England's Perfect Hero (4 page)

"I took a ball in the arm myself, at
Waterloo
," he countered, then offered her a jaunty smile. "Stung like the devil. Shall I tell you about my heroic actions?"

Lucinda knew he'd been shot; everyone did. She'd even heard the tale before. Still, as he smiled his dazzling smile at her, she decided that having him regale her with one of his amusing, heroic stories would be a good way for her to judge her starting strategy—and to forget the haunting gaze of a quite different soldier. "Please do," she said.

Robert detoured on his way back to Carroway House, stopping for a long moment at the edge of
Hyde Park
. At past
midnight
no one reputable would be on the grounds, and with a slight exhalation of breath that fogged the cold night air, he loosed the reins of his gelding and tapped him in the ribs. Muscles bunched beneath the sleek bay hide, and with a leap they were off.

Tolley charged at a dead run along the dim moonlit foot path, and Robert leaned forward along his withers, half closing his eyes at the wind on his face. Everything around them felt still and silent—the creak of leather and the pounding of hooves and the grunt of Tolley's breath seemed the only sounds in the world.

On nights like this, when he rode out from the dark, silent house to the dark, deserted park, he could forget.

He could be nothing but a solitary rider on a fast horse, wind in his face and the world open around him. No walls, no bars, no quiet weeping or screams or death. None of that could catch him. On a night like this, none of it could find him.

Finally, when he felt Tolley's breathing become more labored and his stride shorten, he slowed and turned for home. The grooms were asleep, but he preferred that, anyway. In silence he rubbed down the bay, gave him an apple, and returned him to his stall. The front door would be unlocked, awaiting Tristan, Georgiana, and Shaw, and he slipped through noiselessly.

"Where the devil have you been?"

He flinched, forcing tensed muscles to relax again as he recognized the young voice. "What the devil are you doing out of bed?" he returned, facing the stairs and the slim figure straightening from his seat on the bottommost step.

"I asked first," Edward stated, with every ounce of authority his ten years could command. "I'll have you know I've been sitting here for over an hour, while you were off who knows where, doing who knows what."

If it had been Tristan or Bradshaw or even Andrew standing there interrogating him, Robert would already have been upstairs with his door locked behind him. But Edward, shivering in his nightshirt and clutching a metal soldier almost hidden in one fist, was a different story.

"I had an errand, Runt," he said, sweeping the boy into a hug and steeling himself against the tightness of the thin arms that wrapped around his neck.

"Well, I was worried about you. I'm really not old enough to be the man of the house, you know, but everyone else is gone."

Robert slung his brother over his shoulder and climbed the stairs, refusing to wince at the additional strain on his bad knee. One brother still saw him as undamaged, and he'd be damned before he let that change. Deeper down he knew he'd be damned
if
that changed. "What woke you up?"

"I dreamed that Shaw's ship sank."

"Shaw's dancing at the Wellcrist ball right now. Yell at him tomorrow for not waking you up when he got home early."

"I will yell at him," Edward returned sleepily as they reached his bedchamber. "You're not going out again?"

Robert set him on the bed and pulled up the covers as the boy snuggled against the pillows. "No. Good night, Runt."

"Good night, Bit."

As he closed Edward's door and went down the hall to his own bedchamber, Robert wondered why the Runt had settled on him, of all people, to rely on for comfort. Yes, he was there most of the time, but he'd hardly characterize himself as reliable. Still, the other brothers teased Edward for his fear of being alone in the house—after all, how could he think himself alone in a building full of servants, plus the aunties when they were in town?

Five years ago, Robert wasn't certain he would have been able to answer that question, either. But then five years ago he'd never heard of Chateau Pagnon—or of
le comte
General Jean-Paul Barrere.

As he shed his jacket he paced to the window and shoved it open. The nearly dead fire glowed deeper red behind the stone hearth and then faded again in the rush of cold air, but he ignored the sudden chill. Unless it was snowing he needed the fresh air to sleep—even what passed for fresh air in
London
.

A short time later he lay back in his soft bed, arms crossed behind his head. So Lucinda Barrett had been serious about setting her sights on Lord Geoffrey Newcombe. He'd stayed to watch, and the two of them had looked good, waltzing together at the Wellcrist soiree.
She'd
looked good, smiling and chatting with her many friends, a diamond among gemstones.

Robert sighed. He shouldn't have ridiculed her choice of student, talking as though he had any grasp on what made someone acceptable, any longer. She'd been kind and had accepted his apology, and she'd even asked him to stay. Just the fact that he'd been able to force himself to attend the soiree and talk to her with some measure of decorum surprised him.

He turned on his side, facing the window. A day ago he wouldn't have been able to imagine himself voluntarily attending a meaningless, crowded waste of time like that. It had been difficult, very difficult, but he'd managed it. And he knew why.

He hadn't been thinking of the close walls and the crowd and the heat and the blathering nonsense. He'd been thinking about Miss Barrett. And now he was thinking about talking to her again. He'd watched her from behind the gates of his private hell for three years, but now they'd spoken. She hadn't realized it, of course, but she'd drawn him a little toward the light. And now everything felt… different.

For the first time in three years he fell asleep thinking of calm and serenity and a quiet smile, rather than of terror and death and whether he would live to see daylight.

Lucinda leaned into the doorway of her father's office. "No, Papa, I don't think Lord Milburne is an anarchist. Why?"

General Augustus Barrett glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression stern but his gray eyes lighting with amusement rather than with the fire and thunder that had terrified many a green recruit into reconsidering his choice of career. "Look at him, Lucinda," he returned, gesturing her to join him at the window. "Red jacket, white waistcoat, and green trousers. He's either an anarchist or the flag of
Spain
."

Chuckling, Lucinda stopped at his elbow to gaze down at the street. "Good heavens. At least
Spain
is an ally."

"They wouldn't be if they saw an Englishman making such a mockery of their colors." His scowl deepened. "Good God, now he's waving at us. He's not a suitor, is he? If he approaches the house I'm going to have to shoot him."

Stepping back from the window, Lucinda shook her head. "No, he's not a suitor. I'm not going to marry anyone's flag. Now, do you have another chapter for me?" She motioned at the dark mahogany desk, crowded with haphazard piles of notes and stacks of heavily inked pages.

"Not yet. The notes I took at
Salamanca
are a bit worse for wear, I'm afraid. But don't change the subject."

"Which subject?"

He tapped a hand against the back of the chair facing his formidable desk. "Suitors."

Wonderful
. "Papa, do not begin inviting your officer friends over again. You, me, and thirty men in red and white.
I
felt like the flag of
France
, under siege. I prefer peacetime negotiations. And you owe me a chapter. Stop stalling."

The general sank back into his own chair. "The notes are… much more of a mess than I'd realized. It's a damned nuisance." He hesitated. "And my memory's not what it used to be."

"Hm, Considering the responsibilities the Horse Guards and the War Office keep heaping on you, I don't think they believe your incapacity any more than I do."

"A little sympathy would be a nice gesture, daughter."

"Yes, General." She didn't believe that his memory was fading, but the claim could very well provide her an opportunity for lesson giving. A low buzz of excitement ran down her spine. "You know, I believe Lord Geoffrey Newcombe fought at
Salamanca
. He'll be at Almack's tonight. Perhaps I might ask him to stop by and see whether he can assist you in deciphering your journal."

"Ah, Lord Geoffrey. Brash young lad, full of vinegar. Took a ball in the arm at
Waterloo
. You waltzed with him last night."

His gaze slid over to her, but she pretended to be occupied with straightening reference books. "I danced with at least a dozen gentlemen," she returned. "As I usually do. Lord Geoffrey mentioned the war, and I just thought he might be of some help to you."

"You know, you may just have something there, Lucinda," he said after a moment of silence. "In fact, I think I'll send a note over to him, and ask for his assistance."

"Splendid."

For the first time he seemed to notice the old blue muslin gown and straw hat she wore. "We have a gardener, you know."

"I know. I like tending the roses. And yes, I'll wear gloves so I don't get pricked."

The general dug into a drawer. "Just like your mother," he muttered, abruptly occupied with sharpening a quill. "Marie and her roses."

Lucinda smiled. "I'll make you up a bouquet for the office."

Retrieving her heavy gloves and pruners, she waited while the butler pulled open the front door. "I'll be in the garden, Ballow," she said.

"Very good, Miss Lucinda."

Worley, the gardener, had already set out a weed bucket for her, and humming last night's waltz, Lucinda strolled around the side of the house to the small garden. Her mother had planted one new rose per year after Lucinda's birth, and since her death from pneumonia, Lucinda had tried to keep up the tradition. The twenty-fourth rose, a lovely double-petaled yellow with a scent like cinnamon, had arrived from
Turkey
last week.

"How are you?" she asked it, kneeling on her skirts to check the soil. "You need some water, don't you?"

She hummed as she clipped a few bedraggled leaves that hadn't survived the plant's long journey. Using her father's memoirs as an excuse to have Lord Geoffrey come calling—it was genius, if she did say so, herself.

A watering can appeared beside her. "Thank you, Worley. You're a mind reader."

In mid-reach to pick up the can, she paused. Worley wasn't wearing his heavy work boots. Rather, he had on a very nice pair of Hessians. Lucinda looked up, and up, past tanned doeskin trousers, a black jacket, brown waistcoat, snow-white cravat, lean jaw, and a straight-set mouth, to a pair of azure blue eyes beneath over-long, black, unruly hair.

"Mister Carroway," she exclaimed, lurching to her feet. In her haste to rise she stood on her skirt, and toppled toward the rosebush. "Oh!"

Robert stepped forward, catching her beneath the arms. As soon as she regained her balance he released her, moving back and sweeping his arms behind himself, as though touching her bothered him.

"I don't bite, for heaven's sake," she muttered, brushing at her skirt as much to give herself a moment as him.

"I know."

Be nice
, she reminded herself. If he'd come to see her, he had to have a good reason. Georgiana had spoken little of him, but both her friend and his public absence over the past three years had made it quite clear how difficult venturing out of doors was for him. "I didn't mean to snap at you," she said. "It's just that you startled me."

"I was practicing being stealthy," he returned in his low voice. "You seemed to appreciate the skill."

She looked at him sharply. His expression remained quiet, but the azure of his eyes held the veriest hint of a twinkle. So he still had a sense of humor. "Well, you're obviously much better at it than I am. I think we need to make a pact that we won't do any more sneaking up on each other, before we do permanent damage."

"Agreed." He shifted, his gaze moving beyond her toward the house. "I had a thought last evening," he said, the words coming slowly, as if with great reluctance.

"And?" she prompted.

He drew a breath. "You're wasting your time with Geoffrey Newcombe."

Lucinda lifted an eyebrow. "Really? In what way?"

He paused, studying her face. "I've offended you."

Well, if he could be direct, then so could she. "Yes, you have. But please explain."

"He's arrogant and spoiled."

Lucinda couldn't decide whether she felt annoyed or intrigued. "Hence the necessity of teaching him a lesson. I couldn't very well select a student known for his perfection of manner, now could I?"

He didn't look terribly impressed by her logic. "I—"

"Besides, I thought gentlemen didn't speak ill of one another in a lady's presence."

Robert nodded. "No, they don't. I'm not a gentleman, though, and you're Georgiana's friend. I just thought you should keep in mind that while Tristan and St. Aubyn might have been arrogant and misguided, neither of them was spoiled. Whatever lessons you plan to impart, I doubt he'll listen unless it's to his benefit to do so. He thinks the world should bend to his whim."

"For someone who shuns his fellows, you seem to think you know a great deal about them," she snapped, making a definite slide from understanding to annoyance. "Which conclusions have you drawn about me, pray tell?"

That stopped him. "You?"

"Yes, me. Surely if you've analyzed the character of Lord Geoffrey and St. Aubyn and your own brother, you can tell me about myself."

She bent down to retrieve her dropped pruner, surprised to realize that she was curious to hear what Robert Carroway had to say about her. Perhaps she was being a bit too direct with him, but she hadn't asked him to come over and pronounce his opinion of her possible, potential, future spouse.

"You deserve better than Newcombe," his quiet voice came. "I know that about you."

"Well, I thank you for your concern," she said, straightening, "but we'll have to agree to disa…"

He was gone. Lucinda turned a circle. He'd completely vanished, as though he'd been nothing more than a specter conjured by her imagination.

"For goodness' sake," she muttered, snipping off an errant leaf. "I could tell you a little something about
your
character, you rude man."

"Talking to yourself?" Her father turned the corner of the house to join her amid the rows of roses.

Sneaking was evil, she decided. "No. I was… just conversing with the new rosebush," she stammered, feeling her cheeks warm.

"Ah. And did it answer?"

"I believe it to be shy."

"If it ever
does
answer, you will inform me, won't you ?"

"Very amusing."

The general held out his hand, a letter gripped in his fingers. "This just came for you by messenger."

She took the note from him. "And you decided you must bring it to me yourself because all of the servants have broken their legs, I suppose? I know it couldn't be because you're procrastinating and don't know how to end chapter three."

"No, I don't know how I'm going to middle chapter three, thank you very much." The corners of his mouth turned up. "I'm discovering that campaigning was easy. Writing—like politics—is hard."

Lucinda chuckled, brushing Robert Carroway's troubling visit out of her thoughts—or trying to do so. After his three years of near solitude, something had brought them together thrice in three days. She shook herself. "You seem to be doing well with both. You may help me prune, however, if you wish."

"No, my dear. I think I'll bow to your superior skill and go back to my scribbling."

"Very wise strategy, General."

When he'd gone she took a last look around to see whether anyone else might be sneaking up on her, then opened the note. She'd already recognized the handwriting, and wasn't surprised to see that Evelyn asked whether she and the general wished to attend the small dinner party Lord and Lady St. Aubyn planned for Saturday evening. Lucinda began to smile, until she read the postscript in parentheses at the bottom of the page. According to Evie's neat hand, Lord Geoffrey Newcombe was being sent the same letter of invitation.

Lucinda shoved the missive into her pelisse pocket. Obviously her friends wanted to help her, but she couldn't help thinking the lesson scheme—which she'd begun, for heaven's sake—had become a complete sham. At least Georgie and Evelyn had chosen their students with the genuine idea of teaching them a lesson. Now when it came her turn, all three of them—and even a recluse like Robert Carroway—knew the lessons were only a very thin excuse. And even worse, her friends seemed perfectly willing to serve up Lord Geoffrey to her on a silver platter without even making a pretense that they were doing anything but matchmaking.

"Damnation," she said under her breath, using one of the less-colorful curses she'd learned from her father and his army friends. Scowling, she doused the ground around the rose with the water Robert had provided her. That wasn't how she'd wanted it, though obviously if she pretended otherwise she'd be fooling no one but herself—and perhaps Lord Geoffrey.

Well, she'd laid out her silverware, and there was nothing to do now but serve up the meal. And if Robert Carroway thought she needed advice, he was very much mistaken. Nor did she need to explain herself—and especially not to a near hermit who couldn't be bothered to excuse himself from a conversation before fleeing. Ha. He was just lucky she'd decided to concentrate on Lord Geoffrey, because Mr. Carroway seemed rather in need of a lesson or two, himself.

Robert slowed Tolley to a walk as they neared the boundary of Carroway House. Edward and Bradshaw stood outside the stable, inspecting the new saddle the youngest brother had acquired on his birthday. Taking a breath, he started up the drive. After the way he'd botched his conversation with Miss Barrett, things couldn't get much worse today, anyway.

"Bit!" Edward called, running forward to clasp Robert's boot, "did Shaw tell you?"

"Runt, don't—"