Chapter Four

“I must have lost my mind.” Stanley eyed his reflection in the mirror in the entryway. The uniform he wore hadn’t seen a single day of battle and was, therefore, in remarkably good condition.

“Lost it? Pfft. I’d say ye finally found that rattlin’ old bacon canister of yours.”

Bacon canister? Pluck had an odd way of saying things. He held Stanley’s shako out to him. It was not the most flattering of hats but was a requisite part of the uniform. Thankfully, so were gloves. “Cain’t think why ye’d be wantin’ to sit around all night with nothing but your own breathing to keep you company when you’ve a right dimber mort wishin’ for a bit of your time.”

Perhaps bringing Pluck home with him had been a bad idea. “You cannot call any of the ladies of this house a ‘dimber mort.’”

“It ain’t an insult,” Pluck insisted.

“I know.” Years in the army had lent Stanley a remarkable familiarity with cant expressions. “But that does not make it appropriate.”

“Don’t make it untrue either. You’ve a fine lady wanting you to go to the theater with her. Only a man with a vacant upper story would turn up his nose at that opportunity.”

Some opportunity. He’d probably be only half awake by the first intermission. Attending would require being out in public. He would be stared at by strangers and asked probing questions by acquaintances. He really ought to do all of them a favor and stay home.

“We are going to make a devastating pair tonight.” Philip came down the stairs, graceful as always. He had toned down his look a little: a dark-blue jacket and matching pantaloons. If not for the orange waistcoat, he might have looked subdued. “It’s a shame the dragoons’ uniform doesn’t have a bit more dash.”

“The hat adds a bit of interest.” Stanley placed his shako on his head, careful to center it exactly. One learned the importance of precision in the army. Perfection often kept a soldier alive.

“True.” Philip stopped next to Stanley, their reflections side by side in the long mirror. He seemed to study them both. “You’re missing something.”

A leg, Stanley silently thought.

“You’re not wearing your sabre. Is that not part of the uniform?”

“Cap’n Jonquil doesn’t wear his sword anymore, Yer Grace.” Pluck bowed so formally and low his nose nearly touched his knees.

“You don’t address an earl as Your Grace,” Stanley said.

“Yer Most High and Mighty Lordship,” Pluck corrected, still bent nearly in half.

Stanley shook his head and pulled Pluck upright by the back of his collar.

Philip grinned. “Where did you find this gem?”

“Loading the guns.” It was the barest version of the truth and the only one he could manage without thrusting himself back into unwanted memories. “He was horrible at it.”

“I’m a much better batman,” Pluck said.

“That’s debatable,” Stanley muttered.

Pluck just laughed.

“He seems to be doing well as your valet,” Philip said. He eyed Stanley in the mirror again. “He’s turned you out nicely, even if he did forget your sword.”

“I told ye, Yer High and Mighty—”

“‘Lord Lampton’ or ‘my lord’ would be sufficient, Pluck,” Stanley said.

Philip stopped him. “No, I like the ‘high and mighty’ part. I think everyone should begin addressing me that way.” Philip grinned at Stanley the way he always had when as boys he and the second oldest, Layton, had undertaken their usual mischief.

“Cap’n Jonquil don’t wear his sword anymore,” Pluck said. “Not since—”

“Pluck.” Stanley snapped out the single syllable. Any one of his men would have recognized his tone for the warning it was.

Pluck didn’t even pause. “Waterloo. Lord Hill told him he was supposed to wear it, seeing as it was part of his uniform.”

“And he still didn’t?” Philip asked.

Pluck shook his head. “Told ol’ Lord Hill to go to the devil.”

Stanley turned to face Pluck but wasn’t given a chance to say a single word.

“Was this before or after Lord Hill ordered Captain Jonquil back to England?” Philip asked, suddenly as sober as a judge.

“Before,” Pluck answered. His eyes darted to Stanley, his look clearly one of defiance.

“And he wasn’t court-martialed?” Philip’s attention didn’t waver from the overly talkative batman.

Pluck shook his head. “Lord Hill likes our cap’n. Everyone likes our cap’n.”

“That. Is. Enough.” Each syllable cracked against the walls of the entryway. “You have work to do.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Pluck grinned. “Have fun at the theatre.” He snapped a rather cheeky salute and sauntered away.

“Your valet has a great deal of nerve,” Philip said.

“Yes, well, Pluck isn’t his Christian name.”

“A name he earned, then.” Philip chuckled.

“Thoroughly.” Pluck had more courage than many grown men.

“Why did you decide to make him your personal servant if he annoys you so much?”

“It was his idea.”

Philip laughed harder. “I like that boy.”

“And what boy would that be?” Sorrel asked as she made her way down the stairs toward them. She had nearly as much trouble on stairs as Stanley did.

“Stanley’s valet,” Philip said. “The boy has a mouth like a river: it never stops flowing.”

“Has he been telling secrets?” Sorrel’s nearly constant solemnity stood in stark contrast to Philip’s unending joviality.

“Of course he has.” Philip took the hand Sorrel wasn’t using to hold her walking stick and pulled her arm through his own. “That’s why I like him so much.”

“Encouraging insolence among the servants.” Sorrel shook her head. “What will you think of next?” Her gaze settled on Stanley. “You look very nice this evening. Are you joining us?” She compressed her lips and narrowed her eyes on him as she waited for his answer.

“I thought I might.” Stanley felt like a schoolboy nervously speaking to the schoolmaster.

“And the sight of Philip’s wardrobe disaster didn’t change your mind?”

“Disaster?” Philip scoffed. “It’s a masterpiece, a tribute to—”

“The dangers of orange silk?” Sorrel tipped her head and raised an eyebrow. She looked Philip over with theatrical disapproval.

Philip’s look of feigned shock very nearly slipped into a grin. Sorrel was good for him. She had managed what none of the rest of the family had. She had broken through Philip’s dandified mask.

“Stanley?” His heart jumped at the unexpected sound of Marjie’s eager voice. “Are you coming with us?”

Stanley watched her practically skip down the stairs. A breathtaking smile lit her face. Her eyes shone as brightly as he’d remembered them every single night he’d been away. He’d hated himself for tainting his memories of her with the sounds and smells of the battlefield, but without her to focus on, Stanley knew he would have gone mad.

Marjie came directly to where he stood, gazing up at him. There was something almost blasphemous about looking at her with the same eyes that had watched men blown to pieces.

“I had so hoped you would,” she said. “This is to be our last trip to the theatre before we return to Nottinghamshire.” She watched him, uncertainty in her expression.

He managed a small smile. His heart thudded against his ribs at the smile he received in return.

“I think you will like the show,” Marjie said, her enthusiasm returning. Stanley had nearly forgotten how joyful she always was. That aspect of her character had drawn him to her from the beginning—his life as a soldier was nearly devoid of happiness. “Lord Devereaux will be there. He was at Almack’s Wednesday night, and when I told him you might join us at the theatre, he said he would come along too.”

“Lord Devereaux?” Stanley looked to Philip. Who was this Lord Devereaux, and what had he to do with Marjie?

“You may have met him,” Philip said. “He is quite close with the Duke of Hartley. Active in Lords but has an atrocious sense of fashion.”

“Which means he actually dresses like a reasonable person,” Sorrel said, her tone dry as dust.

“I am astounded by your lack of enthusiasm, my dear.” Philip pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “One cannot underestimate the importance of one’s wardrobe.” Mischief twinkled in his eyes once more.

Sorrel simply shook her head, tilting the sides of her mouth at an amused angle.

“Lord Devereaux is older than you are,” Philip said to Stanley. “He’s been out of Society since his wife died. A fine gentleman, though, and apparently anxious to be in your company.”

“You’ll like him, Stanley,” Marjie said. “I am certain of it.”

An elderly widower seemed relatively unthreatening. Perhaps Lord Devereaux had reached the age of severe near-sightedness and would not notice anything amiss in Stanley’s appearance. A certain degree of deafness would help as well. Lord Devereaux would be far less likely to ask questions if he were unable to hear the answers.

Thirty minutes later, however, Stanley felt like the veriest fool. Lord Devereaux arrived in the Lampton box shortly after they did. The elderly widower Stanley had been expecting proved to be quite young, surprisingly good-looking, and obviously in the pink of health. He greeted them all cordially and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Stanley, insisting “Miss Kendrick” had spoken highly of him.

Lord Devereaux was offered the seat beside Marjie as the curtain rose. Stanley found himself relegated to the seat beside Philip. He’d agreed to come to the theatre only because the idea of being with Marjie for the length of an evening had outweighed his desire to remain at home.

“How old is Lord Devereaux?” Stanley whispered partway through the first act.

“Thirty-two. Thirty-three,” Philip whispered in return. “His wife was very ill for quite some time. She died quite young.”

Stanley watched Marjie lean closer to Lord Devereaux for just a moment to say something to him. He could tell from Lord Devereaux’s profile that he smiled back at her.

“He seems very . . . friendly.”

“Those two are like a couple of hens,” Philip said. “One would think they had been friends from the cradle the way they’ve taken to each other.”

“Except, when she was in her cradle, he would have been”—Stanley calculated quickly—“fifteen years old, or so.”

“That’s not so unusual,” Philip replied.

Stanley did not once turn his attention to the stage. Instead, he watched the exchange between Marjie and Lord Devereaux.

“The late Lord Techney was nearly two decades older than his wife,” Philip whispered.

“Wife?” Stanley’s eyes snapped to Philip. “Things lean that way?”

Philip shrugged. “I don’t know if it is as serious as all that, but they have been very good for each other.”

“Good in what way?” Stanley’s gaze returned to Marjie.

“Marjie is not one for superficial friendships,” Philip said. “The ton, on the other hand, specializes in empty associations. So Marjie has been a little lonely. Lord Devereaux has struggled since losing his wife. His required period of full mourning ended more than two years ago, and yet he has not been seen anywhere other than Parliament. That is, until this past month or so. Marjie appears to have helped him begin to work through his grief.”

“Like his guardian angel.” Stanley tried to breathe through the tension in his lungs. Throughout the past six months, he had thought of Marjie as his guardian angel.

“Most of Society is quite interested in the outcome of their association,” Philip said. “Speculation is rife. Most, I think, feel they will eventually make a match of it.”

Stanley didn’t hear a single word spoken on the stage below. Philip had gone back to whispering with Sorrel. Stanley’s eyes stayed on Marjie and Lord Devereaux, who never ran short on topics of conversation. They appeared wholly charmed by each other.

Stanley had told himself again and again during the months before Waterloo and the excruciating recuperation afterward that Marjie deserved better than him. She ought to marry a man who did not have blood on his hands, a man who wasn’t a cripple, who wasn’t so mutilated he could no longer write a simple sentence.

His angel had found someone better.

The pain of cracking skin told Stanley just how tightly he had wrapped his fingers around the arm of his chair. His heart thudded high in his chest, tattooing out a rhythm of grief. He couldn’t watch them any longer. He groped in the dark, searching for his walking stick.

“Stanley?” Philip’s whisper was loud enough to be heard over the pounding in Stanley’s ears.

“I’m tired. I’m returning to Lampton House.”

“On foot?” Philip asked.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Stanley rose as quickly as he could to his feet, using his chair for balance, then corrected his posture to that of a career soldier. “I will send the carriage back for you.”

“You’re certain you want to go by yourself?”

“I doubt the few miles across London will be any more dangerous than six years on the front lines,” Stanley said. “I’ll have Pluck read me a bedtime story if I have nightmares afterward.”

“You are very suddenly in a bad mood,” Philip said.

“I—I’m only tired,” Stanley said and moved toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t you wish to say good-bye to Marjie?” Philip had followed him to the back of the box.

Stanley resisted the urge to look back toward the front of the box where Marjie sat. She, no doubt, would still be talking with him. He did not wish to see that any longer.

“If she asks”—the word if sat sour in his mouth—“tell her I was—”

“Tired?”

“Exactly. Deuced tired of this whole blasted mess.”

“I didn’t think the actors were that horrible,” Philip said.

“Not the play,” Stanley grumbled.

“Then what ‘blasted mess’?”

Stanley shook his head, feeling as weary as he’d claimed to be. He was tired of it all. “Life, Philip. Life.”