England's Perfect Hero (27 page)

"I'm surprised you came here tonight," she said, as they slipped into the dance. Belatedly, other couples joined them on the floor, though Lucinda and Robert seemed to have an unusually wide space around them. Her father was going to be furious, but she would deal with that later. At the moment, all of her attention was on Robert.

"I wanted to dance with you," he murmured. "I didn't get a chance to, the last time."

His warm hand about her waist and his fingers clasping hers sent heat spearing down her spine. "Have you told… Did you…"

"Did I say anything to Georgiana about where the rumors began?" he finished for her, his gaze touching hers and then sliding away again.

"Did you?"

"No, I didn't. It wouldn't serve much of a purpose. And I wouldn't hurt you, Lucinda. Not as long as you keep your word not to hurt my family."

Relief made her feel weak kneed. "Thank you."

He inclined his head. "How is your amiable friend?"

"Stop that. We all have responsibilities and duties, and I really don't want to talk about it right now, anyway. I'm more worried about you."

"And I'm worried about you." A brief frown touched his face. "I've been thinking. I'm not going to ask you to betray your father's confidences. It… I can't do that."

Lucinda took a breath. He had given her an easy way out, but she'd learned enough about him last night to know why. "Robert, I'm not being tortured, and believe me, I have been considering the consequences. And despite your dislike of 'simple' things, that's what this is. I did something that hurt you, and I intend to put it right."

Robert studied her face for a moment as they danced. He waltzed well, she realized, easy and graceful and his limp barely noticeable. His knee would hurt tomorrow, probably, but she had to think that that was the least of his worries at the moment.

"I'm beginning to wish I was amiable," he murmured.

She swallowed, because she'd been thinking the same thing. Part of what attracted her to him, though, was the depth behind his eyes. Depth that she'd begun to realize Geoffrey didn't have, and probably didn't even see. "My father's meeting was with the four other senior officers at the Horse Guards. You know who they are, yes?"

He nodded. "I know who they are."

"They're some of the most trusted members of the military."

"I know that, as well."

"For some reason they don't seem certain of everything that went missing, but they're putting together a list of Bonaparte supporters in London."

" 'Putting together' a list?" he repeated, something sparking in his eyes.

"Yes." She'd said something important. Hiding a scowl, she considered what she'd said and how he'd reacted to it, trying to become a participant instead of just a witness. "They should have had a list already."

Nodding, he favored her with his fleeting, breathtaking smile. "I'm certain they do."

"That was one of the items that went missing." She grimaced. "I probably shouldn't have told you that, then."

"Too late," he drawled. "Anything else?"

"Oh, so
now
you have a sense of humor."

"Sometimes. Did the general say anything else?"

"He warned me to stay away from you—and from your family—until this is all settled."

The humor in his eyes faded. "He really
does
suspect me. And you're going to be in trouble. You should have told me before. I thought I was just lesson-helping."

"I'll only be in trouble if someone tells him we danced."

"Ah. And will your amiable friend keep his mouth shut, then?"

Lucinda glanced at Geoffrey, dancing now with Lady Desmond and still managing to glare at the two of them. "No. But there are plenty of other gossips here, anyway."

She hated this. All of her instincts told her that Robert was innocent, but so was her father. Neither of them had done anything wrong, and at least one of them was going to suffer, whatever her decision.

The waltz ended before she was ready, and Robert slid his hand from around her waist. "He'll want to know what we talked about," he said, glancing past her shoulder.

Lucinda sighed. "I know. I'll tell him you were anxious to discover whether my father had mentioned anything further about the thefts."

"Which would be the truth." He started to lift his hand toward her cheek, then abruptly lowered it again. "I won't ask you for anything else. Thank you, Lucinda."

He meant to exclude her from the rest of this mess—and from him. Her breath faltered, and she had to stop herself from grabbing his arm. "How shall we meet again?"

"I don't think we should."

"I do." In fact, she almost suggested that he climb back through her window. Given how drawn she felt to him and how precarious his position in Society remained, that, however, would be extremely unwise. "I'll go see Georgie tomorrow."

"Not if your father has asked you to stay away."

"But—"

"She'll understand, Lucinda. I'll make certain of it."

His simple reassurance convinced her more than the vehement protestations everyone else had been making all evening. "Then I'll be calling on Evelyn tomorrow, at noon. Perhaps you could visit Saint."

A slow smile curved his mouth. "Very well. I'll manage it. And so you know, Georgiana's refusing to leave London now. Tristan says he's angry, but I think he's actually relieved. Because of this damned mess, she's going to have the baby here."

"Don't blame yourself."

"I don't. I blame whoever stole those bloody papers."

She risked putting a hand on his arm. "We'll find him."

"We'd better."

"With the devil were you thinking," Tristan hissed at Robert as he returned to the Carroway group, "going out on the dance floor?"

"I was thinking I might dance," Robert answered.

"Bit, you could be placing Lucinda and her father in a difficult position," Georgiana said, laying a hand over his arm much as Lucinda had.

Robert looked from one to the other. "You're right about that. Lucinda wanted to stand here with us tonight, and to call on you tomorrow, Georgie, but I asked her not to." He hesitated, looking down at his sister-in-law. "The general suggested she stay away from us."

"Then she should stay away," the viscountess returned promptly. "Were you able to convince her?"

"I think so."

His brothers had ranged themselves in a loose circle around Georgie, looking aggressive and angry, and practically daring anyone to approach with less than polite things to say. Tristan in particular bore a sullen look as he eyed the crowd, Saint at his side. "You know," the viscount murmured, "this is beginning to make me rather annoyed."

"So much for a united front." Bradshaw signaled a footman for a tray of drinks. "How long do you think we'll last before Hesterfield asks us to leave?"

"I've never been booted out of a soiree before," Andrew put in. "I'm almost looking forward to it."

"Well, I have been," Saint said, "and interesting as it is, I don't think we'll be helping the situation by brawling."

Across the room, Geoffrey had claimed Lucinda again, and appeared to be plying her with chocolates in an attempt to distract her. Robert wished him success. As difficult as this was on his family, it had to be equally so for her. And as much as she valued trust and fair play, her involvement in this—and with him—must be excruciating. Yet when he'd given her the opportunity to be free of him, she'd declined. His heart jumped. She'd wanted to be around him. Tonight, though, was less than ideal for anything.

"Perhaps we should go," he suggested.

"What? And let the wags win?" Bradshaw folded his arms across his chest, looking even more belligerent. "I'm not leaving until I get to punch someone."

As grateful and surprised as Robert was by their show of support, his family members weren't helping anything, nor were they becoming any more popular with their fellows. This was
his
problem, and he'd done it to himself, in the long run—by his silence, mostly. He would take care of it without involving them any further. If he could, he would have done it without Lucinda, but as much as he needed her assistance, he wanted an excuse to be near her even more.

Angry as everyone was, they were still fighting only rumors. But knowing how important it would be to find someone to blame for this, to make the citizens of England feel safe again, he wasn't certain how much effort the Horse Guards would be making to discover the real culprit, when they had a ready-made scapegoat to hand.

The thought of ending up in jail, even by mistake—even for a short time if by some miracle the true thief should come forward—sent Robert falling toward the black panic. He couldn't be locked behind bars again. Not even for a minute.

"Robert," Georgiana said quietly, "we won't let them blame you for this."

He forced a smile. "It's a little late for that, Georgie. But letting everyone see us standing here like a herd of angry rhinoceros isn't helping. I want to leave, but if you—"

"We'll go, then," Tristan interrupted. "Hesterfield looks as though he's about to have an apoplexy, anyway."

Good. Robert had already accomplished what he needed to. He'd seen Lucinda, and she'd told him who had heard the Pagnon story first, and a little of what had been taken. He needed, though, to know more. The only way to save himself would be to figure out who the real burglar might be, a difficult task under normal circumstances, but even worse now with himself as the main—the only—suspect, and with very little time before the rumors were enough to get him locked up.

Unable to resist a last look at Lucinda, he risked a glance as they waited by the coatroom for Georgiana and the aunties' wraps. He'd already memorized what she wore, the pale green of her silk gown, the sea-foam lace at her cuffs and along the low neckline, the ivory elbow-length gloves, and the emerald hairpin that perfectly matched her delicate dancing slippers.

Some men complained that she was too tall, too regal, but he knew the truth. She was smarter than most of them, more independent, more honest, and she frightened the hell out of them. She frightened him too, but for a very different reason: he couldn't imagine trying to return to life, to humanity, without her. He wasn't certain he would want to.

"Bit," Andrew muttered, nudging him, "we're leaving."

He shook himself. "Good. Let's go."

Lord and Lady St. Aubyn stayed behind, ostensibly to keep Lucinda and Lord Geoffrey company, but more likely because their presence would at least force the rumor-spreading to remain at a discreet noise level. The Carroways climbed back into their carriages and returned home, where Shaw and Andrew disappeared upstairs to play billiards. The rest of them headed for the drawing room, where after five minutes of silence, Georgiana suggested they play a game of whist.

That was the cue Robert had been waiting for. "Why don't you play?" he suggested. "My knee's a bit tired, anyway. I thought I'd wrap it in a hot towel and go to bed, if that's all right with you."

Tristan nodded. "This idiocy won't last, Bit. You'll be fine."

"I know."

It would be even finer if he helped it along. Upstairs in his bedchamber he pulled off his fine evening clothes and exchanged them for his old, threadbare gardening ones. He didn't do much sleeping anyway, and tonight, with an actual plan forming in his mind, he'd never close his eyes.

He pushed his window open a little farther and leaned out. Over the past three years he'd managed to train the vine which crawled up the terrace beneath him so that it looked dense enough but left plenty of handholds. He swung one leg over the windowsill, then stopped.

Georgiana was eight months' pregnant, and the rest of his family practically became hysterical every time he was out of their sight. And Tristan had asked him not to vanish again without a word. Sighing, he slipped back inside and dug into his writing desk for a piece of paper.

A year or two ago it would never have occurred to him that his troubles affected his family, or his friends. He supposed he had Lucinda to thank for the change. She
had
done something to make him human again. And because of that, he wouldn't—he couldn't—hurt them anymore. That seemed as important a vow as finding out who in England had turned traitor. It wasn't just about him, as everything had seemed to be since he returned. Not
his
pain, not
his
name, not
his
loneliness. Swiftly he scrawled out a note detailing his whereabouts and left it on his bed, just in case anyone came in to check on him.

He was halfway out the window again when someone rapped on his door and pushed it open. "Damn," he muttered. His room was dark; maybe no one would notice him if he didn't—

"What the devil are you doing?" Bradshaw hissed, striding into the room. "Is this supposed to help you look innocent? Damnation, Bit, I warned you—we all warned you—about running off ag—"

"I left a note," Robert interrupted, jabbing a finger at the bed. "Now keep your voice down, or you'll wake Edward."

Eyes narrowed, Bradshaw closed the door and stalked to the bed. He lifted the note, tilting it toward the window to read it in the dim moonlight, then with what might have been a snarl, tossed it down again. "You are not going to the Horse Guards, Bit. That's insane."

"I need to know who else they suspect of being a Bonaparte supporter—and how simple it would be to get inside."

"And you think you'll be able to tell that from sneaking around in the dark, in a place where they would like nothing better than to catch you with evidence in your hand?"

Robert scowled. "I can't do anything from here! Who do you think they're looking for, Shaw? No one. And do you know why? Because they're going to accuse me. So go back to bed. This is my problem, and I'll take care of it."

"This is
not
your problem. You said yourself, right now it's just rumors. Let the Army do its job, and stay out of trouble."

"I can't, Shaw."

"And why not, for God's sake?"

For a moment Robert sat in the window sill, gazing at his hands. How could he explain, when he didn't even understand it all himself? "If I'd… come back differently," he began slowly, trying to piece together what he wanted to say from the thousand scattered splinters of thought in his mind, "if I hadn't spent my time hiding, then all of this would have been in the open already."

Bradshaw sat on the edge of the bed. "You barely spoke a word for over a year, Bit," he said quietly. "I remember. It didn't look like a choice, or something you were doing to torment the rest of us. It looked as though something unspeakable had happened to you, and that was your way of coping with it. We don't blame you for it."

He'd known he'd put his family through hell, but hearing Shaw say those things touched him in a way he couldn't even express. Robert swallowed. "Thank you."

"The point being, I'm not going to let you put yourself at further risk for something that's only connected to you by a damned rumor. If you go tonight, then the connection becomes real."

Bradshaw had a point—a very good one. Even so, the thought of doing nothing while someone else controlled his fate, unsettled him deep in his bones. He'd let that happen once before, and he would never do it again. Not now, when he'd begun to have hope again. "All I have left is my name, Shaw."

"You have your life."

Taking a breath, he leaned back against the casement. "I learned, at Chateau Pagnon, that there is a difference between being alive and living. And over the past few weeks, I realized that while I've been walking and breathing, I hadn't been living for a long time."

"What changed, then?"

"If you repeat a word of this, Shaw, I—"

"Oh, please. You never told Tris that I was the one who put glue on his saddle."

The recollection made Robert smile. "That's right; you owe me a secret."

"So why the change, Bit? We've all noticed it."

"Lucinda Barrett."

Bradshaw looked at him for a long moment. "She's got her cap set at Lord Geoffrey Newcombe."

"I know."

"You're… not in love with her, are you?"

This had obviously been a mistake
. "It's not that," he countered, though he wasn't quite certain whether it was true or not. He certainly had become obsessed with her, and taking her to bed hadn't lessened that feeling one whit. Just the opposite. "It's more of an… appreciation. A hope. I can't explain it."

"All right, but what does that have to do with you risking your life by breaking into the Horse Guards?"

"I want her to know the truth. And I want her… I want General Barrett to know the truth. If I don't supply it, there'll always be that suspicion, those glances while everyone whispers that if it wasn't the Horse Guards, he must have done something else, because, well, look at him. Look what happened to him."

"Bit—"

"No, Shaw. Don't you understand? I'm an object of pity, of disgust. I'm half a man." He took a deep breath. They were wasting time, and he needed to get going. "I want to be whole again."

"And you think this will do that."

"I think it might help."

Slowly Bradshaw stood again. He uttered a curse, then walked to the window. "Let's go, then. I don't have all night."

Robert blinked. "You're not going with me. I told you, this is my problem. I'll take care of it. Alone."

"I'm not staying here to face Dare's wrath when he figures out where you've gone. Get moving."

Whatever Bradshaw's excuse, Robert had to admit that he could use the assistance. And the support. Nodding, he slipped out of the window and climbed down the trellis.

Bradshaw reached the ground a moment after he did. "That's handy," he said, looking back up at the window. "But why do I have the feeling that you've left the house that way before?"

"Because I have. And shut up. Dare's still in the drawing room."