Kindred Hearts (44 page)

“God, Charlie,” Tristan groaned. “To be stuck here while you’re out there… I don’t know how I will bear it ’til you come home.”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll wager it’s all over before you rise tomorrow, you slugabed. I’m the one who’s missing his birthday—but I’ll share yours in September, all right?”

“Of course. I…. Oh, wait. I do have a gift for you; I don’t know why I stuck it in my pocket. I must be prescient. Perhaps you’ll find it useful.” Tristan pulled the little knife out and pressed it into Charles’s hand. “It’s a boot knife.”

“Clever,” Charles said, and he pulled it from the sheath, admiring it in the fickle moonlight. “Thanks, Tris.”

“Here.” Tristan took the knife from him and crouched to slide the sheath into Charles’s right boot. He curled his fingers a moment around Charles’s strong calf, then slid his hands up, caressing the muscled thigh. Charles reached down and stroked Tristan’s hair. “Tristan,” he said, his voice thick with tears.

Tris rose, pushing Charles back against the wall of the house, taking advantage of the cloud that slid across the face of the moon to kiss him in sheltering darkness. Charles’s mouth welcomed him. Tristan sank his fingers into Charles’s hair, finding it stiff with the salt of sweat, but he paid no mind, holding him steady as he ravaged his mouth, ground against Charles’s hips with his pelvis, determined to imprint the taste and feel of Charles in his mind and memory.

“Oh, my God!”

Tristan jerked back from Charles and stared blankly down the alley at the silhouette there. The voice was faintly familiar, but the face was invisible.

Not so theirs; there was the sound of breath being sucked in, then, “Northwood? And… oh, my God—
Mountjoy
?”

“Randy.” Charles’s voice was quiet, sounding frozen.

Captain Randall lunged down the alley toward them. The cloud slid from the moon, and Tristan could now see his face, his expression furious and his eyes on Tristan. “You filthy sodomite!” he spat, giving Tristan a shove. “How
dare
you assault him this way? I knew you were a libertine, but this is outside all bounds of decency!”

“
Randy!
” Charles’s voice was louder now and edged with anger. “Stop it. There was no assault!”

“Ballocks!” Randall hissed. “I saw the way he pushed you against the wall and forced his filthy kisses on you. I’ll see him
hanged
for that.”

Tristan stumbled back, feeling the blood drain from his face. He reached behind him, found the wall of the opposite house, and leaned on it, his legs suddenly weak. “Charlie?” he whispered.

“Randy—it’s not like that. Tris didn’t assault me.”

The captain stiffened and stared at Charles, aghast. “You didn’t
welcome
his advances, Monty?”

“No,” Tristan said, his skin suddenly cold. He drew on all the aristocratic hauteur that Charles had so often teased him about, and went on, “Major Mountjoy is innocent of everything but exhaustion. I took advantage of that. Major, I apologize, deeply. Perhaps it’s best you go on to your quarters.”

“Damn you, Tris,” Charles said. He rubbed his face wearily. “Randy—it wasn’t Tristan’s fault. We had—have—a, an involvement….”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Major,” Tristan said. “It’s not necessary to protect me for your sister’s sake. Captain Randall is not a fool; he knows that I am what he called me. It is what others will also believe. Besides, it’s not necessary to protect me. Captain Randall knows that a single accusation against a nobleman is hardly enough to hang one. Even one as”—he paused and shot his cuffs for effect—“as
notorious
as I am.” He glanced at Randall. “However, such an accusation would destroy the career of an officer. I trust Captain Randall respects your abilities far too much to take that risk?”

The captain glared at him, then glanced at Charles. “Monty? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Charles rubbed his face again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tristan overrode him. “Our forces are besieged, and his Grace wishes the major to accompany him when he rides out. He’s given the major a short time to rest before then. For the love of God, man, let him rest. Let him attend the Duke. Arrest me, if you like; I’ve nothing better to do.” He held out his wrists.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Randall said irritably, “stop acting like Kemble onstage at Covent Garden.”

“Kemble? No less than Kean, my dear boy,” Tristan said loftily. “Kemble is a technician, Kean an artist.”

“Don’t know—haven’t seen ’im,” Randall shot back. “Good God—you’re talking
theater
; I’m talking
crime
!”

“Some of the theater I’ve seen should be classified as crime,” Tristan said recklessly. He had no idea where this was coming from; something wild inside, the thing that spoke for him when challenged, when dared, when on the verge of discovery or danger. And at this moment, he was all of them.

“This really means nothing to you?” The captain’s voice was heavy with disbelief. “That you can destroy an honorable officer, an honorable
man
….”

“Why not?” Tristan shot back. “I’ve already disgraced all the honorable women in London; I’ve had to switch countries and genders to keep up with my libertine ways.”

“That’s
enough
!” Charles’s voice was harsh. “Randy, Tris—stop it!” He caught Randall’s sleeve. “Randy, leave him alone. He’s not the one who instigated it.”

“Monty, I won’t believe that of you,” the captain said firmly.

“Fine. Don’t. But don’t believe it of Tris, either.” Charles ran his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Look—I was selling out. Will sell out, after all of this. I’m not staying in the army, Randy, you know that, not after this battle. I’m done. All I want is to go home. I am
begging
you, Randy—don’t report this. Leave Tris alone. I beg you, Randy—for the friendship we shared. If nothing else—for Keighley.”

The captain had opened his mouth to speak, but Charles’s last words made him hesitate. Then he shook his head. “It’s filthy. It’s disgusting, and it’s illegal
and
immoral. But damn it, Monty,
you
I don’t want to see hanged. Damn it.”

“If you bring Tristan up on charges, it’s bound to come out,” Charles said. “It’ll tar everyone, me, Lottie, my nephew…. Please, Randy.”

Randall stood a moment, then said, “
Damn
it, Monty.” He gave Tristan a vicious glare and said to him, “If I ever set eyes on you again, I’ll kill you. I know where the blame belongs, even if he denies it. But for now…. For Mountjoy’s sake. Besides, I’ve no time for this now; I’m called to attend the prince. Go, Monty—I’ll see you in a couple of hours. You,” he said, turning to Tristan, “can go to hell.” He turned on his heel and strode back down the alley.

“Well,” Tristan said, “that was interesting. You’d better go, Charles, before he changes his mind.”

“Tris—oh, God, Tris, this isn’t how I wanted to leave you.”

“It’s all right, Charlie.” Tristan gave him a thin smile and an awkward pat on the shoulder.

Charles stared at him a long moment, then reached out and dragged him into his arms, kissing him fiercely. Tris resisted a moment, then collapsed against him, clutching his coat and weeping helplessly. “God,” he sobbed, “I am such a
woman
.”

“If you were,” Charles said with a half-laugh, “we wouldn’t be in this fix.”

“I’ve lost you your friend,” Tristan said, resting his forehead against Charles’s shoulder. “I’ve put you in even more danger than you already are.”

“What is this ‘I’ nonsense?” Charles said harshly. “You’ve done nothing but what I’ve asked of you, Tris. And this is nothing. Randy won’t say anything. He’s honorable.”

Tristan snorted. “And you’re naïve, Charlie. He won’t be able to resist the gossip. Or perhaps one day he’ll be drunk as a lord and someone will mention your name, or mine, and he won’t even be aware of what he’s saying.” He turned his face into Charles’s neck. “It doesn’t matter,” he said tiredly. “Go rest, Charles. Come to me tomorrow when it’s all over. When you can. We’ll deal more with this later. You haven’t much time. Go.”

“I don’t like to leave you like this.”

Tristan drew himself up and gave Charles
The Look
. “I beg your pardon?” he said, arching a brow. “You think me
incapable
of coping, perhaps?”

Charles gave a bark of graveyard laughter. “I begin to think there is nothing you can’t cope with. You don’t lack courage, Tris. I’ll go, then. You too. Go home and go to bed.”

“I shall be returning to the Richmonds’,” Tristan said. “There to prove that I have never left the building, and thus diffuse any gossip. Leave it in my hands, Charles; I’m an old hand at dissembling.”

“There’s my brilliant Tris,” Charles said, kissing him briefly, then he moved off toward the back of the house, to the lights and voices and hubbub.

Tristan watched him go, his heart breaking, then straightened himself up and went back to the Richmonds’ in time for supper. There, he dropped careful comments that, if put together, would make it clear that Tristan had never left the ball.

He might as well have been silent. By the time he returned the rumors had begun to spread, not about Tristan Northwood, but about Napoleon Bonaparte. Especially when, one by one, in pairs, or small groups, the officers that had been present excused themselves. The Duke of Wellington made his farewells to his host and hostess to the faint distant sounds of the troops mobilizing, but not before sending the Prince of Orange unceremoniously off to bed, like the unruly child he so often resembled. The dance floor cleared with officers taking leave of their friends and flirts. There was a sotto voce argument between Georgianna Lennox and Lord Hay. The Gay Gordons, who’d done some Scottish dances for the crowd earlier in the evening, had all gone, the forward guard on their way to the crossroads at Quatre Bras. The Black Brunswickers, with their distinctive black uniforms and death’s-head insignia, had also vanished. Some of the women had broken down in tears, but the Duchess of Richmond was still in full sail, sweeping around the room, sorting out confusion and getting things set to rights. Tristan had always admired her for her presence; he admired her for her composure even more now.

He saw Hume, the Duke’s physician, and crossed the corner of the room. “Dr. Hume, sir?”

The doctor glanced up curiously. “Sir?”

“Tristan Northwood,” Tris began, but Hume nodded, giving him a strained smile.

“Major Mountjoy’s brother, of course. How d’ye do, sir? Monty’s spoken of you often. Says you’re studying surgery under Crosby. Fine surgeon. A bit daft, but they mostly all are.”

“Yes, sir, so I’m given to understand.”

“I hope you’ve come to offer your services,” Hume said. “We’ll need all the steady hands we can get in the next few days.”

“I don’t know how steady they are,” Tris replied, “but yes, I’m offering them. How can I help?”

“Let me introduce you to James Grant—he’s principal medical officer, and in charge of coordinating efforts.” Hume led the way across the room to a serious-looking man talking to several others in quiet tones. He looked up at Hume’s approach, then fixed gimlet eyes on Tristan. Hume made the introductions.