England's Perfect Hero (23 page)

"The truth of the matter is, we've only found three officers who left Pagnon alive. One of them tried to murder his commanding officer, and the second was assigned to Elba just before Bonaparte's escape. Which leaves us with Robert Carroway. Unfortunately the Horse Guards didn't know he'd been a prisoner of Barrere's until yesterday."

"Until I told you," she whispered. Feeling lightheaded, she sank back into the chair again.

"Don't feel guilty, Lucinda. I figured it out yesterday. You claim one new 'friend,' a former soldier, and then ten days later you begin asking me about Chateau Pagnon. You might very well have saved a great many English lives by your actions."

She closed her eyes, wishing everything would just go away. "But you don't know it was him."

"Not yet." The general moved to stand in front of her, putting a hand on either arm of her chair. "Until this is resolved, I want to you stay away from him, from the rest of his family, and from that house. Is that clear?"

"But Georgiana is my—"

"She's your dearest friend. I know. And I'm sorry. But whoever is guilty of this is an infamous… blackguard, and you won't want to be
anywhere
near him." He straightened. "I'm afraid we won't be joining the Carroways at Vauxhall tonight, or anywhere else, for the foreseeable future."

Lucinda couldn't think. Mostly she wanted to scream, to shout that none of her friends were traitors. Two of the Carroway brothers had risked their lives against Bonaparte's army, for heaven's sake.
Oh, God
. Bradshaw would lose his command over this. And Robert…

Before she could complete that thought, the butler scratched at the door. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir," he said, "but Miss Lucinda has a caller."

"Who is it, Ballow?"

"A Mr. Robert Carroway, sir."

He knew
. He knew she'd said something after she'd promised him that she wouldn't. He knew that people were shouting at him and accusing him of things because of her.

Her father strode for the door. "I'll take care of this."

She stood, grabbing his arm. "Papa, you said nothing's certain yet."

"If he is the one who took those papers, harming you would be a very small matter. Stay here."

Shaking, Lucinda did as he asked, but cracked open the office door just enough so she could peer down the hallway.
Please let this be a misunderstanding. Please let it be a mistake
.

Robert's face was pale, his expression absolutely still as the general reached the foyer. "My daughter isn't receiving callers," her father said, his voice clipped. "I suggest you leave."

For a moment she thought Robert meant to strike her father, but his clenched fists remained at his sides. "This is your fault as much as it is hers," he finally said in a black, cold voice that made her shiver. "And to think, I'd almost thought I could forgive you."

"Forgive me?" the general snapped. "For what?"

"Bayonne." Robert pulled open the front door. "Keep her away from me. You both keep away from me."

As the door slammed, Lucinda flinched. She'd seen Robert amused, frustrated, and upset. But she'd never seen him truly angry until now. And it frightened her—because it was her fault, and because he was angry with her.

Worst of all, she deserved it.

More people knew about Chateau Pagnon than Robert had realized. It had been stupid and naive to assume that just because he never spoke of it and he never associated with anyone who would have reason to discuss it, it would cease to exist. As if he, by force of will alone, could make the place and his memories of it crumble into dust.

As he left Barrett House he caught the accusing gazes and heard the muttering all along Bond Street. Apparently he'd managed to go from solitude and obscurity to infamy, all in one day. One hellish day.

Back at home he would face more questions and scrutiny, and the devil knew what else. Home was the only place he'd ever thought himself safe from that. The only questions his family had ever asked were how he was feeling and whether he needed anything. And now he had lost that—and them—as well.

He leaned forward to stroke Tolley's neck. "Let's go for a ride," he said.

They headed north, out of London, past the meadow where he and Lucinda had spent that one morning of peace, and kept going. He did have one safe place left—Glauden Abbey in Scotland, an old, half-forgotten Carroway estate that Tristan had given him outright last year. A place with two footmen and one cook, where he'd spent the past two winters cleaning and renovating and repairing, doing all the work himself and in perfect silence.

It would take him a good five days to get there, four if he pushed Tolley. He could stay there in the wilds until the mess in London was forgotten, until they'd found whoever had stolen the damned papers, until everyone forgot that he'd tried to become human again.

It was early evening when he stopped at the Devil's Bow Inn to eat and to rest Tolley. No one there looked askance at him any more than they did any well-dressed traveler, and he tried to force his mind to slow its spinning a little.

When he didn't return home they would know where he'd gone, or at least Tristan would know. Edward would be angry, but the rest of the family would understand—probably, unless his confession to Tristan that he'd been held at Chateau Pagnon was enough to convince them, as well, that he was guilty. In that case, nowhere would be safe.

The edges of the black panic pulled at him, and he downed an ale with his roasted chicken, then asked for another pint. It couldn't happen now. He wouldn't let it happen.

Usually it helped a little if he could concentrate on something else, but today was different. This, he realized, was the first time he'd actually been threatened by anything more potent than nightmares since the Spanish freedom fighters had found him. And what was he doing? Running. Giving up. Abandoning hope. Just as he'd done once before.

Lucinda had talked, obviously. He considered it a betrayal—or he had, when he'd stalked out of Barrett House so furious he couldn't think. But it didn't quite fit. If she'd felt righteous about it, then her father wouldn't have been the one confronting him in the hallway. If she'd done it reluctantly, then she had a reason.

This was the woman, after all, who'd reminded him that places other than darkness existed. She'd begun to melt the ice and stone that encased him. She was lovely, yes, but it hadn't been her looks that had convinced him to take his first limping steps into daylight. It had been her heart.

He hadn't been wrong about that; he couldn't have been. Because if she wasn't what he thought, then there was no such thing as hope. And hope was all he had. If she'd spoken his secrets to her father, then she'd had a reason to do so. He needed to find out what that reason was.

Pushing to his feet, Robert tossed a few coins on the table and went outside to the inn's courtyard. General Barrett hadn't been certain of anything, or a squad of soldiers would have awakened him this morning at Carroway House.

He collected Tolley, giving the gelding the carrot he'd pocketed during dinner. "What do you think?" he asked, and the bay's ears twitched at him.

For three years he hadn't cared what anyone else thought of him, but the truth was, that had been easy—because he'd been less than a shadow, and no one had spared him a thought at all. Well, he had their attention now. This wasn't the test he'd wanted, but obviously it was the one he'd been given.

Robert frowned as he swung back into the saddle. "Change of plans, Tolley," he muttered. "We're going back to London."

By the time the sound of fireworks faded in the distance, it was well past midnight, but Lucinda still couldn't sleep. The look on Robert's face haunted her, and if she fell asleep, she knew it would be a hundred times worse.

She wondered whether the Carroways had gone to Vauxhall, and whether Saint and Evie had joined them. She hoped so, because the thought of Georgiana and Tristan sitting there alone tormented her. Robert had said he would attend as well, but surely he would have reconsidered. Belatedly she remembered that she'd also had Dare invite Geoffrey. The evening was a disaster all the way around, then.

The tea she'd brought with her to her bedchamber had grown cold, but she sipped at it anyway as she slowly paced. Her father had obviously known all about Chateau Pagnon, but yesterday he'd only said enough to whet her curiosity. Had he known she would go to Robert for more answers? Had he used her to do his spying?

Her window rattled. Lucinda whipped around, grabbing for a vase as it slid open. A dark figure slipped over the casement and into the room. With a gasp, she lifted her weapon and charged forward.

A hand gripped her wrist, spinning her around and yanking her backward against a hard, solid form. She took a breath to scream, but another hand covered her mouth before she could make a sound. The vase fell to the carpet and rolled with a hollow clank beneath the bed.

"Finished?" a low, familiar voice whispered in her ear.

Robert.
Robert
. Her heart pounding so hard and loud she thought he must be able to hear it, she nodded.

"No screaming, Lucinda."

With that he released her, his hands leaving her body so suddenly that she stumbled forward. "May—" Her voice squeaked, and she took a breath, trying to calm down. She didn't believe he'd stolen anything, but he
was
here in her bedchamber—and in the murky dark she couldn't help but remember that he'd wanted Pagnon kept a secret, and her father's words about what a small thing it would be for him to harm her. "May I turn up the light?"

She heard her curtains being pulled closed. "A little."

Hands shaking so hard she could barely grip the lamp, she turned up the wick. She'd wanted a chance to talk with him, to explain herself, but as yellow light flickered across his drawn, tense face and glittering eyes, she wasn't certain he would listen.

"Robert, I didn't mean for this to happen," she said anyway. "I'm so sorry."

"You told your father, after I asked you not to say anything. Why?" He prowled her room as he spoke, not touching anything but examining everything, as though he was trying to figure something out. Trying to figure
her
out.

"I only asked my father what Chateau Pagnon was," she returned, voice breaking. "When he asked where I'd heard the name, I told him I didn't recall. But he said it was important." A tear ran down her face. "He wouldn't have said that if he hadn't meant it."

"Did he say why it was so important?"

She shook her head. "He said he was trying to straighten out a tangle—he was so worried about something, Robert. But I didn't know about the theft or that Pagnon was a prison. Not until afterward."

"Who else did you tell?"

"No one."

He sank into the chair at her dressing table. "Then the rumors came from the general."

At least he believed her, though she didn't like the dark cold that came into his voice when he mentioned her father. "He knows I told him in confidence."

"You knew that, too."

"Yes, but why? Why didn't you want my father to know?"

Robert ground his fist into his thigh. "I have my reasons. But they don't have anything to do with stealing from the Horse Guards."

"Robert, I—"

"Someone passed it along," he continued. "If it wasn't you, then—I would like to know who, exactly, the general might have spoken to."

They could continue arguing over her father's integrity all night without agreeing, but his last comment concerned her even more. "You want me to spy on my father for you?"

"No, I want to know where the rumors came from. I would wager that it's someone without your sense of right and wrong."

His tone wasn't as tight or as furious as she expected, after the way he'd left her house that morning. Obviously he was still angry, but it didn't seem to be aimed at her any longer.
Thank goodness
.

Letting out a breath, she couldn't help the slow swirl of lightning curling up her spine as she watched him pick up her hairbrush and turn it idly in his elegant hands. She could imagine him brushing out her hair, the gentle pull and tug, the soft… She shook herself. "The rumors are out there, and so is the thief. Knowing who gossiped about it won't help anything."

For a long moment he sat in silence. "It might help my peace of mind." He stirred. "You were going to tell me your third lesson tonight."

"You want to talk about that, when people are accusing you of…"

"Of high treason?" he finished.

"Yes. You can't possibly be that calm about it, Robert."

He faced her, blue eyes nearly black in the dim light. "Believe me, I'm not about to forget it. But you're my friend, aren't you? Are we still friends?"

Another tear ran down her cheek. "I'm the one who should be asking that question, Robert. If you'll have me for one, then yes, we're still friends."

"Then as my friend, I'm asking you to distract me. Tell me your lesson."

God, they seemed so infantile now. "The lessons are finished."

"Are they? Or are you just saying that to be rid of me?" Something dark crossed his face. "I am dangerous to be with, after all."

"No!" she hissed. "That's not it. It was just that I had a talk with Geoffrey. He wants a promotion, so he can take a command position in India."

The expression in Robert's eyes changed, though she had no idea what he might be thinking. "So Newcombe marries you, and the general gives him a major's commission."

"Yes."

"And it doesn't bother you that he doesn't care for you? That you're going through all this for him, and—"

"It's not like that." Lucinda sat on the edge of the bed, then had to get up and walk again. He thought she loved Geoffrey, when in truth, no one made her feel… electric, like Robert did. He said he'd come for answers, to be distracted, but she was the one who couldn't think straight. Heavens, she was four-and-twenty—not some simpering schoolroom miss. Simply because a handsome, haunted, dangerous man chose to climb through her bedchamber window, it didn't mean she had to lose all use of her brain. "My father likes Geoffrey, and it'll please him that I'm marrying someone he approves of, and someone whom he knows will take care of me. It's very simple and straightforward, really."

"You're settling," he said, managing to make it sound like a statement and an insult all at the same time.

She'd never thought of it like that before, but he was correct. Absolutely correct—and it truly wasn't any of his business. "And what's wrong with that?" she protested, abruptly embarrassed. "Everyone's happy, and everyone gets what they want."

Robert shoved to his feet. "You can't do it."

"Why not? I'm fortunate to have found such a simple, amiable solution to everyone's problems."

He strode up to her, taking her shoulders and pushing her back against the wall. "Simple? Amiable? With all of the passion and life you have in you, you want to feel 'amiable'?"

She could barely breathe with him standing so close and her heart beating so fast. "Everything else is too complicated," she whispered.

"And thank God it is," he growled. "I have nothing left. Do you know what I would give to… ?" He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were filled with heat, and anger, and something she couldn't put a name to, but that seemed to start a fever just beneath her skin.

"Robert?"

"Let me teach
you
a lesson," he said, his voice soft and deadly. "It has a moral and everything. It's about an officer, a captain in the army. He and his squad were ambushed when they were supposed to be on a simple reconnaissance, and then his men were killed, all around him, until only he was left alive.

"Figuring there was a reason the French hadn't killed him, he decided to make a fight of it. There were too many of them, though, and they clubbed him into unconsciousness. He came to in a small cell with one small barred window and six other British officers for company. Next door were six or seven more men, though he wasn't certain, because they could only communicate with very slow, very quiet taps on the stone wall in between."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"I'm not finished yet," he hissed. "For seven months he watched and listened to friends, fellow officers, being tortured until they told everything they knew. When they did, they were killed." He gave a snort of laughter, full of anger and empty of any amusement at all. "That was the choice. Talk and die, or be silent until you were tortured to death. And the really amusing thing was, this officer didn't know anything to begin with."

"Robert—"

"Believe me, if he—I—had known anything, I would have told him. Barrere. But he didn't believe me; he thought I must know something. So there I was, trying to die, and with no one willing to oblige me."

Lucinda tried to cover her ears with her hands, but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the wall above her head. "Please stop," she whispered. "I can't stand that you were so hurt you wanted to…"

"Kill myself? I did kill myself. I finally couldn't stand it any longer. I grabbed one of the guards while they were shoving me back into the cell, and I pulled his knife, then ran at the commandant so they would have to shoot me. They did. I woke up at the foot of the chateau. They must have thought I really was dead, and thrown me over the wall. I crawled into the woods so they wouldn't be able to bring me back inside, and then I waited to die."

Another tear ran down her cheek, warm against her skin, and then another. His face, inches from hers, was drawn and gray, as if even remembering hurt him. Lucinda flexed her wrists beneath his steel-strong fingers, then leaned up and kissed him.

"I never thought you stole anything," she muttered, kissing him again and again, pulling against his grip to try to bring him closer.

He jerked away, backing up. "It's not about that. I've been dead for the past three years, Lucinda. And then I thought I could help you, and by doing that I could help myself. I know it hurts my family that I'm… like this. It's just that I'm supposed to be dead."

That simple statement horrified her more than anything else he'd said. "But you're not dead."

"No, I'm not. And every day that I wake up is a… a miracle. And you can't settle for Geoffrey Newcombe just because it's simple and amiable. Don't you understand?"

"There is nothing wrong with peace and simplicity."

"It's not peace. It's hollow. For you, simple and amiable means that nothing will upset you, or excite you, or touch you."

She scowled at him. "No. It means that…" Lucinda trailed off. He was right, but going through life without a sea of troubles around her—what was wrong with that? "Simplicity is what makes me happy."

He tilted his head at her, his gaze dropping down the length of her thin cotton shift and back up to her face again. "Liar."

"I am not—"

He took her mouth again. This time there was no mistaking the message. She didn't think she could have stopped him if she'd wanted to, but stopping him was the farthest thing from her mind. Death had so very nearly taken him—it stalked him still, and she wanted to hold onto him, make him know that he was alive, that he made
her
feel alive.

Her heart pounded in her chest as their mouths molded together. His tongue danced along her teeth, and with a groan she opened to him. Agile fingers pulled the ribbon from her hair and combed with surprising gentleness through the dark waves that tumbled past her shoulders.

Heat coursed through her, out to her fingertips as she slipped her hands beneath his coat and shoved it from his shoulders. It coursed down her spine, too, as he slid his hands around her waist and drew her close against him.

"Robert," she murmured, her voice breathless and throaty and sounding like a stranger's to her own ears. She sounded like a wanton—but as he slipped her shift from her shoulder, placing kisses down her throat and along her bare skin, she felt wanton. Wanton and wild and on fire. Peace and simplicity could wait until tomorrow.