England's Perfect Hero (5 page)

"He's getting his own ship," Edward continued, ignoring Bradshaw. "He's a captain now!"

"Almost a captain," Bradshaw amended, his light blue gaze meeting Robert's. "Month after next, unless Bonaparte gets loose again."

Suppressing a shudder, Robert nodded. "Congratulations." He swung down from Tolley, reluctantly turning the reins over to a waiting stable boy. There were times when he preferred Carroway House the way it had been before Georgiana and her income had rescued them; back then he could tend Tolley himself, and he didn't have to wait until after midnight to slip out unnoticed.

"Where did you go?" the youngest Carroway asked.

"Errand," he answered, giving his usual reply.

A useless errand, at that. He wasn't even certain why he'd gone now, except that he liked the way Lucinda Barrett simply talked to him. Not many people did that any longer, even when he provided them with the rare opportunity to do so. At some point, though, he'd meant to offer her his assistance. Ha. As if he could assist himself, much less anyone else.

"Will you come riding with Shaw and me?" the Runt continued.

"I have some correspondence," he said. Correspondence and a keen dislike of the huge crowds filling Hyde Park at this time of day. With another nod he turned on his heel, heading for the house.

"Bit, hold up," Shaw said, handing the reins of Edward's pony back to the boy. "I'll be right back, Runt."

"Well, hurry—I want to get a lemon ice."

Robert slowed as Bradshaw drew even with him. Without either of them saying a thing, he could practically recite their conversation word for word; it was the same one he had with all of his family members every time one of them returned after an absence. "I'm fine," he said, trying to shorten the interrogation process.

"I just wanted to mention that I'll have a post for a third mate open under my command," Shaw said, his gaze on the butler pulling open the front door for them. "There's no reason you couldn't—"

"No," Robert interrupted, his voice sharp. He tried to stop the thought process, but Shaw had caught him by surprise. Already his mind was conjuring himself trapped in a crowded, minuscule cabin on a lone ship in the middle of the ocean, stranded for a year or more.

"Just because you've left the army doesn't mean you can't do something else useful."

Robert stopped short, facing his older brother. "As if floating around in a boat halfway across the globe is useful."

Shaw's face closed down. "You have no—"

"Leave me alone, Shaw. I don't want your life."

"Why not? You don't have one of your own any longer."

Shoving past Dawkins at the door, Robert limped for the stairs. "I know that, Bradshaw," he growled, striding for his bedchamber.

"It doesn't have to be that way!" his brother yelled after him.

"Yes, it does," he muttered, his breath shuddering deep in his chest. Quiet. He just needed quiet and solitude for a few minutes. Calm, and no more thinking about being trapped in a small, crowded space with no way out.

Inside his bedchamber, though, behind the closed, latched door, the walls seemed to come closer and closer around him as he strode to the window and back, over and over. His hands began shaking, and he clenched them into hard fists. Now that it had begun, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop it—the black, blind panic at nothing and for no good reason. Damn Bradshaw.

Eyes closed, he dropped onto the floor beneath the window. He'd overdone it, was all. Two trips into public in two days, trying to face those damned stares and whispers and at the same time carry on a civil conversation after three years of near solitude and silence.

Calm. Be calm. He wasn't going anywhere. Nothing was going to happen to him. He was safe. Safe. Quiet. Calm. He repeated the words to himself over and over until they blurred together into an incoherent chant, low at the back of his mind.

"Bit? Robert?"

Tristan knocked at his door. When Robert opened his eyes, light no longer reflected from the window, and he sat huddled on the floor in darkness. Slowly he straightened his cramped fingers and climbed to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles.

"Bit? Are you all right?"

He felt vaguely ill as he reached the door, but that meant the worst of it was over. His skin seemed too tight across his bones, and he felt a hundred years old. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door. "I'm fine," he grunted, gazing into his oldest brother's concerned face.

"May I come in?"

"No."

"You look like hell."

"I'm aware of that."

Tristan's lips tightened. "Shaw told me about his offer."

Dread welled through him. God, he couldn't go through it again. Not so soon. "And you think I should go?" he forced out.

"No, I think Shaw's an idiot, and that's what I told him."

"Good."

The viscount stood silent for a moment. "I wish you would talk to me," he finally said in a low voice. "I want to do… something, to help you."

Robert backed up half a step, his hand clenching the door. "I'm trying, you know," he whispered, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he spoke aloud.

"I know. Anything you need, anything or anyone you want, and I'll get it for you."

"I don't need—"

"You know what I've been thinking?" Tristan cut in.

"What?" he asked, mostly because he wasn't quite ready to face either the dark, empty room or the rest of his family downstairs.

"I think you need a hobby. No, I know you read, and I… know Tolley seems fairly well exercised. I'm not talking about embroidery or anything. In fact, I don't know what. Just something small, to start with. Something to—"

"To occupy me," Robert finished.

"Don't be angry. I'm—"

"I'm not angry." He took another breath. "You may be right."

"I… I am? I almost never hear that, you know. Make sure you tell Georgie. She'll be amazed."

The surprise and relief on Tristan's face made Robert feel guilty, and he forced a smile. With another glance behind him, he shoved the door open and emerged into the hallway. "I don't suppose you've held dinner for me?"

"That's why I'm up here. The Runt's threatening to eat his utensils."

Robert lifted an eyebrow. "You didn't have to wait."

"Yes, we did. But don't worry about it."

Downstairs in the dining room he kept his eyes lowered as he took his seat. They'd all be looking at his face, worrying about him and trying to think of something to say that would be encouraging. Shaw would be angry, both at himself and at Robert, because after all, he hadn't done anything but offer his younger brother a chance at a second career.

"Evie and Saint have invited all of us to dinner on Saturday," Georgiana said into the silence.

"Do you mean
all
of us, or all of the grown-ups?" Edward asked.

"
'All
of us, my dear. Just us, and Luce and the general, and Lord Geoffrey Newcombe."

"Oh, I like Lord Geoffrey," the Runt said. "He tells very good stories. And he knows Wellington."

"So does Saint," Bradshaw countered.

Robert could feel the various glances in his direction, waiting to see whether he meant to participate. He kept his head down and ate. He didn't have to say anything; in a moment someone would change the subject on his behalf, and they'd go on chatting without him. That was the procedure, and everyone knew it.

"Bit, do you know Wellington?"

Everyone knew it, that was, except for Edward. Robert wanted to ignore the question, but that would mean ignoring the Runt, and then soon Edward would stop talking to him, and then the last ounce of sanity would be gone from his life.

"I saw him riding about," he said, "and we shared a whiskey once, but not much more than that."

"Why did you share a whiskey?" the youngest Carroway pursued, bouncing in his seat.

"Because I had a bottle, and it was snowing, and he asked for a drink before he froze off his balls."

"Wellington said 'balls'?"

"Edward!" Georgiana squeaked.

"Bit said it first!"

Shaw began coughing into his napkin, while Dawkins, the butler, abruptly spied something interesting to look at out the window. Robert glanced at Tristan and Georgie, who both looked amused.

Robert wanted to close his eyes; after three hours of black horror and muscles drawn so tight he could scarcely move, he felt as tired as if he'd run to Newcastle and back. Sleep, though, was a prospect that filled him with further unease. He'd never been too tired, it seemed, to dream. Perhaps Tristan was right. Perhaps he needed something—a small, unthreatening something—to distract him.

"Garden," he muttered, not even certain he'd spoken aloud until he caught the puzzled look on his oldest brother's face.

"Beg pardon?" Tristan asked.

Flowers, plants, growing things. Things that didn't scream or bleed when they died. Things that wouldn't look at you oddly if you didn't know what the hell you were doing. By God, it actually made sense. "I'd like to make a garden," he elaborated.

"What kind of garden?" Bradshaw asked, his voice thin with hesitation.

Don't scare off the mute
, Robert thought, working to turn his mind away from that, away from the careful looks and careful silences. Lucinda had a garden, he remembered. What had she been tending when he'd found her kneeling in the dirt, when she'd actually disagreed with him, argued with him, as though he was a perfectly normal person? "Roses," he grunted.

"Roses," Georgiana repeated, her thoughtful gaze touching his. "It's about time one of the Carroway men decided to cultivate something other than their poor reputations."

"I don't have a poor reputation," Edward stated, his expression a little baffled as he pushed sweet potatoes around his plate and looked at Robert. "Roses? Why don't you go riding with me?"

God, was he really being that stupid and useless? Flowers? He could see himself, some shuffling old halfwit blathering to his fistful of dying posies. But if he couldn't manage that one step forward, it meant he'd end up some shuffling old halfwit locked in a room and blathering to himself.

Choking on air, Robert pushed to his feet. "Excuse me."

"Just promise me you'll plant white roses," Georgie said as he strode from the room. "I love white roses."