England's Perfect Hero (25 page)

When Robert slipped into the foyer of Carroway House, he immediately sensed that someone else was already there. He raised his arm defensively as a shadowed figure grabbed for his shoulder. "Get away," he growled, smelling Tristan's brand of soap.

"Andrew and Shaw were about to pack for Scotland," the viscount said, turning away to light a candle on the side table.

Despite his brother's mild words, his face was hard and set. Robert took a breath. He'd left Lucinda's actually feeling more hopeful, but he also knew that reality hadn't changed a whit in his favor. "I'm going to bed."

"First you need to come with me to see Georgiana and let her know you're safe," Tristan countered, not moving. "She was worried. We were all worried."

"I'll tell her in the morning."

"No, you'll tell her now. She's not asleep. None of us is. Her maid's upstairs with her, trying to keep her calm."

Robert's fleeting sense of satisfaction fled. His trouble hadn't ended just because he'd gone to see Lucinda. And as usual, he seemed to be hurting his family in his quest to escape his own pain. "Is she well?"

"So far. But don't you ever…" Tristan swallowed, equal parts anger and concern shredding his voice. "Don't you ever disappear without a word like that again."

Robert started up the stairs. "I told you I went to run an errand."

"That was fifteen hours ago, Bit. If you'd vanished, no one would need anything more than those damned rumors. You would have been ruined."

"And you would have been ruined. Unless you started spreading talk that I've been unbalanced since I returned from the Peninsula. You might try that."

Tristan grabbed his shoulder, yanking him around and nearly sending him back down the stairs on his head. "You are my brother," the viscount growled, his expression dead serious. "None of us will distance ourselves from you. So yes, if you run, we're all ruined. I suggest you think about that next time."

For a long moment Robert stared at his eldest brother. "I didn't do anything wrong," he finally said in a low voice, resuming his ascent.

"I know that. We all do."

"The rest of London doesn't. Don't be noble on my account, Dare. For your sake, and especially for Shaw's, if this gets worse I want you to stay clear of me. I mean it."

"We'll discuss that later if we need to. At the moment it's just nasty talk." Tristan gestured at the half-open master bedchamber door. "Go on."

Robert pushed open the door. "Georgiana?"

She was propped up in bed, surrounded by pillows and reading a book while her maid sat darning socks by the window. The viscountess looked up at the sound of his voice, a smile wiping the concerned, wan look from her face. "Bit. Thank God. Are you well?"

"I'm fine," he answered automatically. "I apologize if I upset you."

"Come here," she demanded, holding out her arms.

Suppressing a shudder, he did as she asked, letting her wrap her arms around his shoulders and place a sound kiss on his cheek. To his surprise, the close contact didn't bother him, and after a moment he returned the kiss with a light one of his own.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

Behind him the rest of his brothers began trooping into the room. Shaw and Andrew were both dressed for riding; they
had
been about to track him to Scotland. He wasn't certain whether that information made him feel better or worse.

"I went riding," he said, straightening again. He couldn't very well tell Georgiana that he'd been in her dearest friend's bed, or that he'd taken what he wanted—what he needed—and then left her to contemplate Lord Geoffrey and their simple, amiable match.

"Riding where?" Edward asked, stumbling sleepily into the room.

Shaw put an arm around his shoulders. "Go back to bed, Runt. Everything's well."

"No, it's not," the boy insisted, pushing free. "You left." He jabbed a finger at Robert. "And you didn't tell us where. We were worried."

Wonderful
. Being chastised by a ten-year-old. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"Where did you go?"

Obviously no one was going to shut Edward up, because he was asking the questions they wanted answered. Tristan only lifted an eyebrow, looking at Robert expectantly.

"I started north," he said. "I thought things would be quieter at Glauden."

"But you came back."

He shrugged. "I'm tired of running. I've done nothing wrong, and I think I can stand a few rumors." His ability to withstand innuendo, though, wasn't the entire issue. "If
you
can tolerate them, that is."

His gaze went to Bradshaw, the one besides himself who had the most to lose from this. His older brother smiled, though his eyes remained somber. "As long as you stand, so will I."

Robert understood the sentiment, and the warning. If he ran again, it was every Carroway for himself. He nodded. "Fair enough."

Tristan stirred in the doorway. "Now that we're all back where we belong, everyone will please get out of my bedchamber. Except for you of course, Georgiana."

"But—"

"Tomorrow, Andrew," the viscount interrupted, though his attention remained on Robert. "Get some sleep. If we need a strategy, we'll figure it out in the morning."

That made sense, Robert decided, as the lot of them shuffled off to bed. By tomorrow the real culprit in the robbery might very well have been apprehended, and everyone could go back to forgetting the Carroway cripple. That suited him fine, except for one problem: Lucinda. Lucinda Barrett and her damned simple, amiable plans for Lord Geoffrey Newcombe.

He might want her for himself, but he knew better than to dream she'd ever accept more from him than a dark night of sin. After tonight, however, the least he could do was make certain that Newcombe had learned the lessons from her list.
All
of the lessons, whatever they might be. That was what the three ladies' agreement had been anyway, hadn't it? To each teach a student a lesson in behavior?

Robert gave a small smile. Something was definitely wrong with him if he was more concerned about Lucinda's agreement with her friends than about people accusing him of treason.

As he shed his clothes and sank into bed, he could still smell her scent on his skin. If he lived through the next few days, he was going to have to figure out a few things—like how he would be able to keep everyone—and her prospective husband in particular—from realizing how much she'd come to mean to him.

For once, Lucinda made her way downstairs before her father, and she managed to snatch a quick breakfast and slip out to tend her roses before he appeared. Her advantage at rising early was simply because she hadn't slept all night, but she had no intention of telling him—or anyone else—about that, or the reason behind it.

She snipped away at yellowing leaves and wilting blooms. She'd received offers of marriage before, and offers to engage in sin, and she'd declined both without a second thought, simply because neither the offer nor the man had interested her. Robert interested her, and intrigued her, and engaged her senses in a way no one else ever had.

Low heat rose in her again as she remembered his battered, scarred, and still beautiful body in her bed. Inside her. And because of that, she'd stepped into the least simple thing she could ever have imagined—and right in between Robert and her father.

The general had said that whoever had stolen those documents from the Horse Guards was a rogue. An infamous blackguard. Well, that described Society's current view of Robert Carroway to perfection, though her own view was radically different. And whether he'd forgiven her or not, she had broken his trust and allowed the rumors to start. The coincidence of the theft happening at the same time everyone learned about his imprisonment was the blackest kind of luck, but it didn't prove anything.

Robert could probably dispel the worst of the rumors by confessing how his stay at Chateau Pagnon had ended. But he was right to be worried that the truth could be just as harmful. The circumstances in his case were extreme, but Society wouldn't understand that, or even care. The only part of the tale they would carry was that a soldier from a prominent family had tried to commit suicide rather than fight Napoleon.

And she'd been the one to tell her father about where Robert had been in the first place. The general wouldn't have betrayed her trust—not for anything less than the safety of the kingdom. This was obviously that important. Logically, then, he'd told someone else in authority at the Horse Guards. It would have been his duty to do so. So while she did trust him, his fellows were a different tale. "Damnation," she muttered.

"Did you prick yourself?"

Lucinda started, blushing as her father joined her in the rose garden. "No, no. This breeze is drying out the petals. That's all."

"Ah." He stood there for a moment, watching her prune. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Wh… what?"
Ob, good heavens, he hadn't heard Robert and her, had he
? "Why do you ask?"

"You look tired." In a gesture that seemed awkward coming from him, he bent down to pick up some stray cuttings and dump them into her waste bucket. "I heard the Vauxhall fireworks last night. I know you wanted to go, and I'm sor—"

"Papa, I don't care about the fireworks," she said, snapping off a perfectly good bud. "Drat."

"It's the Carroways, isn't it? And Georgiana. We're holding another meeting today, and hopefully we'll be able to put together a little more complete list of what was taken, and gather information on any suspected Bonaparte sympathizers in London. That might—"

She turned to look at him. "You don't even know for certain what was taken? And yet based on that, and on secondhand information that Robert Carroway was taken prisoner, you—"

"I haven't done anything, Luce."

"Well,
I
didn't tell anyone else what I told you. No one. How much do you trust the men you told?"

Slowly he sank onto the stone bench at one end of the row. "So that's what this is about. You want to blame me for betraying the confidence that you betrayed."

"No! Ye—I don't know. Maybe. If there was anyone I thought I could trust to keep the secrets of my friends, it was you. He was so angry." So angry, and so alone. She sniffed as a tear ran down her cheek. Impatiently she wiped it away with the back of her gardening glove.

"You heard him in the hallway, did you? I thought you might have been listening."

What? Oh, that
. "Yes," she improvised, swallowing at the thought of what she'd almost given away.

"It's for the best, my dear. Truly. This investigation needs to be carried through. If Robert Carroway's innocent, you can apologize to him, or tell him and Georgiana later that you simply weren't feeling well or something, and that's why you stayed away from Vauxhall. If he's guilty, then you won't need to explain anything."

"He's
not
guilty. For heaven's sake, Papa, you know him."

"Not well. You're better acquainted with him than I am." He scowled. "In fact, perhaps you can explain why he threw that reference to Bayonne in my face yesterday."

"I don't know." And she was
never
going to tell the general another confidence that came from Robert, anyway. She'd learned that lesson, at least. The other lesson, the one that heated every thought, was going to be much more difficult to resolve.

"Who was his regimental commander?"

"I don't know, Papa. And I don't think he's likely to talk to me about any of this now—not that I would be permitted to see him. So please stop asking me. I've hurt everyone enough as it is. I won't do it again."

The general sat quietly for a few moments while she pretended to keep pruning. Without even realizing it, she'd apparently become some sort of awful army informant, and even worse, she'd slept with the object of their investigation—and practically promised to get him information, as well.

Finally he stood again. "I almost forgot. Geoffrey sent over a note. I don't suppose you sent him a thank-you for the chocolates yesterday?"

"Not yet." Actually, she'd forgotten all about it. Shame on her.

"Well, despite that, he'd like my permission to escort you to the Hesterfleld soiree tonight."