England's Perfect Hero (30 page)

Robert leaned against a stall door, watching one of the grooms brush and put away Tolley. The two of them had certainly gotten their exercise over the past few days. Riding three miles out of his way before luncheon hadn't been part of his plan, but evidently he now needed to factor in time to lose anyone who might be following him. The subterfuge had been worth it, to see, to touch Lucinda again.

She had given him a better clue than she realized. A guest book. Being that he didn't visit the Horse Guards, the fact that people who didn't work there might do so hadn't even occurred to him. Neither had the idea that they might visit on a regular-enough basis to be familiar with the place.

Of course it could be one of the staff—that was far too likely a possibility for him to dismiss. But a guest, in his mind anyway, made more sense. The officers and staff and guards at the Horse Guards tended to be lifetime military. They didn't need a war to secure their incomes or their futures.

Money didn't have to be the motive either, he supposed. Some Englishman or other could be a rabid supporter of Bonaparte. The war, however, had ended three years ago. Wouldn't anyone that fond of Napoleon have been discussed by the wags, or arrested by the Crown, before now? Unless it was a spy of some sort. That could—

"What're you doing?" Edward asked, strolling into the stable with Tristan on his heels.

"Making my head hurt," he answered. "What're you doing?"

"Tristan's taking me fishing. I was supposed to go riding with William Grayson and his uncle, but they sent over a note that William is sick."

Tristan met his gaze over the Runt's head. That answered that. William's family had been sick at the notion of their youngster being seen with a Carroway. "I'm certain he'll feel better soon," he offered, trying not to choke on his own words.

"I hope so, because Shaw promised to take us to Portsmouth next week to see his ship."

"Runt, why don't you go help John saddle Storm Cloud?" Tristan suggested, nudging his youngest brother in the back.

Edward dug his heels in. Facing his brothers, he folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not stupid, you know. If you want to talk about something and you don't want me to hear, just say, 'Runt, go away for a minute so I can talk to Bit.'"

Tristan gave a lazy grin. "Runt, go away for a minute so I can talk to Bit."

"Fine. Eventually, though, you're going to have to tell me what's going on."

"Out, Edward." They both watched him exit the stable, and then Tristan faced him again. "How was your luncheon with Saint? That's where you went, isn't it?"

"I notified you, as ordered. He and Evie say hello, and want to know if there's anything they can do to be of help." Robert shredded a piece of hay in his fingers.

"They're good friends."

Robert nodded. "Yes. Have fun fishing."

"Robert, wait." Scowling, Tristan edged closer. "I know you blame yourself for this. And—"

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know you. And I have eyes. But don't. Blame yourself, I mean. The good thing about having a family is that you don't have to stand alone."

"Tristan," he began, then had to stop and take a breath. They needed to know. They needed to know why he had to do this alone. "Tristan, I do blame myself, because I tried to do something three years ago that would have taken care of all this, and I failed."

The viscount's pale blue gaze studied him for a long moment. "What did you try to do?"

"Kill myself. Or make the French kill me, which is the same thing."

Tristan went white. "Robert," he whispered.

"I couldn't see any other way out of Chateau Pagnon, and I couldn't stand to be there any longer. I couldn't stand it, so I… convinced them to shoot me to death. Except that the Spanish resistance found me before I could crawl off to die."

"You wouldn't…"

"Try it again? No. Not voluntarily. But that's why I can't explain to anyone else about Pagnon, and that's why I have to take care of this, because it
is
my fault, and because if any of you get caught doing something to help me, I… couldn't stand it. For God's sake, Tris, you're going to be a father in a month."

Tristan grabbed his arm. "I know that," he hissed. "And I want my child to have an uncle."

"He'll have at least three uncles." Robert tried to wrench free, but Tristan wouldn't let him go.

"Yes, but I want him to have one who has some common sense and intelligence. And that's you." With a growl, the viscount let him go. "All I'm trying to say is, don't exclude me—or any of us—because you think it's for our own good. Let us decide that."

"I'll consider it." He closed his eyes for a minute, because he knew he could never include them. It wasn't that he thought it was for their own good; he
knew
it. "Just so you know, Dare, the Horse Guards are having me followed."

"What? How—"

"I lost them in Piccadilly. They'll be back here any time now."

"Sweet Lucifer," Tristan swore. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me today? Because I'd really like to have a drink first, if there's more."

"That's all I can think of at the moment." Except for Lucinda, of course, but Robert didn't think he could put that into words any more than he thought Tristan would be able to understand his obsession.

After the horses were saddled, he boosted Edward up onto his mount and watched them trot down the drive. A groom followed behind, his horse laden with fishing poles.

"Anything else, sir?" Gimble asked as he led Tolley into his stall.

Robert patted the gelding's neck, receiving a nuzzle on the shoulder in return. "No, we're fine."

"Very good, sir."

He needed to think, but he knew he made the grooms nervous when he hung about the stable, so he wandered out to his rose garden. The plants amazed him; two weeks ago they'd been sticks with a few leaves and thorns, dead-looking but for the faint green in the leaves. This afternoon new shoots and leaves sprouted everywhere, and on one of the larger plants he swore he could detect the beginnings of a bud.

A few more weeds had managed to spring practically full grown out of the soil as well, and he squatted down to yank them out of the ground. It would have been nice if villains were as easy to find among his fellows as were weeds among roses, but since he'd spent three years looking and feeling rather like a weed himself, he supposed—and hoped—that the analogy wouldn't work.

And of course there was the extended metaphor of the impossibility of a tranquil existence for him, once again as the scrawny, half-dead weed, and Lucinda as the blooming, blushing rose—but that didn't help much, either. Not that it mattered; he'd held her in his arms, told her his deepest secret, and she still planned to marry Geoffrey Newcombe.

Geoffrey Newcombe. Robert had never thought much of him, and since Lucinda had named him as her matrimonial mate of preference, the indifference had become dislike. Now with this disaster before him and Geoffrey looking like the portrait of a young patriot while , Robert's own appearance seemed to become more foul each day, it wasn't even dislike any longer. No, Robert realized, as he dug out the last of the weeds with his fingers, it wasn't dislike. It was hatred. He hated Lord Geoffrey Newcombe with a passion that surprised him.

Robert slammed his fist into the earth. And what was he supposed to do? Sit there in the dirt and let Lucinda settle for someone else simply because the other fellow was amiable? Who, though, if not Geoffrey? Himself? He snorted. Him, marrying. And not just anyone—Lucinda Guinevere Barrett. As if he could, even if he wanted to, with a hangman's noose practically around his neck for treason. If nothing else, he needed—wanted—to prove everyone wrong about that.

"Bit, are you punching earthworms?" Georgiana's soft voice came from behind him.

He jumped. "No. Just thinking." Unclenching his fist, he dusted the dirt off his knuckles.

"About what?"

"About how I might obtain a piece of paper I'm not supposed to have access to from a place I'm not permitted to go. While I'm being watched by men I'm not supposed to know are lurking out there in the shrubbery."

"Oh. Have someone else get it for you, then."

He swung around to look at her. "That would mean involving someone else in this mess."

She pursed her lips. "Well, I could state the obvious, that other people already are involved. Or I could say, why don't you ask and see whether any of your family or friends might be willing to help?"

"And how could I possibly ask—"

"Why, yes, I'd love to help. Which piece of paper did you say you needed?" she interrupted.

"Georgiana, you can't—"

"Too late. I've already volunteered." She smiled, humor and a surprising determination in her eyes. "I dislike seeing people I love accused of things they didn't do. It irritates me. Which piece of paper?"

Robert stood. All of the Carroways' lives had changed when Georgiana had moved into the house, his perhaps more than anyone's but Tristan. If nothing else, her coming had brought Lucinda into his small, dark world, and blasted it into the sunlight. "It's a page from the sign-in book for visitors at the Horse Guards. I need to know who was there last week."

"And where is this book located?"

"Just inside the front entry. It's manned by a sentry."

"Do you think it'll still be there? With an investigation going on?"

He nodded. "From everything I've heard, they suspect a robbery by a stranger, not by someone who was an accepted, regular visitor."

"Good." She glanced down the front drive. "Are men actually lurking in the shrubbery?"

"They came back about five minutes ago. I… have it on good authority that they're here to watch me."

"When this is over, General Barrett and I are going to have a little chat," she said, her eyes glinting. "Very well. You stay here in the garden until I leave."

"Leave? You're not—"

"I never thought I'd say this to you, Robert, but be quiet. This is women's work. Now I have a quick note to write. Remember, don't return to the house until I've gone."

Apparently she was more annoyed by this than he'd realized. He lifted an eyebrow as she stomped back inside. A footman charged out a moment later and hailed a hack. Robert fetched a watering can, deliberately turning his back on the house and the carriage drive. Whatever she had planned, he wasn't going to complicate it any further.

Ten minutes after the footman vanished, a coach rumbled onto the drive. He managed a glance in that direction as he pretended to pluck an insect from a leaf. The red-and-yellow St. Aubyn crest glinted on the carriage door. Whatever Georgie had written, it had been effective.

She strolled out to the coach and climbed inside with ample assistance from her maid and Evelyn, and the two ladies, along with the servant, departed in the conveyance. Robert finished watering and returned to the house. Whatever she had planned, he was going to have to wait.

"Lucinda!"

Lucinda started, nearly tripping as she descended from her father's coach to the ground. "Geoffrey?"

He pulled his bay to a stop and jumped down, striding up the drive. "I need to speak with you."

Lucinda glanced toward the house, where Ballow had already pulled open the door in anticipation of her return. "I've just returned from luncheon," she stammered. She should have felt guilty; twenty minutes earlier she'd been kissing Robert Carroway. Her first emotion as this man took her hand, however, was annoyance. She needed to figure out how to obtain a list of Horse Guards personnel without alerting her father, and she didn't have time for a row with Geoffrey. "If you'd care to wait in the sitting room for a few mo—"

"No, please, walk with me. I need to see you now."

Geoffrey wrapped her fingers around his arm. She'd never seen him so passionate about anything. Beginning to feel a little alarmed, she nodded, gesturing toward her rose garden, where at least they wouldn't require a chaperone. "A brief walk."

Their pace as they rounded the side of the house was closer to a trot, and she pulled back against his arm to slow him down. He merely changed his grip to her hand, towing her to the stone bench at one side of the garden.

"There," he said, gesturing for her to take a seat.