England's Perfect Hero (8 page)

"Two dozen? 'A course, milord. What k—"

"About this big." He held his hands up, about ten inches apart.

"Some of these is much better suited for the tables of good-bred folk such as yourself. Of course, them that tastes better do cost more."

"They're for fertilizer," Edward put in from his seat on Storm Cloud.

"Ferti—"

"This big," Robert repeated.

"You want to put my fine fish in the dirt?" the old man squawked. "If word gets around that my fish is good for nothing but burying, no one'll—"

"We're all good for nothing but burying," Robert growled. He needed to get home. And soon. "How much?"

The vendor swallowed. "Ten shillings."

"Eight shillings." He pulled the coins from his pocket.

"All right, milord. I won't vouch for the quality, though."

Once they'd dumped the fish into the cloth sack Robert had brought along for that purpose, he climbed back on Tolley. "Let's go, Runt," he grunted, tying the sack around the pommel.

It was a few minutes before he realized that Edward was being uncharacteristically quiet. He looked over at his youngest brother. The boy's eyes were fixed on his mount's ears, his lips tight and drawn. "What's wrong, Edward?" he asked.

"That was a bad thing you said," the Runt muttered, avoiding his gaze. "And you scared that man."

Robert swallowed his retort, surprised that he'd thought to make one. It would have been so much easier if Edward only saw him as the half-human wreck that everyone else did. Almost everyone else. A fleeting glimpse of Lucinda Barrett's smile crossed his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not feeling well. I need to get home."

"I remember when you came home," his brother said abruptly, "from fighting Napoleon. Shaw said you were going to die, but I knew you weren't."

"How did you know that?"

"Because of the letter you wrote me, where you said you were going to teach me how to jump fences when I was old enough. Andrew wanted to show me how last year when you were in Scotland, but I don't want anybody but you to teach me."

Robert swallowed. He'd forgotten about that letter. It was the last one he'd written, dropped in the mail satchel the night of… the night everything had changed. The night hell had begun.

Finally the house came into sight. "You should have let Andrew teach you," he muttered, kicking Tolley into a run.

As they reached the stables he slid out of the saddle, grabbed the sack of fish, and flung it beside the crate of rose cuttings. He strode for the house and shoved open the front door before Dawkins could reach it.

"Where the devil have you been?" Tristan snapped, as he emerged from his office.

"Out." Robert ignored his brother's angry look and headed for the stairs.

"With Edward."

"Yes."

Below him, Tristan cursed. "You are not to gallop off with Edward without telling someone where you're going first."

"Fine."

"Robert! I'm not finished talking to you!"

As far as Robert was concerned, he was. The panic grabbed hold of him again, clasping heavy, clawed fingers around his chest until he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.

"Damn it," he hissed, slamming into his bedchamber and shoving the door closed behind him. "Stop, stop, stop."

So Edward's faith in him was based on a stupid, naive letter, one he'd written before he knew anything. He remembered it now, remembered chatting about how cold it had been when they'd crossed the Spanish border into France, and how optimistic he'd been on hearing word that Bonaparte had abdicated. The fighting was over, they'd all thought. He'd intended to be home soon, hoping that his regiment wouldn't be one of those called on to remain in the area and enforce the peace. They had been, but he hadn't been with them.

"Robert!"

He ignored Tristan pounding on his door. In fact, he barely heard it as he paced the floor, trying to outrun the blackness coming up behind him.

He'd submitted papers asking for leave, and they'd been granted. What was left of his regiment had therefore thought he'd gone back to England, while his family had thought him still in Spain.

"Robert, open the damned door! I'm not joking!"

The anger and fear in Tristan's voice wrenched him back to the present. He stalked to the door and yanked it open. "I would never let anything happen to Edward," he rasped.

Whatever Tristan had been about to say, he closed his mouth over it. "God, Bit, are you hurt?" he asked instead. "You're white as a—"

Robert slammed the door again. "Go away," he snarled, leaning his forehead against the cool, heavy wood. "I just want some quiet."

"All right." After a few moments he heard Tristan's boots padding back down the hallway.

As Robert took another strangled breath and turned to resume his pacing, his gaze fell on his gardening clothes, which he'd left draped over a chair. He needed to get the fish in the ground before they attracted every stray cat in Mayfair, and if he didn't plant the cuttings today, he might as well do what Lucinda had suggested and throw them away.

His hands shook as he shed his greatcoat, slinging it over a bedpost. His coat and waistcoat followed, and he was able to concentrate enough to actually hang them back in the dressing closet.

Tristan kept offering to find him a valet, obviously not understanding how important it was that
no one
have free access to him, his private rooms, or his things. Dressing himself and tending to his own things was one of the few ways he had of demonstrating to himself that he could still function as a man.

By the time he'd pulled on his oldest pair of boots and grabbed up the heavy pair of gloves Lucinda had loaned him, he was surprised to realize that the desperate pounding of his heart had subsided, and that his breathing had slowed almost to normal.

Robert ventured a glance around him as he pulled open his bedchamber door and emerged into the hallway. He still felt the effects of it, the tiredness and the shaking, but he'd beaten it back this time. For the first time he hadn't let the blackness win. And he owed that to roses—and to Miss Lucinda Barrett.

"Welcome, General Barrett, Miss Barrett," the butler said, ushering them in. "Lord and Lady St. Aubyn are in the drawing room."

"Thank you, Jansen."

The drawing room door was three-quarters closed, and at the last moment, remembering that Evie and Saint had only been married a month, Lucinda loudly cleared her throat. "You know, Papa," she said in a carrying voice, "I couldn't help noticing that you twice brought Madeira to Mrs. Hull at the Wellcrist soiree."

"Well, the heat in the ballroom was stifling, and Mrs. Hull had neglected to bring her fan," the general replied. "If—"

The door was pulled open. "Good evening," Evie said, smiling as she kissed Lucinda on the cheek and tugged the two of them into the room. "You're our first arrivals."

St. Aubyn appeared at his wife's shoulder to slide a hand possessively down her spine. "And you have fortuitous timing, too. I was just about to win an argument."

Evelyn blushed. "No, you weren't."

"We'll have to continue later, then," he drawled, green eyes assessing his bride. "General Barrett, allow me to challenge you to a game of billiards. I believe the ladies wish to chat."

The general lifted an eyebrow. "Considering the relationship of Lucinda and Evelyn, I believe you should call me Augustus."

The marquis nodded. "I do seem to have joined a larger family than I expected. This way then, Augustus. If I win, you may call me 'Saint.' In the unlikely circumstance that I lose, I will insist on being referred to as 'Your Most Beneficent Lordship, the Marquis of St. Aubyn.'"

Augustus chuckled. "Don't think that'll sway me, young man."

The two men vanished down the hall, and Lucinda watched after them for a moment. "I still can't quite grasp it."

"Grasp what?" Evie asked, taking a seat on the couch.

"His most beneficent lordship," Lucinda returned with a smile. "Michael Halboro. I mean, I know what lengths he went to in order to win you, but… my goodness, you married the Marquis of St. Aubyn."

"My mother refuses to believe it," Evelyn said with a small grimace, "and my brother still barely speaks to either of us."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Oh, I'm not. Michael thinks it bothers me, too, but it really doesn't. I leave it to them to accept that I'm brave and independent and that I love Saint as much as he loves me. Because I'm not about to change now. Arriving here took far too much effort."

Effort
. "Do you think I'm cheating?" Lucinda asked abruptly. "And please,
please
tell me the truth."

Evie grasped her hands to pull her down onto the couch. "Truthfully," her friend said, gazing at her closely, "I don't see how making a decision and then taking steps to realize your goal could be cheating."

"I meant about the lessons."

"Luce, you're not cheating. Whatever we thought we were talking about that day, I think we were actually expressing a certain… dissatisfaction with our own lives."

"I don't need a husband in order to be happy," Lucinda retorted.

"That's not what I mean." Evie sighed. "I
am
much happier now, with Saint. But I'm also happier because my family's not controlling my life."

"Maybe that's what's wrong with me," Lucinda said quietly. "I don't feel a driving ambition to do anything but see that the general is cared for, and to keep as much chaos from my life as possible."

Evie chuckled. "It's just as well you didn't fall in love with Dare, then."

A fleeting vision of Dare's troubled younger brother made her frown, but she shook it off before Evie could notice. For someone attempting to avoid trouble, though, she seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time contemplating a certain pair of cobalt blue eyes. "Or with your Saint, for that matter, as much as I'm coming to like him."

Evelyn sat back. "Just because you require something different than Georgiana or I did, doesn't mean you're cheating."

For a long moment Lucinda sat and looked at her friend. "I have to apologize to you, Evie," she finally said.

"For what?"

"I always knew what a good, true, and generous friend you were," she continued, "but I didn't realize how very wise you have become."

"Oh, what did I miss now?" Georgiana said from the doorway. "It's Tristan's fault; he insisted on—"

"Darling, please," the viscount interrupted, leaning in behind her. "No need to go into that. Just ask them where the other gentlemen are."

"Tristan!" Georgiana flushed bright red.

Evelyn, though, laughed. "In the billiards room."

"Hurray!" Edward's voice came from deeper in the hallway. "Saint's going to teach me how to cheat!"

"Oh, good heavens," Georgiana muttered, vanishing again amid the clomping of boots. "Edward, you are not—"

"I definitely don't envy Georgie, sometimes," Evie stated, still chuckling.

"And with Andrew due back in London, she'll have five Carroway males to contend with." Lucinda smiled. She found herself wondering whether one particular Carroway had joined the group tonight or not, but she resolutely shook the thought away. She had other things to concentrate on—like allaying any suspicions Lord Geoffrey might have about why he'd been invited to the gathering.

If he planned on attending, that was. "Evie, are you expecting anyone else?" she murmured.

Gray eyes danced. "Yes. Any moment now."

With perfect timing a tall, dark form filled the drawing-room doorway. Lucinda looked up, expecting to see Lord Geoffrey, but the deep blue gazing at her could only belong to one man. "Mister Carroway," she said, surprised by her fast intake of breath. Well, she hadn't expected to see him there, for heaven's sake.

"Lady St. Aubyn," he said in his low voice, "Miss Barrett."

Evie looked at least as startled. "Mister Carroway. I'm so pleased you decided to come. Won't you join us?"

He glanced at Evie, then settled his gaze again on Lucinda. "Might I have a word with you first, Miss Barrett?"

"Of course."

Avoiding Evie's curious look, she rose and followed Robert back into the relative quiet of the hallway. He'd dressed all in gray but for the white of his simply tied cravat. The color and the dim light darkened his eyes to twilight, and again she felt the unsettling sensation that he could read her thoughts.

"I planted the cuttings," he said abruptly. "And the fish."

"You did? Good."

"And I made you a bargain."

Oh, my
. "Mister Carroway, you don't need—"

"Robert," he interrupted.

"Robert, then. I appreciate your offer, but it's really—"

Slowly he reached out a hand and touched her cheek, fingers drifting against her skin as though he expected her to evaporate. "I said I would help," he murmured, "and I will."

A tremor ran down her spine. Whether he had accepted the roses or not, she hadn't expected him ever to mention their agreement again. And she hadn't expected to feel… excited by his touch. Lucinda gazed up into his serious blue eyes. "Rob—"

"Good evening, Lucinda," the smooth voice of Lord Geoffrey drawled as he topped the stairs. "And Carroway. Surprised to see you here."

Robert lowered his hand. Lucinda realized both that Geoffrey had seen the gesture, and that Robert had intended for him to do so. With a glance from her to Geoffrey, Robert turned on his heel and vanished in the direction of the billiards room.

"Well, that was interesting," Geoffrey said, taking her hand and bowing over it.

"Yes." Lucinda resisted the urge to clear her throat. "He's a… friend of mine."

"So I saw. Will you assist me in locating our host and hostess?"

"Certainly. This way."

As she started off, Lord Geoffrey offered his arm. Wrapping her fingers around his sleeve, she guided him to the drawing room. How strange this evening had become. Five minutes ago she would have wagered both that Robert Carroway would never put in an appearance at Halboro House, and that despite his assurance whatever help he offered would be both useless and unwelcome. It seemed, though, that she would have been wrong—on both counts.

Surreptitiously she reached up to touch her cheek where he'd caressed her. Her skin felt warm. How very strange indeed.

With a slow breath Robert pushed open the billiards-room door and stepped inside. The rumble of male voices hit him first; it sounded as though everyone was talking at once. Then he made out Georgiana's higher, sweeter tones, aimed as usual at trying to dispel some of the chaos. He focused on her, mostly to give himself another moment before he faced the man in the back of the room. As he'd been telling himself all day, he'd entered into an agreement with Miss Barrett, and he couldn't fulfill his part of it from behind the walls of Carroway House—no matter who he might have to encounter along the way.

"I have your word then, Saint," Georgie was saying.

"You have my word. I will only pass on such skills of mine as may be deemed socially acceptable."

"Georgie, you're going to ruin me," Edward complained.

"No, I'm trying very hard to see that that doesn't happen," she returned, and with a swift kiss to Tristan's cheek, she backed toward the door.

Robert sidestepped so she wouldn't crash into him. "Georgiana," he said, pulling the door open for her.

She touched him on the shoulder before she slipped from the room. Georgiana knew a little of what had happened to him, because he'd told her. She'd told Tristan, but he knew it hadn't gone any further than their immediate family. After all, what family would want it to be known that their brave soldier hadn't been wounded at Waterloo, but had missed the battle entirely? That he'd been kept in a prison for seven months, and had had no part in either of Bonaparte's two surrenders? What excuse would he then have for anything?

He pulled in a breath. And what would even his own family think if they knew everything about those seven months? Robert shuddered, deliberately lifting his gaze to the man who, for a time, anyway, he'd wanted to kill.

"Don't you worry, lad," General Augustus Barrett said to Edward, "I didn't promise anything. You stay close to me, and you'll learn a thing or two."

At that moment Lord Geoffrey entered the room, and Robert edged farther away from the growing crowd. He wasn't surprised when the general stepped up to be the first to greet Newcombe.

"Geoffrey, you know everyone, don't you?" Barrett asked, shaking the hand of the Duke of Fenley's fourth son. "Our host, Lord St. Aubyn, and—"

"Saint," the marquis interrupted with a slight, dark smile.

"Yes, of course," Geoffrey replied. "Thank you for having me. The invitation was appreciated, if unexpected."

"I like surprises," Saint returned.

The general stepped in again. "All the rest are Carroways. Tristan, Lord Dare, and his brothers Lieutenant Bradshaw, unfortunately of His Majesty's Navy, Edward, and—"

"Call me Runt," Edward said proudly. "I'm the youngest."

"Runt," Geoffrey said, solemnly shaking Edward's proffered hand.

"And the other one there's Robert," General Barrett finished, barely sparing him a glance.

Geoffrey faced him. "Yes. We've met."

Robert inclined his head, his attention still on the general. So that's who he was to Barrett—"the other one." At least the contempt was mutual.

"Thank you," a low, deep voice came from close beside him. Saint leaned on his billiards cue, his gaze on the game.

"For what?" Bit muttered back.

"Being a new addition to the group, I'd begun to think it was me you were avoiding at our various gatherings," the marquis continued, keeping his voice quiet. "But it's not me, is it? It's Barrett."