England's Perfect Hero (22 page)

Robert had talked a little about Chateau Pagnon, and he hadn't died. As he'd told Lucinda, that in itself was something of a success. Or it would have been if Sir Walter Fengrove hadn't driven by.

Something had happened, something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones, and he wasn't surprised. He'd been feeling too well, even begun thinking about a future. He'd felt himself coming alive again—some parts of him more than others, at least when he was near Lucinda.

Almost as soon as the two of them returned to the house, she took her leave from Georgie and drove off in her coach again. Hesitating, Robert went back to the sitting room. Georgiana still sat on the couch, looking uncomfortable. "You shouldn't have gone walking," he said, after a moment spent leaning against the doorjamb, watching her fidget.

"Yes, I should have," she argued. "I feel like a hippopotamus, wallowing about."

"And you feel better now?"

She made a face at him. "At least I don't have mildew."

Ignoring that, Robert pushed upright. "I'll fetch you some pillows."

Before he could leave, Georgie sat up a little straighter. "Lucinda seemed out of sorts when she left. Did she say whether anything was troubling her?"

The last thing he intended to do was upset Georgiana. "When we were on the drive, somebody rode by yelling. An escapee from Bedlam, no doubt."

"I thought I heard something." She smiled, the expression warming her soft green eyes. "Would it embarrass you if I said that you seem… happier these days?"

Robert forced a return smile, hoping Sir Walter had simply been out all night drinking, and that he'd been calling everyone he passed on the street a traitor. It was possible, he supposed. Fengrove did drink. "I'll get the pillows. And would you like a book?"

"I think I left one on the breakfast table. Thank you, Bit."

He nodded. "Happy to help."

Georgie waved him away with a chuckle. "You see, I
told
you that you were happier."

Maybe he was. And hopefully he'd learned enough to enjoy it while it lasted. He went to fetch her things for her, hoping this tense uneasiness was all just a reaction to nothing, a lingering sense of hopelessness that prevented him from believing anything could go well. Because judging by the way Lucinda had kissed him, some things were going better than he ever could have imagined.

He delivered the book and pillows to Georgiana, then headed down the hallway to the library to read. His sister-in-law claimed to be feeling fine except for tired feet, but he wanted to be within earshot in case she should need someone. She hated hovering nearly as much as he did, so the library seemed the best compromise.

An hour later he rose to look in on her, to find her dozing on the couch. As he turned back down the hall, the front door rattled and opened.

"That is not true," Edward said loudly, marching into the house in front of his brothers. "I would have won ten quid if you'd let me wager on—"

"Hush," Robert said, limping up to throw a hand over the Runt's mouth. "Georgie's aslee—"

"Tristan, did you bring me a lemon ice?" Georgiana's voice came.

Dare pushed to the front of the group. "Yes, my dear." As he passed, he put a hand on Robert's arm. "Wait for me in my office," he muttered.

Robert's first instinct was to go find somewhere dark and quiet so he wouldn't have to hear whatever it was that Tristan wanted to tell him. As he'd discovered in France, however, dark and quiet had nothing to do with safe.

Edward stood telling Dawkins about the boat races, but he seemed to be the only Carroway brother who didn't realize that something was amiss. Both Bradshaw and Andrew remained in the foyer, their faces solemn and even angry. And neither of them would look at him.

With dread sinking deep into his gut, Robert went to Tristan's office. Despite his tired knee he couldn't make himself sit still, and instead paced slowly in front of the window.

He heard Tristan come in a few minutes later, but didn't turn around. The sound of the door closing was like the crack of doom.

"Bit, have a seat."

"No."

The viscount sighed. "All right. I wanted you to know that I think you should stay in tonight."

"Why?"

"Will you at least look at me while I'm talking to you?"

Taking a deep breath, Robert turned around, sinking back against the window sill. "For three years you've been trying to get me to go places, Tris. Why don't you want me at Vauxhall tonight?"

"It's complicated." Tristan dropped into one of the guest chairs that faced Robert and the window. "And I truly don't want to hurt you. So I'm asking you to stay home tonight. For my sake."

Sometimes the blanket his brothers threw over him for his own protection could smother the life out of him. "You couldn't possibly hurt me, Tristan. Tell me what's going on. I presume it has something to do with why Sir Walter Fengrove called me a traitor an hour ago."

Tristan blanched. "He… God dammit."

This was getting them nowhere. "Fine. I'll guess. Something did go missing from the Horse Guards, and people think I'm the one who did it."

"A few people think that. They're wrong."

Robert frowned. "I know they're wrong. But why do they think it was me?"

Shooting to his feet again, Tristan began his own pacing by the door. "Because some idiot started a rumor that you'd been imprisoned at Chateau Pagnon, and everyone knows that the only soldiers—officers—who left there alive were the ones who'd turned traitor."

Robert stared at his brother. He couldn't think. Silence roared up and around and into him, and he dug his fingers into the windowsill to keep from being blasted away. God, he'd been wrong. Stupid and wrong. He'd finally spoken about Chateau Pagnon, and it
had
killed him.

"It's ridiculous," Tristan snapped, real anger in his voice, "and I intend to find out who the bloody liar is and beat the truth out of him. They have no idea what they're—"

"I
was
at Pagnon," Robert interrupted, his voice a rasping whisper.

It stopped Tristan cold. "No. No, you weren't."

"If I can accept it," Robert returned, every word as painful as a knife stabbing into his chest, "you should be able to."

"But—"

"I didn't take anything from the Horse Guards."

"Of course you didn't." His brother gazed at him, hurt and horror in his light blue eyes. "But
I
didn't even know where… How did anyone else know about your being a prisoner?"

In the black, dying depths of his heart, Robert knew. She'd betrayed him, just when he'd begun to trust her. Just when he'd begun to see daylight again. And she'd played so innocent and concerned—and bewildered when men began shouting epithets at him. "I have a good idea," he growled, pushing upright. "Excuse me. I have an errand."

"Bit, no." Tristan moved to block the door. "You're not going anywhere until I get an explanation. How did someone else know this, when you didn't even tell your own family?"

Growing fury screaming just beneath his skin, Robert shoved his brother aside. "Later."

"Rob—"

Throwing open the door, he strode for the foyer. Bradshaw and Andrew were still there, but Shaw at least seemed to read his mood, because he dragged Andrew away from the door just as Robert flung it open.

His leg shrieked at the abuse, but as he stalked up the carriage drive, Robert didn't care. He was used to pain. The clawing anger and disappointment inside him, though—that was new. And worse.

General Barrett opened the front door himself when Lucinda returned home. "Papa," she exclaimed, taking in his flashing eyes and stern countenance with some alarm. "What's happened?"

"My office," he said, turning on his heel and marching down the hall.

Uh-oh
. Even as a child she'd rarely been the victim of one of her father's tirades. Acknowledging a fleeting wish that she could go somewhere quiet and think about Robert, she followed him, removing her bonnet as she walked. Robert. It was interesting that, for someone who so seldom talked, he could have such a sensuous, capable mouth.

"Door," the general ordered briskly, making for his chair. He sat, straight-backed and rigid as a statue.

She closed the door, leaning back against it. "What's wrong?"

"I asked you to stay in this morning," he said without preamble.

"No, you didn't. You asked me not to spread about anything we discussed this morning, and I haven't."

"Then why, on my way back here from luncheon, did three separate people stop me, all to ask whether it was true that Robert Carroway stole papers from the Horse Guards?"

Lucinda couldn't have felt more stunned if he'd slapped her. "
What
? Why—why would anyone say that Robert stole anything? Much less from the Horse Guards. Is something actually missing?"

He looked at her for a moment, drawing a deep breath into his barrel chest. "Where did you go this morning?"

"To see Georgiana," she answered, weighing her promise to Robert against her trust in her father. Judging by what he'd told her, anything and everything could be important—except for the kiss and the way it had made her feel. "And to ask Robert what he knew about Chateau Pagnon."

"So you
did
go out gossiping," he snapped. "Lucinda, I—"

"I did no such thing," she said firmly. "Robert has told no one but me, and I've told no one but you—and even that was against his wishes. So no rumors about anything came from me, Papa."

"You're saying this is my fault, then? I think I know—"

She put out her hand. "Stop shouting and tell me what's going on. Then maybe we can make some sense of it."

The general rose, striding to his window to gaze out at the street. "At times your level-headedness is very aggravating," he rumbled.

Lucinda fought the surprising urge to smile, despite her growing dread. "Yes, I know."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Very well. I suppose since I've bellowed accusations at you, you have a right to know the facts."

"Thank you."

"Firstly, yes, some items were taken from the Horse Guards. Items that would have no use to anyone except as instruments to free Napoleon and begin another uprising in Europe."

"G… good heavens," she faltered, moving away from the door to take a seat in one of his comfortable office chairs. Then, as she realized what he was saying, her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. "Robert couldn't—
wouldn't
—have done any such thing. Why is he being blamed?"

"I admire your loyalty to your friend, Lucinda, but I suggest that for the time being you keep it to yourself."

"
You
don't think… How could you?"

"What did he tell you about Chateau Pagnon?"

She hesitated, but under the circumstances clearing Robert's name seemed more important than keeping his confidences. She would explain it to him tonight; she had so much to explain to him anyway—though her lessons seemed trifling compared with this.

"Papa, Robert Carroway didn't do anything wrong. All he said was that only captured British officers were imprisoned there. They were beaten if they spoke a single word to anyone but… He didn't tell me who."

"That would have been General Jean-Paul Barrere. Bonaparte's information officer, and a very… persuasive madman."

For a long moment Lucinda sat quietly. "It must have been horrific," she whispered, half to herself, then straightened. "But I still don't understand why Robert is being singled out as some sort of traitor, simply because of where he was imprisoned."
Traitor
. That was exactly what Sir Walter Fenley had called him.

"Nothing is for certain yet, or he would be under arrest. However, the—"

"Arrest!" She shot to her feet again. "Papa, you can't be serious." And if this was because of something—anything—she'd said to her father, it was her fault. Robert had told her to keep quiet.
But why
?