Gallant Scoundrel (10 page)

Almost at once, Jack stepped forward. “Harry, old boy, you must introduce me to the celebrated Miss Maxwell. Foxhaven, at your service.” He executed a smart bow. “Though you and I never met, I heard much about you while serving in the Peninsula. I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”
 

Her eyes still on Harry, she made a stammering response, whereupon Peter came forward as well.
 

“Give you good evening, Miss Maxwell. I am Lord Peter Northrup, and this is my wife, Sarah. She is but recently arrived in London, something I presume you have in common? Where have you been keeping yourself these few years past?”

“My…my home is in Yorkshire,” she replied, her voice slightly stronger now. “Though I lived there but little prior to my time on the Peninsula.”

Still dazed, Harry looked on as Xena—so like and yet unlike the girl he remembered—haltingly responded to Lady Peter’s queries about her early life. He paid little attention to her answers, as he already knew that portion of her history leading up to their meeting in Portugal. He was far more curious about the woman she was now—and how she came to be standing before him.

As his initial shock and disbelieving joy faded, uncertainty and suspicion began to creep in. How could Xena possibly have been alive all this time…and why had no one ever told him? Why had
she
never told him? He’d by no means lived in secrecy since his return from Spain, despite that false report of his death some months prior. Had she but bothered to inquire…

Now several other officers and their wives joined the circle about her. Harry tried to pick up the thread of conversation as Xena began to elaborate on that part of her history he burned to know.
 

“I still don’t understand why no announcement was made once Colonel Maxwell learned you were never aboard the ship that foundered,” Captain Findlay was saying. “He should have put a notice in the papers, to relieve us all.”

Xena lifted a shapely shoulder, though her expression seemed strained. “I imagine he saw little point nearly three years after the fact, especially as he was off again to resume his archaeological pursuits soon after discovering me alive at home.”

Or, Harry wondered, was it that neither of them wanted to dredge up memories of the old, hushed-up scandal that had led to their hasty marriage and subsequent banishment from the regiment?

“So you’ve been content to stay immured in the country all this time?” he suddenly heard himself asking, with an edge of skepticism he couldn’t keep from his voice.

Turning, she met his eyes squarely with the thick-lashed gray ones he remembered so well. “
Content
is perhaps not the word I would choose, sir, but I have remained there, yes. My father and…circumstances gave me little choice.” There was a question behind her gaze, and a challenge.
 

But what question, and what challenge? Surely she could not blame him for doing nothing to shorten her stay in Yorkshire when neither she nor her father had ever bothered to inform him of her survival?
 

The conversation moved on then to other reminiscences of the war years, with more than one officer recounting how the remarkable Miss Maxwell had nursed him through wounds that would surely have proved fatal without her skills. Harry listened a few moments more, then stepped back to allow others to join the throng about her.

He couldn’t imagine any “circumstances” that could have caged a spirit such as the one he remembered. Did anyone in Yorkshire—anyone
anywhere
—even know that she…they…were married? Wellington’s behavior implied he did, for all he’d introduced her as “Miss Maxwell,” and surely records of the marriage must still exist. Now that she knew Harry was also still living, what might she mean to do about it?

Somehow, he must contrive a word alone with her. In addition to burning curiosity, he very much needed to know where he—where they—stood.
 

“Are you all right, old chap?” Peter and Jack had also retreated from the group, though Sarah was still listening to the others’ tales.
 

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

The glance his friends exchanged told Harry he wasn’t the least bit convincing. He tried again.

“It’s just…I knew her rather well when I served in the 45
th
. Her father was advising Colonel Flagston at the time, you know. Seeing her suddenly alive after all these years believing her dead was like being confronted by a ghost.”

“Ah.” That single word Peter uttered carried more understanding than Harry liked. “I hadn’t realized that you and she were so close.”
 

“Nor I,” Jack echoed. “In fact, you never mentioned her once in all the time we served together, or since—not even when you first arrived from the 45
th
.”

Harry shrugged, though it cost him an effort. “We were only acquainted for three or four months, but I suppose you could say we were…friends.” A memory of their last, exceedingly passionate encounter assailed him.
 

Peter nodded sympathetically. “And you feel she should have somehow let you know she was all right.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. No! I— Damn it, Pete, you’re too perceptive by half, as always. Very well, yes. It seems little short of deceptive she should have been living happily in the country all this time with never a word to…to those of us who would have liked to know.”

Again, Peter and Jack exchanged a too-knowing glance.

“Her explanation sounded plausible enough.” Jack shrugged. “She undoubtedly assumed her father would notify her closest friends once her letter reached him. That it never did is no great surprise, given how unreliable communications were back then. Surely there’s no need to infer
deception
from a single missent message?”

“No. I suppose not. Though she might at least have written again.” Or directly to him. He’d had as much right as her father to know she had survived. Of course, his friends didn’t know that—nor was he about to tell them. “I’ve a mind to sample Old Nosey’s cellars. What say you?”

Though his friends were clearly still curious, neither made any argument as they followed Harry in pursuit of a footman bearing a silver tray of filled wine glasses.

*
       
*
       
*

Xena watched Harry Thatcher’s progress across the room while pretending to appear engaged in the conversation humming about her, though in truth she was still struggling to absorb the enormity of her discovery.
 

Alive! Harry Thatcher—her
husband
—was alive! Something the Duke had clearly known full well—which explained his rather odd reaction upon hearing the name of her “late” husband. Despite how retired she’d lived since returning to England, it seemed incredible that Harry could have been living openly in London all this time without her hearing so much as a hint of it.
 

Her gaze followed him about the room, a thousand questions crowding her brain. Was it at Salamanca that Harry lost his left arm? How long after the notice in the newspapers was he discovered to be alive? And, most importantly, now he knew
she
was alive, what might he intend to do about it?
 

It was disturbing to realize she had no idea what sort of man Harry Thatcher was now, and positively frightening that Theo’s future as well as her own were now at the mercy of a virtual stranger’s whims should he choose to exert his legal authority over them

Perhaps Harry’s fellow officers could give her some idea of his character? She began to listen more closely to nearby conversations, alert for any opening that might allow her to learn more without directly mentioning Harry’s name.
 

“Aye, look at old Tolliver over there.” Viscount Linley, only a few paces away, nodded toward a portly man whose scarlet coat was stretched tight across his abdomen. “Let himself go to fat within two months of Waterloo.”

Moving closer, Xena seized her opportunity, saying, “Many of the men here have altered almost out of recognition from when I knew them on the Peninsula, my lord. Though I suppose some of the most profound changes might not even visible to the eye. Whose behavior or outlook would you say has altered most since leaving the army?”

Lord Linley frowned thoughtfully. “Hm. Bit of a puzzler, that…”

“Not at all,” protested Mr. Mellings, whose own uniform still fitted him well. “Sure to be Colonel Northrup, wouldn’t you say? Transformed himself into a complete dandy within a month of selling out.”

“Lord Peter Northrup, do you mean?” Xena’s interest quickened, for he and Harry had appeared to be friends.
 

“Aye. On the battlefield he was hard as iron, giving no quarter to the enemy nor to his own soldiers if they disobeyed an order. But ever since returning home, he spends all his time choosing his colorful ensembles and chiding those of his comrades who’ve turned to more disreputable pursuits to while away their time.”

Which comrades, she wondered. “Surely it is admirable of him to guide his friends toward more productive paths if they are going astray?”

Lord Linley chuckled. “Doubt Thatcher sees it that way! Though Foxhaven has cause to be grateful to him, I suppose. Word was, Northrup helped him reform enough to claim his inheritance a year or two back. Some condition or other of Foxhaven’s grandfather, the way I heard it.

“But Mr. Thatcher refuses to be so guided?” Xena asked lightly, attempting to appear amused rather than worried.
 

The whole group around her laughed.
 

“Hardly Northrup’s fault, that. Thatcher was known for his excesses even in the field,” Mr. Mellings informed her. “I served in the 48
th
with him, along with Northrup and Foxhaven—Jack Ashecroft as he was then—and Harry was one of the chief carousers among us. After losing his arm he went from bad to worse. Daresay all he lives for now is drinking, dicing and wenching. Oh! Beg pardon, ma’am. Need to learn to mind my tongue better ‘round the ladies, don’t I?”

Xena forced a smile to her lips. “I heard far worse in field hospitals, I assure you. But if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll trouble that footman for one of those charming canapés and perhaps a glass of ratafia.”
 

Her false smile still firmly affixed, she moved away, thinking furiously. Could it be true? The Harry Thatcher she’d known had never imbibed at all, nor had she ever witnessed him gambling. Had seven years truly transformed him into a drunken gamester…and womanizer?
 

If so, perhaps it was as well she’d had no chance to mention her son to anyone, for the thought of such a man having absolute authority over Theo was intolerable. In fact, the safest thing might be to keep Theo’s existence a secret—though that would necessitate leaving London as soon as possible.

It was a shame, really. Mr. Gold had already found buyers for the original six items Xena had sold him, along with three others she had left on consignment. Why, just yesterday she’d written her steward in Yorkshire to commence repairs there, and to box up and send a few more treasures Mr. Gold had specifically requested. And Theo had been so very happy when she’d told him they could remain in London for the winter…
 

Lady Peter Northrup’s approach interrupted Xena’s anxious musings. “Miss Maxwell, do you suppose we might arrange an opportunity for more conversation than is possible right now? You’ve led far the most fascinating life of anyone I’ve ever met, between traveling the world and then spending time among the army camps. As my husband avoids speaking of his experiences during the war, I would be exceedingly obliged if you could tell me more of what it was like.”
 

Xena swallowed. “Oh. Er, surely there are dozens here who can tell you far more than I, Lady Peter. I was on the Peninsula but two years. And though I believed at the time I lived just as the soldiers did, I suspect I was rather more sheltered than I knew. Well…except when it came to treating the wounded—but I cannot imagine you would wish to hear those gruesome details?”

Lady Peter paled slightly. “Perhaps not,” she admitted. “But there is much I
would
like to hear. May I call upon you sometime this week? Where are you staying in Town?”

“Not in one of the more genteel areas, I fear, so it would probably be best if you did not.” The last thing Xena wanted was for anyone even remotely connected with Harry to visit her rooms—and see Theo. Not before she had decided what to do.

“The more, ah, colorful areas of London do not frighten me.” Lady Peter gave her an almost mischievous smile. “But if my calling upon you seems ineligible, might I persuade you visit me in Curzon Street? For truly, I should like to know you better. Were you the one to nurse Harry Thatcher when he was so dreadfully wounded? You both seemed quite strongly affected upon first encountering each other tonight.”

“No, I…I never nursed him. His injury must have occurred after I left Spain—likely at Salamanca, as that was the battle where he was reported killed. In error, obviously.” When had that error been discovered? She wished she knew. “He served in the 45
th
for three or four months while my father was there advising Colonel Flagston and our paths often crossed. That…that is all.”

Though of course that was
not
all. Not remotely.
 

Unbidden, a far-too-vivid memory of the night Harry first introduced her to the pleasures of lovemaking made her knees go unexpectedly weak. Swallowing, she stiffened her spine to compensate, hoping her color hadn’t risen.

“Even so, Miss Maxwell, I would be delighted if you would take tea with me one day this week,” Lady Pater persisted, forcing Xena’s focus back to the present.

“You are exceedingly kind, but I plan to remain in London only another day or two.”
 

Lady Peter’s beautiful face fell. “Oh, I am very sorry to hear that. I quite looked forward to our becoming better acquainted. If you
should
decide to stay longer, please don’t hesitate to call upon me, even unannounced.”