Regency 02 - Betrayal (3 page)

He just wished the bloody marquess had chosen
a different…victim on which to practice his rapidly maturing
sleuthing skills.

Adam had gone to a lot of trouble to bury the
fact that he was a baronet. He sincerely believed that he didn’t
deserve it no matter what Wellington and Prinny said about the
issue. It was moot that he had no use for titles anyway. The power
behind the aristocracy seemed to be blown all out of proportion
with some of the highest titles in the land being held by greedy,
vulgar, licentious, and sometimes downright evil men. He had no
desire to be numbered among them.

His glass was filled a fourth time but this
time he only sipped at it. He was tempted to empty the bottle and
perhaps two or three more after that. Thinking about his title only
made him think about his past and…her.

He shook his head as if to clear the thought
from his mind. He would not think of the lying, greedy little
witch. He would not!

He decided his military career, which had
started out so promising, was the start of his real bitterness, and
yes, even hatred in regard to the fair sex. Had he not begged
Connor’s father, the Duke of Denbigh, to help him get into a good
regiment, he would never have had to endure the pain of the past
two years.

The war with Napoleon had escalated and Adam
had a desire to see if he could help rid the peninsula of the
Corsican monster. The duke was more than willing to assist him and
confided to Adam that he wanted Connor to go as well. Connor had
refused pointblank when asked, much to everyone’s astonishment. It
was indeed odd that the bookish Adam was determined to go and the
sport-loving Connor absolutely refused.

He had arrived in time to participate in the
battle of Vitoria in 1813. That battle had more or less decided the
fate of Napoleon. Wellington’s victory at Vitoria had rallied the
Prussians and even contributed toward the reentry of Austria into
the war against France.

Adam’s performance at Vitoria resulted in his
promotion from lieutenant to major. By the time the battle of
Toulouse ended and Napoleon was abdicated to the island of Elba,
Adam had risen to the rank of colonel. That was a title of which he
could be proud.

Being by now drunk enough to conveniently
forget the difficult time between the time of Napoleon’s abdication
in April 1814 and his subsequent escape in March of the following
year, Adam thought about his injury at Quatre Bras. He wasn’t
actually supposed to have been where he was at the time. His inner
demons had driven him to stand anywhere on the field where he might
die—which actually could have been anywhere.

As it turned out, Adam Prestwich was
blessed—or cursed, from his viewpoint—with the luck of the devil.
He was struck down, shrapnel lodging deep in his thigh. It ended up
being a very minor wound. He had contracted the inevitable fever,
however, and found himself on the next ship to England right after
the battle of Waterloo and the end of Napoleon’s illustrious
career. Even the fever neglected to kill him and spare him from the
pain of living.

He was awarded the baronetcy for showing
bravery on the field of battle. Bravery, hah! He was the veriest
coward. He was only on the field praying for death and his plans
had gone awry. Hence, his reason for refusing to acknowledge his
title.

“Drowning your sorrows?” asked an amused
voice from the now open door.

Adam shrugged. Well, he tried to. He was far
more intoxicated than he had at first supposed. When he moved his
shoulder in a gesture that was as natural to him as breathing, his
head swam alarmingly and the whole room tilted.

He clapped a hand to his head to steady it.
Unfortunately, it was the hand that held his half-empty glass.
Brandy sloshed over the edge and down his black hair, down his
unshaven cheek, and onto his white waistcoat. A few drops even
managed to land on his buckskins.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered—slurred, rather.
He glanced at the decanter beside him and realized it was empty. As
was the bottle of port. Damn. When had that happened?

“Let me help, old man,” his friend said
good-naturedly as he removed the glass from Adam’s hand and mopped
up most of the mess with a large handkerchief. “I wager you haven’t
slept in days.” He rang for Adam’s batman, Morris. The valet
entered, took one look at his master, and groaned—loudly.

“The devil!” Prestwich ground out, much to
the amusement of his friend and servant. He glared at both of them.
“Get out!”

The valet was known for never speaking. The
occasional sound would slip from between the man’s thin lips, but
not very often. It seemed to suit Adam and Morris nicely to
converse without actual words. Now the valet took Adam by the arm,
heaved the much larger man out of the chair, and simply led him
away.

Connor watched them leave with the same
amused smile in his eyes. As soon as the door closed, however, the
smile disappeared and what Connor Northwicke felt then was far from
amusement. He hated the situation that Adam had embroiled him in
and he hated even more lying to Verena. He was definitely not
looking forward to the scene that would ensue when she found out.
And find out, she would. It was inevitable.

The Countess of Rothsmere. Hers was an old
and powerful family full of dukes, earls, and viscounts. Connor
thought there was even a baron in there somewhere. He wondered what
had caused her to run away from a revered title and riches beyond
anyone’s wildest dreams. It had to have been quite bad. Connor
wondered if Adam had considered this. He wondered if Adam would go
through with returning her to her family. With Adam, one never
really knew what he would decide.

Lord Connor walked over and reached into the
cupboard by the desk, removed another bottle of brandy and poured
himself a glass. He quaffed it, set the glass on the desk, and left
the room.

He popped his head into the sickroom and
murmured a few short orders to Mrs. Campion. Then, after a moment
of indecision as to whether or not he should leave something for
the massive hangover Adam was sure to have later in the day, Connor
shook his head and left the third floor.

As he donned his despised hat—he hated hats,
always had—his gloves, cloak, and took up his riding crop, Connor
thanked God fervently that Verena had not accompanied him to Town
this time. At least he had some time to prepare for the coming
battle.

Prestwich came awake with a pounding
headache. His mouth felt like carpet and his stomach protested
vociferously every time he moved so much as a hair. He wondered
with a detached feeling if he was dying. It was quite the worst
hangover he’d ever experienced.

He wondered why. Drink had never affected him
so violently before. Then he remembered. When one neglected to eat
and then filled that empty belly with spirits, it was like drinking
twice the amount actually consumed. His brow furrowed. How could he
have forgotten to eat?

And he had forgotten…all day, all night, and
the entire day before. Blast! He forced his eyes open and blinked
in the glare from the light streaming in the window facing his bed.
Where was Morris? The man knew how Adam hated light when he felt so
damned sick.

“Morris!” he bellowed.

That was stupid.

The shout reverberated through his head,
threatening to crack his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut and
prayed for death. Unfortunately, all he got in answer for his
heartfelt prayer was wretchedly sick in the chamberpot next to his
bed.

A few minutes later, he smelled the distinct
aroma of coffee. He also smelled something sickeningly sweet and
yet as putrid as the streets of London on a sultry summer day. It
was familiar and he realized with a twinge of dread that it was
Morris’s infallible cure for a hangover. It tasted as disgusting as
it smelled and Adam did not look forward to taking it. He wished
Connor had had the decency to leave something for him. But he knew
his friend well enough to know that the marquess would think it
would serve Adam right for getting so tap-hackled. Morris’s cure
was more punishment than relief.

The smell of the blasted stuff was making him
want to cast up his non-existent accounts again. He wondered a
trifle illogically if he would end his days by literally puking his
guts out. Was it possible?

He found a glass shoved in his hand and had
to swallow convulsively to avoid being sick again. Adam glared at
his silent valet, who had the nerve to look back with a cheeky
smile as if amused by his master’s imminent passing. As soon as the
coffee cup was drained, Adam blessedly passed out again.

Two and a half hours later, Adam was feeling
much better, once again sure that he would live. He was on his way
to see his guest and find out how she was doing. He doubted very
much that the fever had broken, but he wanted to see for himself
that she was resting peacefully.

She was. In fact, she was sleeping so
peacefully, a shiver of alarm snaked up his spine. Maybe she was
dead. He approached silently and was relieved to see the subtle
rising and falling of her chest beneath the blankets. A fire
crackled merrily in the grate casting a warm glow over the room.
The drapes were drawn to keep out the late afternoon sunlight. Mrs.
Campion was dozing next to the bed.

The housekeeper came awake when Adam released
the deep breath he’d had no idea he was holding. Stammering out
apologies for having fallen asleep, she rose to her feet, bobbing a
curtsy as she did so. Adam assured her that she needn’t worry about
it.

“You are doing more than could be reasonably
expected of you,” he said mildly. “Why don’t you appoint a maid to
sit with her while she sleeps?”

The woman’s eyes grew worried for a moment.
“I would, sir, but they are such flighty creatures. I feel more
comfortable watching over her myself.”

“So be it,” her master replied with a shrug.
He couldn’t recall having ever hired a flighty maid and he was sure
his redoubtable housekeeper would not but he really couldn’t be
worried about servant matters at the moment. “Has there been any
change?”

“No, sir. She awoke a few moments ago and I
gave her the powders just like Lord Connor showed me. Then she went
back to sleep.”

“Has she been able to eat anything? And keep
it down?”

The woman frowned. “No, sir. That is, she
drank some broth, but she couldn’t keep it down.”

Adam was worried. He thought her inability to
retain sustenance was due more to the near starvation she had
suffered rather than the fever itself. He had no doubt that when
the time came to really try to overcome that, he would need Connor
again.

“Has she spoken at all?”

Mrs. Campion—the Mrs. was a courtesy
title—scrunched up her doughy face thoughtfully. “She mumbled
something about not letting, um, you, sir, take her back. Then she
sighed and said…love, no, Levi? Yes, Levi. That was it.”

“She didn’t say anything else?” Adam asked a
trifle shortly.

“No, sir, that was all.”

“Very well. I have some things to do. I’ll
return to see how she goes on before dinner.”

Adam left the house in a bit of a temper. She
was dreaming of another man. How dare she think about someone else
when…When what? Why the devil was he so upset? He sounded
almost…jealous.

Heaven forbid,
was
he jealous? He
didn’t even like women; he certainly wouldn’t be jealous if one
should show a preference for someone other than himself. A woman
only served one useful purpose he could think of and that was best
served flat on her back. Beyond that, he had no use for them.

He shoved the thought of jealousy aside. He
realized with dismay that he was nearing Hyde Park and it was the
time of the promenade. He hated the promenade.

It was not as busy at this time of year. For
one thing, it was too cold for most. It was also too early for the
height of the Season. There were not nearly as many people in
Town.

But even with the drastically dissipated
numbers of human beings in London, someone always stopped to talk
to him; débutantes flirted, hopeful mamas tried to draw him into
conversations extolling the many virtues of Miss This and Lady
That, gentlemen tried to claim more than a mere acquaintance with
him,
etc.
It was vastly annoying.

“I say, Prestwich, are you back in Town?”

Adam reluctantly brought Charger to a halt.
The great black beast stamped his feet in irritation. He was
brought swiftly under control and stood placidly enough while his
eyes darted around looking for…a victim, most likely.

Adam resisted the urge to reply with the
obvious rejoinder “Of course I am, you bloody nodcock” and said
instead, only a trifle sarcastically, “As you can see.” He left it
at that and made to move on. This was generally enough to
discourage conversation.

Evidently, Lord Hubert Baxter was either
completely oblivious or else had no fear of dying. He reined in
closer to Charger, who took exception to the movement and tried to
rear up. Adam kept his seat and barked a sharp command at the
horse. The large beast quieted instantly, satisfying himself with
an angry snort while he pawed at the thin layer of snow covering
the ground.

“I heard you were in the north recently,
Prestwich,” Baxter said then, his keen eyes missing nothing.

Adam looked at the once handsome, now scarred
visage of the lord. He could barely tolerate the man in the best of
moods. He was not in the best of moods now. “I was,” he answered
curtly, hoping his obvious disinterest in anything Baxter had to
say would bring an end to the conversation.

It seemed his famous luck had run out. “And
who kept your ladybird company while you were off gallivanting
across the country?” the lord asked insolently.