England's Perfect Hero (11 page)

When Robert came downstairs, Tristan and Bradshaw were already in the foyer pretending not to be edgy. They knew as well as he did that he hadn't set foot in one of London's gentlemen's clubs in better than five years, since he'd left England to join his regiment in Spain.

"I had the coach brought up," Tristan said as Robert reached them. "Unless you'd rather ride."

It wasn't an easy choice; sitting for fifteen minutes in a tiny, dark coach, or giving himself an easy opportunity to escape the entire venture aboard Tolley. "The coach is fine."

"Good. Ready?"

No
! Robert nodded even though every muscle was taut, urging him to retreat. His breath was already coming too fast, and he forced himself to slow down. He could do this. It was just an hour or two, and then he could look forward to a ride in the early morning—with Lucinda. Or without her, if she had any sense and refused his offer.

Even the butler looked concerned as he pulled open the front door for them. Robert hung back as Bradshaw and Tristan climbed into the coach. He knew he could turn around now and that neither of them would ever say another word about it. And he remembered what Bradshaw had said, that he'd done nothing with his life.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped up into the coach. His brothers would see that he was reluctant and tense, but they wouldn't see that he was terrified—not of the coach or of the club, but that he wouldn't be able to hold the blackness at bay and that it would strike him when he was out in the open.

"I had a thought," Bradshaw said into the silence.

"Amazing," Tristan returned dryly.

"Very amusing. I was just going to say that with St. Aubyn now part of our alliance, we could recruit him and the Duke of Wycliffe, and apply for re-admission to White's."

Tristan lifted an eyebrow. "As I recall,
I
was the only one banned from White's, and it was
your
fault."

"Which is why I'm planning to get you back in."

"Don't bother, Shaw. I like being banned. It reminds Georgiana how much I love her."

Dark humor, and gratitude for the distraction, touched Robert. "It might also remind her how angry she was at you."

"And that is
also
my point," Shaw added. "I have many."

"No, that was Bit's point, but I'm still not interested. I'm going to be a father in a few short weeks, my lads, and oddly enough, that is more significant to me than just about anything else I can imagine."

Robert studied his brother's fond, amused expression. Tristan was obviously excited and pleased about his impending fatherhood. It seemed almost strange to be able to look forward to something with anticipation. Robert had spent so long dreading every night—and doubting that the following dawn would ever arrive.

The coach rolled to a halt, and a liveried Society footman pulled open the door and flipped down the step. Once again Robert hung back, then limped down to the ground. He could do this. He
wanted
to do this.

"Welcome, Lord Dare, Mr. Carroway," the host said, glancing at Robert and then leading them into the club's large dining room.

"By the window," Robert muttered, taking in the crowded room and close tables and heavy, dark wood paneling.
Breathe
.

"Watson, by the window if you please," Tristan drawled, nodding at some acquaintance or other.

A muscle in his round cheek twitching, their host changed direction. "I hadn't anticipated," he said, gesturing at a pair of footmen to clean and re-set a just vacated table. "Will this do?"

"Bit?" the viscount murmured.

Robert nodded stiffly, and the three Carroways took their seats. He'd done it; he'd made it inside. Now all he had to do was eat and leave.

"Carroway," a booming male voice came from behind him, "I hear congratulations are in order." A beefy hand reached past him in Bradshaw's direction. "Captain, is it?"

"Not yet officially," Bradshaw returned, shaking the hand, "but the paperwork's in process. You know my brothers, don't you, Hedgely? Dare and Robert? Tristan, Bit, Lord Hedgely."

"Oh, I know Dare. So this is the other one, eh?" Hedgely removed a chair from a neighboring table and dragged it closer to settle his large frame into it. "I heard you'd lost a leg or something at Waterloo. Or was it your mind you lost? You don't look like a Bedlamite."

Robert lifted his gaze from his hands to Hedgely. Brown eyes in a round, soft face met his and then flicked away. If Hedgely ended up being his most imposing foe, he'd been worrying over a great deal for no good reason.

"We met several years ago at the Devonshire ball," Robert said, his voice low but steady. "You were hanging on Lady Wedgerton, as I recall. Did her husband ever find out about your flirtation?"

For a moment Hedgely sat where he was, mouth hanging open and face growing red. A ripple of commentary flowed about the room, but Robert stayed there, unmoving, waiting for Hedgely's next move. In an odd way it was empowering to have nothing left to lose, to have toes clawed so hard into the rock at the edge of the precipice that nothing—
nothing
—could make him loose his grip in the stone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hedgely finally blustered.

"And I don't know what you're talking about," Robert returned. "Apparently we have something in common."

"There's no cause to be rude. Here I am, trying to show a cripple a bit of charity, and—"

"And you have no idea how much charity I'm showing you, right now," Robert interrupted, aware that Shaw had started to his feet and that Tristan had motioned him to sit down. "How are your gambling debts these days?"

Hedgely shoved to his feet. "I will not sit for this," he snarled. "Dare, I suggest you either control your brother or put him back in his cage."

Tristan pulled a cigar from his pocket. "I'm enjoying the conversation, myself," he returned, "but if it upsets you, well, good day, Hedgely."

Bradshaw looked over as Hedgely stalked back to his own table and sat amid the sympathetic commiserations of his fellows. "That was interesting," he murmured, hiding a chuckle behind his glass of port.

"It was just a question," Robert said with forced lightness, unclenching one fist and feeling blood flow back into his fingers. His brothers had stood up for him. He hadn't really doubted that they would, but it warmed the tiny bit left of his soul. "Sorry about that."

"The day hasn't been a success unless somebody threatens to ban me from a club," Tristan said, "but that little byplay does make me wonder why you wanted to come to luncheon today. You had to know people would be curious to see you."

Of course he'd known
. "They can gawk all they want," he grunted, suppressing a shudder, "but I'd prefer if they kept their distance. And I wanted to come to luncheon today because I wanted to. If that isn't enough, th—"

"It's enough. And after Hedgely, I don't think anyone else will be approaching to insult your health, if that's any consolation."

"It is."

Shaw cleared his throat. "Not that I'm asking for a punch in the eye or anything, but I didn't mean to upset you the other day."

Longingly fingering the glass of port Tristan had set in front of him, Robert shrugged. "I don't always know what might…" He trailed off, blanching.
Jesus
. He'd almost told them about the black panic. That would send him to Bedlam faster than anything else he could imagine. "Apology accepted." Slowly he nudged the glass away.

"I would think that might make today a little easier," Tristan noted, snapping a finger against the glass and making it ring.

Robert's hands trembled and he clenched them together once more. "It would, but then it's not real."

"Are you sure—"

"I'm not going to drink," he said, drawing a breath. "I don't think I'd be able to stop once I began."

Tristan signaled a footman. "Roast lamb all around, Stephen," he ordered, smiling at Bradshaw's grimace. "And lemonade."

"Very good, my lord."

As the footman vanished in the direction of the kitchens, Tristan lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair. "I had a letter from Andrew yesterday. He's taking the mail coach down from Cambridge, and should be in London by tomorrow afternoon."

"Good." Andrew probably had more fun at school, but Robert always felt better when he knew where everyone was. It made no sense, but he needed to know that his family was safe, needed to feel as though he could protect them.
Ah, that was amusing. As if he could protect anyone
.

"Are you coming back to Dare Park with us when Georgiana and I go?"

He shook himself. "You're taking Edward?"

Tristan nodded. "And the aunties. They insist Georgie will need their help."

Robert shrugged. "I don't know." Surprisingly, a face flitted across his mind—a kind, oval face with hazel eyes and dark hair that shone like bronze in the sunlight. Lucinda would still be in London, and still be in pursuit of Geoffrey Newcombe. None of it was any of his business, but she was the reason he was sitting in the Society Club right now.

"You don't have to decide yet."

"I'll be back at sea by then," Bradshaw put in, "so I'll comfort myself with the knowledge that you'll name the infant after me."

"I don't think 'Half-wit' will pass muster with Georgie, but I'll let her know that's your suggestion."

The food arrived, and Robert found himself calm enough that he actually had an appetite. That in itself seemed a victory—one tiny enough to require the use of a very strong magnifying lens, but a victory, nonetheless.

His first indication that he'd been far too confident didn't come until Tristan uttered a soft curse under his breath. Robert looked up to see his eldest brother scowling, his gaze turned toward the dining-room entrance.

As the crowd shifted, he spied the reason for Dare's frown; the Duke of Wellington, accompanied by a handful of officials from the Horse Guards headquarters, strolled in to take a table only a dozen feet from theirs. General Augustus Barrett sent a glance in their direction, nodding at Tristan, as he seated himself to the right of the duke.

Robert's first thought was to get up and leave—immediately, before any of the over-medaled officers could begin telling tales about the glory of war. He glanced at his brothers, both of whom had gone back to eating in silence, clearly waiting to see what he wanted to do.

If he left, they would accompany him. But walking out less than a minute after Wellington's arrival could have serious political repercussions.
Just ignore them
, he ordered himself, deliberately shoveling a forkful of roast lamb into his mouth.
You're invisible to them, anyway
.

"Bit," Bradshaw hissed.

"I'm f—"

"Captain Robert Carroway," Wellington's voice came from directly behind him. At the same time, the duke laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Your Grace," he returned, the steadiness of his own voice surprising him. For the first time it occurred to him that compared to what had happened in Spain, this was nothing.

"I believe I still owe you a bottle of whiskey," the duke said.

"No nee—"

"And the thanks of a nation," Wellington continued, a smile in his voice. "Your contributions on the battlefield at Waterloo were invaluable."

He didn't know. Wellington didn't know a damned thing. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Applause circled the room, polite and aimed more at the duke than at the recipient of the compliment, thank God. If the duke asked him to stand and shake hands, he was going to vomit. Instead, after delivering another pat on the shoulder, Wellington returned to his seat.

"Robert?" Tristan whispered.

The black panic sucked at his heels. He could fall into it, drown in it, and no one would even know. Not even his brothers. If he was going to stay afloat, he would have to do it himself. Fighting for air, he shook his head. "Eat."

Fifteen minutes. If they stayed for fifteen more minutes, they could leave without offending anyone—Tristan and Shaw could leave without offending anyone, that was.