like that, shunned by his family. For Damian Drake’s parents were still both very much alive, if incommunicado.
Several feet clattered up the dirt path between the beds behind him. As if hearing the nearing group of officers, the man on the bed winced and stuffed the parchment under the thin mattress and turned to the beige tent wall, hiding his face.
When Robert looked back, he spotted his gang. Max, Rafe, Tristan, and George. They all came to a scrambling halt. Their cheeks were a bit red, hair windblown under their hats from whatever drill they’d been about on the grounds. They each gave him a quizzical glance, having all come to visit a few of their men who had been wounded in the recent battle.
When Rob swung his chin towards Damian, they all nodded silently.
Over time, they’d learned to move and think as one if the situation called for it. They shared an understanding. And this, they knew, was instinctively one of those times.
Everyone who’d learned of the recent heroics of the future duke thought Damian was odd. Everyone knew he stayed alone when possible.
And Robert was bloody furious that such a thing could be possible. So, taking his righteous indignation in hand, he strode over to the physically imposing, blond-haired man and stuck out his hand. “I’m Rob.”
The future duke didn’t turn. “I k-know who you are.”
“Yes.” Rob let his hand fall. “Well. I know who you are, too. The next Duke of Drake.”
The man’s broad shoulders slumped as if this were a curse rather than a recognition of mutual esteem.
Robert looked back to his friends who had followed quietly behind him, trying to decide what to say next, drawing inspiration from them. Then it hit him. What to do. And do it, he would.
“Going home for Christmas, Damian?” he asked softly. He and several of the others were being given leave over the holiday.
Damian shook his head with barely any physical movement. “No. But y-you know that. E-everyone does.”
“Well, that’s splendid,” Rob said cheerfully, forcing a smile.
The man whipped his head towards Rob and eyes so fierce, so full of pain met his that Rob nearly stepped back. It wasn’t often he felt his heart leap for another person. He was much more inclined to look after wounded birds and foxes as a child, now he took care of his men. But Damian Drake was wounded just the same.
“You t-think it’s funny. D-don’t you?” His lip curled in a slight sneer. “D-damian, with the s-stutter. All alone.”
“Look, old chap,” Rob returned quietly, but unapologetically even as rage at those who had clearly hurt this man coiled in his belly, “I don’t know anything about you really. But if you’re not going home, it means you can come home with me.”
A muscle twitched in Damian’s cheek. “W-what for?”
Rob shrugged a shoulder, though inside he felt a strong need to help the man opposite him. “Because it would be jolly good fun.”
The future Duke of Drake narrowed his icy blue eyes. “Y-you’ve never spoken to me before.”
“More fool me then. I always thought you preferred it when I saw you in the mess.” Rob looked the man up and down, taking in his strong, silent form that fairly seemed to hum with emotion buried deep within him. He gave a tight nod then said, “Being alone that is. But you don’t. Do you?”
Damian made no reply but his lips pressed into a white line.
“Look, my father’s a bit of a sot,” Rob said truthfully, knowing there was no point in trying to hide the extent of his father’s debauchery. A debauchery which had passed down and ultimately killed his older brother. “Loves his wine, you see. Loves to gamble and all that. But my mother is a marvel and so is my sister. They’d love to have you.”
Damian blinked, his gaze growing suspicious. . . and shocked. “W-Why?”
“To keep me company,” Rob stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Otherwise, I’ll be running wild through the house, and bothering them at all hours.”
Damian cocked his head to the side. “W-we’re not friends.”
“Not yet,” Max said from behind him, his voice a deep rumble.
“But we could be,” added George.
Damian looked from officer to officer, with an assessing glare then spat out, “I don’t want p-pity.”
“None of us have time for pity,” Rob said quickly, calmly. “But you’re going to be a duke one day, aren’t you? Just like us, aren’t you?” Rob leaned forward, folding his arms over his chest, determined to make the other man laugh, even if it killed him. “I say. You are a Whig, aren’t you? Can’t be friends with a Tory.”
Damian cracked a smile. “I confess, my father is a Tory, but I plan to change sides.”
“Victory then!” Rob announced clapping his hands together. “Of course you belong with us.”
Damian arched a brow. “W-with you.”
Rob nodded, making his declaration tantamount to law. “We must look after each other.”
“And the future of England,” Max added firmly.
“And the Whig Party,” put in Rafe cheerfully.
“Och, which means the future of England and Scotland,” finished Tristan boldly.
“And you’d be essential at billiards,” Rob supplied for good measure.
Damian looked back and forth at them as if they had all lost their minds.
“Don’t overthink it, Damian, Marquess of Havenwood, future duke,” Rob said. “Just say yes, even if it’s only for a good Christmas dinner and heaps of cake.”
“All right then,” Damian whispered, his hand going to the bloody bandage over his arm. “For the c-cake.”
And so the tradition began that, when on leave, Damian Avonby, Marquess of Havenwood, future Duke of Drake, spent every Christmas with Robert Deverall, Marquess of Rigby, future Duke of Blackstone. . . and every other holiday with his other soon to be fast friends, the future Dukes of Raventon, Harley, Royland, and Ardore.
But this? This was just the beginning of what would bind them together, for Damian Drake had a secret, a very dark secret. And one summer, just as he was called home to the deathbed of his father, he confessed it. And from that moment on, all four of his friends, Robert being the first, made a solemn vow, to keep the Duke’s secret.