For the Love of a Soldier (4 page)

A wounded soldier. Alex’s heart squeezed. To survive the carnage in the Crimea only to be killed through this sordid arrangement. She closed her eyes. Faces of the men for whom she had cared loomed before her.

This man, this nameless man they planned to kill, was one of them. A survivor when but a third of the soldiers had walked away from the suicidal charge that marked that tragic battle at Balaclava.

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t.

But who? Whom did they wish dead?

The maroon-coated footman had reached the French doors when the taller man’s words halted him. “Wait.” He fumbled with something. A flash of gold streaked across the black night before the footman’s hand snatched it from the air. “Once pawned, that should cover the fee.”

The footman examined the item, flicking something open and closed.

A snuffbox? Watch? Card case? Alex squinted into the darkness, struggling to identify the object before the man’s jacket pocket swallowed it.

“Good ’nough.”

“What about the job?”

The footman gave a curt nod. “Kendall be taken—”

“Christ, keep your mouth shut!” the gentleman swore, his head pivoting, scanning the area.

A short, guttural laugh escaped his adversary. “Right touchy, guv’nor.”

“Do we have a deal?” he hissed.

“We do.”

There was a grunt of acceptance from the taller man. “Good. Now, get the hell out of here before you’re spotted. We should both leave. Better if I had never come,” he muttered the last.

“Good ’nough.” The French doors opened and closed, and the short man disappeared, leaving his companion alone with his thoughts—and Alex.

Kendall.

She closed her eyes. It had to be
him. Again.
But of course. Fate had delivered him like a plague to ruin her night, and the night was far from over.

Alex’s eyes flew open and her head jerked around at a movement from the patio. She leaned against the tree as if seeking to merge into it. Sweat pooled between her shoulder blades, dotted her forehead. A branch snapped in the distance, and she bit her lip to swallow back her scream.

The man whipped around.

Alex froze, holding her sharp intake of breath. Stark white shards of fear pierced her.

“Christ, bloody cat!” her adversary spat.

Cleo! Olivia’s wretched black cat. Alex sagged against the tree, weak-kneed.

The man withdrew his handkerchief and flicked it at the cat. Cleo lifted her paw to bat at it, hissing her feline disdain before she scampered away.

Alex eyed the cat’s escape with jealousy. Time moved at a tortoise-crawl until the man emitted a vicious curse and stormed inside.

She waited a beat before she followed. She needed to see him. To identify this man who wanted Kendall dead.

She eased open the doors in time to glimpse him striding down the corridor. She lengthened her steps, hurrying to pursue her prey. When he turned right, candlelight from a corner wall sconce lit his greased dark hair.

She followed him to the balcony overlooking the ballroom.
Should he descend the grand staircase, he would be swallowed up in the sea of black evening jackets crowding the floor.

Heart thundering, she rushed to the railing. She could not catch up with him, but when he fled down the stairs, she might see his profile. She held her breath.

His strides were quick and purposeful.

She gripped the railing, her eyes locked on the man’s black evening jacket and she willed him to look up.

As if hearing her plea, the man turned. His eyes swept the upper balcony, briefly lighting on Alex before sliding past. Whirling around, he hastened down the last steps. In minutes, his head and shoulders were engulfed in the waves of guests blocking the edge of the dance floor. He was gone.

Alex expelled her breath. She did not recognize him.

His long, lean features were hawkish with an aquiline nose and thin, bloodless lips. His brows were thick and arched. He was but another mirror image of all the other distinguished gentlemen who composed the ton. She would have had to have gotten closer to get a better look at him; she doubted she could identify him again.

She sagged against the railing. What had she expected? A brand to enable her to recognize him again? A jagged scar lining his cheek? She snorted. Her Langdon luck had run dry, and she had best remember it.

Straightening, she pondered what to do next. Murder conspiracies were out of her realm. Poverty, hunger, and near ruin, well, she had some experience with those. This was different. Lives were in jeopardy, or rather, the life of one man. One despicable man.

Kendall
.

She fisted her hands. She couldn’t sit by and let the man be murdered. Pity there. He was a war hero. Who would have thought? She recalled his lean body and now realized his determined strides resembled a military gait. And his whipcord-thin frame. The man had been wounded and might still be regaining his strength. For what? To have it snuffed out by the hand of that treacherous little man? She shuddered.

She would go to the authorities. Let the magistrate deal with the sordid matter. There was no time to waste, for she did not know how long she had, or rather how long Kendall had. The
murderous trap could be set for him this very night. The way her evening was going, that would be the case.

Intent on her plan, she started forward only to stop short. She could not speak to a magistrate. He would never listen to her because she was nobody. Lady Alexandra Langdon had never attended the Duke of Hammond’s ball, Alex Daniels had. She cringed at the thought of donning her disguise in the light of day before the authorities of the law, no less. No, absolutely not. She drew the line at how far she was willing to go. Deceiving the ton to relieve them of surplus funds was one matter; lying to an official of the law another matter altogether. One was a case of survival, the other suicidal.

Blast it. She should just let Kendall be killed.

She spun and paced the long corridor. No, she couldn’t. She owed him. Now she could repay him. Her debt would be wiped clean. Her life in exchange for his seemed a fair exchange. She would warn Kendall about this murderous plot, but she could give him no more, unable to accurately identify either man if ever located. A warning was all she had to offer.

She started forward but again paused. Like the magistrate, Kendall would never listen to her. He hadn’t earlier when she offered to repay her debt.

He wanted nothing from her.

Typical arrogant male. She pursed her lips and reconsidered the matter. Well then, she wouldn’t tell him to his face. She would write him a note, sign it anonymously, and have a butler deliver it to him in the card room. She ventured forward once more. It was a plan…of sorts. The best she could muster under the circumstances.

The man had survived the Charge of the Light Brigade. He had ridden through the valley of death, the mouth of hell, cannons storming him with shot and shell. He must have a talent for facing life-threatening situations and surviving against all odds.

G
ARRETT
Sinclair, the Earl of Kendall, scowled at the man sitting opposite him. What was his name? Viscount Currans? His cologne seeped across the card table. The fop must have bathed in the scent. And what in God’s name was he wearing? Since when had peacock-colored cravats come into style? Though, it looked better than Morley’s dazzling green jacket. Its glare blinded a man.

Garrett stiffened in his seat, appalled at his thoughts.

Bloody hell. He didn’t give a good Goddamn what the dandies wore. His only concern lay in what lined the fops’ pockets or, rather, filled their trust funds. And he was fast losing interest in that.

He never should have come. He’d known it the minute he had arrived and the Duke of Hammond’s butler announced his name in that portentous, booming baritone. The shock of it had plunged like a boulder into still waters, creating a ripple effect that spread across the room. Silence had been followed with the slow rising crescendo of murmurs. He had forgotten how fast and furious tongues wagged at the slightest whiff of news.

And sadly, he was news.

Ever since he’d stepped out into society, he’d had the unfortunate penchant for greasing the gossip mill. Years later, he still paid the price for his younger days of carousing stupidity. One would think his two-year absence would have eradicated people’s memories or supplant them with some other fool’s exploits. Currans, for example. The ass bragged about the actress he had brazenly escorted to Lady Monroe’s garden party. Shouldn’t that trump his rumored duel with Samson?

Garrett couldn’t even remember who the hell their duel was touted to have been about. Samson’s wife or his mistress? He did recall that neither woman was worth it. Thankfully, Samson had agreed, and they had both gotten amicably drunk toasting their mutual opinion. Even if he lived down the story, there were others to top it and that explained why he had purchased his commission. Joining the lancers had also had the added benefit of thwarting his imperious, pompous ass of a stepfather.

But once again, Garrett had been the only one to pay the price for his stupidity. And he was still paying it. He would pay it until he was dead and buried with the hundreds of others who’d been lost on that blood-soaked battlefield.

Christ, the loss. The senseless slaughter. One drop of their blood was more valuable than the combined lot of that which flowed through the men at his table. Their gravest decision in life appeared to be which color cravat to wear and even in this they blundered. It was little wonder they wagered their fortunes on the turn of a card. All too often, these were stakes they couldn’t afford to lose.

Stormy blue eyes interrupted his thoughts, and Garrett clenched his jaw.

What was his name? Alex Denny? Dannel? What haunted Garrett about the man?

Damned if he didn’t evoke memories of the lost boys in his command. The false bravado. The youth and incredible innocence. The flash of undisguised panic before pride stamped it down.

Why the hell had he followed him from the table?

Because having seen countless death stares riddling the corpse-strewn battlefield, he had recognized the despair in Denny’s eyes and he had refused to be responsible for another man’s demise. Not over money he didn’t want or need.

He didn’t appreciate Denny affecting him like that, nor would he forget or forgive the man for it. Life hardened those strong enough to survive it. Similar to battle, the soft got trampled, literally mowed down by the wave of men behind them. He smelled something soft about Denny and he didn’t like it.

Thankfully, the man wasn’t his concern, nor his responsibility. But Christ, the bloke was young. Garrett had never been that young. At age six, he had been ancient.

He tossed down his cards and collected his winnings. Ignoring the complaints of his companions, he made his excuses and fled. He’d had enough.

He had returned to town to regain the rhythm of his life, but it wasn’t here. Damned if he knew where it was, but the room and company stifled him, catering to too many fops like Currans or fools like Denny. He didn’t belong there. Not anymore.

G
ARRETT STEPPED OUT
of the front doors of Hammond’s estate and savored the cool, evening breeze. His shoulders loosened, his body eased, and he breathed deeply. He eyed the line of coaches cluttering the drive, squinting into the blanket of fog that fell like a smoke-colored curtain over the city. Music drifted to him. The notes mixed with the night’s murmurs, the occasional whinny of a horse, and the clatter of traffic rumbling through the streets.

Garrett directed one of Hammond’s footmen to call for his carriage. While he waited, he noticed another footman conversing with a gentleman.

Something familiar about the man’s slim build and royal blue jacket tugged at Garrett. Hammond’s man nodded in his direction. The gentleman stiffened in reaction to the servant’s response. Slowly, almost haltingly, the man turned to face Garrett and he straightened. Bloody hell.

It was him.
Denny.