England's Perfect Hero (7 page)

"Shh," came from the library. "In here. And be quiet, for goodness' sake."

More than a little curious, the viscount entered the library. His wife stood against the wall by a half-open window, peering through the glass.

"What the devil are y—"

She clapped a hand over his mouth. "Look," she whispered.

Following her gaze, Tristan looked down toward the stable—and froze.

Lucinda Barrett stood in the middle of an unruly clump of grass, an open book in her hands. Opposite her, gesturing with a scraggle of leaves and thorns in one hand as he spoke, stood Robert. As Tristan watched, Bit paced a limping square approximately fifteen feet per side and then returned to Lucinda.

"What is going on?" Tristan murmured, unable to take his eyes off his brother.

"Roses," Georgie answered in the same low voice. "I asked Lucinda to bring over some cuttings."

"But he's
talking
to her."

Georgiana slipped her hands around his arm, leaning against his shoulder. "Yes, he is."

Tristan continued to watch. Bit kept his distance from Lucinda, but he was definitely interacting with her. And he'd sought her out at the Wellcrist soiree. "Georgie, does he—I mean, how—" He stopped, taking a breath. "Does Lucinda like him?"

"Lucinda likes everyone," she murmured back, her hands tightening around his arm in obvious tension, "and everyone likes her."

"But—"

"I don't think so, Tristan. I can't say more, but I believe she has set her sights on someone. And no, it's not Bit."

Of course it wasn't.
Bloody bell
. "We have to go down there and stop this little meeting, then."

"No." Georgie shook him. "Leave them alone. If you interfere, Bit will resent it. They're just talking. And you don't know anything about it. You are completely ignorant. Do you understand?"

Tristan sighed. With every fiber of his being he wanted to protect his brother—wanted to do… something to see that he was all right, but obviously he was already better than three years too late for that. At the same time, he knew that Georgiana was absolutely correct, as she usually was. "For now, I don't know anything about it," he agreed, turning to kiss her on one soft cheek. "And neither do you. But I reserve the right to be enlightened at a moment's notice."

"Hopefully we'll both be able to remain blissfully ignorant."

He tugged her away from the window, pulling her into his arms. "I
was
blissfully ignorant, until five minutes ago. And I have a very bad feeling about this, love."

"I know. But he wouldn't be down there if he didn't want to be. And if he wants to be there, then maybe that means he wants to try to come back to us."

"I hope you're right."

As Robert listened to Miss Barrett instructing him about what kind of fish made the best rose fertilizer, he glanced again at the upstairs library window. Both Georgie and Tristan would have made terrible spies. He knew Georgiana had arranged for Lucinda to visit this morning, but he hoped her eavesdropping didn't mean she intended to try managing him. That was
not
going to happen.

If he'd been himself, the Robert before the war, he would have thought Georgiana was matchmaking. Back then he would i have pursued Lucinda, though in truth it would have been her looks that attracted him. Now she'd set her sights on someone else. And now it was her serenity, her peace, that drew him like a warm breeze on a cold day. And even though he enjoyed being around her, he resisted her, because he was supremely aware that he wasn't the old Robert any longer; he was Bit, a piece of what he'd once been.

Of course even now it would have been foolish to deny that he found her beautiful, almost medieval with her dark hair and eyes and her pale, smooth-as-cream skin. Her hair smelled pleasantly of roses, and he could imagine her bathing in a pool of red silken petals. But he hadn't been with a woman in four years, for God's sake, and this one happened to be Georgiana's closest friend, not to mention the only non-family female to whom he'd said more than a sentence in what felt like decades. He scowled. So he'd become a monk in his own private monastery; at least his religion said he could look.

"Mister Carroway," Lucinda said, jolting him back from his worship, "I said, too much fish will ruin the soil."

"I understand."

He turned the stumpy twig of a white
félicité parmentier
in his hands. According to Lucinda, he wasn't to be surprised if as many as half of the cuttings she'd provided didn't take. The thorny things, bare of soil and roots, didn't look alive to begin with. Were they? Were they awake, or asleep? Would they feel something, or nothing, if they died? If he killed them?

"I don't think this is a wise idea," he said, hastily returning the cutting to the crate.

She eyed him. "Why is that?"

"I don't have time to go fishmongering or plowing," he said, backing away, concentrating on breathing. He hated it when the panic snuck up and hit him because of a damned stray thought.

Miss Barrett drew a breath. "Very well. The general doesn't like gardening, either."

His jaw tightened at the mention of her father. "It's not that I dislike—"

"I suppose that means our entire agreement is void." Setting the book on the ground, she pulled off her gloves. "Oh, well. No harm done, I suppose."

Robert watched as she walked back toward the front of the house. "What about your cuttings?"

She waved a hand in the direction of the crate. "I don't have room to plant a whole new rose garden. Just throw them away."

For a long moment he stood looking after her while she climbed into her waiting coach and vanished back into the street. That had been odd. The plants were obviously her pride and joy, and she'd said some of them were rare. Did she truly not care what he did with them? Or had she read his thoughts when
he
wasn't even certain what was bothering him?

With a sigh he tugged the crate into the shade of the stable and headed back to the house to change into some old clothes more fit for gardening than the ones he currently wore.

By the time he'd cleared off the grass and turned the soil, he was beginning to remember that he'd missed all but two bites of breakfast and that luncheon had already passed, as well. Reluctantly he returned the shovel to the stable.

This late in the day he'd never find the quantity of fresh fish he required, so that meant a trip down to the docks along the Thames first thing in the morning. Lucinda had said the cuttings would survive out of the ground for a day or two in cool weather, so he secured the lid on the crate, collected the books she'd left, and returned to the house.

He'd been right about one thing: soil and plants didn't require conversation. In fact, silence actually seemed to suit them better. He couldn't, however, say the same about his family.

Normally whichever family members were home sought him out several times during the day, asking whether he was feeling well or whether he wanted to go riding or strolling or driving. After spending most of the day outside he'd seen no one but a few grooms, which of course meant that all of the Carroways knew what he'd been doing and didn't want to risk interfering.

As long as they didn't ask him to explain it, as long as they pretended nothing had changed and that he wasn't trying to pull himself out of the bottomless well where he'd been dwelling since his return to England, he was fine with the subterfuge.

The difficult part would be deciding whether he wanted to admit to Lucinda that he'd decided to try to grow the roses. Because once she knew, he would be obligated to carry out his part of their little agreement—and that would be the real test of whether he could be human again or not. He only wished he knew the answer to the question before he set out to prove it. And he wished he could convince himself that knowing what Lucinda thought of him didn't matter.

She'd left things as well as she could with Robert Carroway, and she refused to feel guilty about abandoning him. It was up to him anyway, she told herself, to decide whether he wanted the garden or not. Nor was she so thick-skulled that she didn't realize this was more than a simple planting project for him.

Precisely what it was, she didn't know for certain, but after spending more time in his company, after seeing the haunted depths behind those startling azure eyes, she hoped her gift would help. Lucinda caught herself staring sightlessly at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and shook herself out of her unaccustomed reverie.

Just as Helena finished fastening on her necklace for her, she heard the front door downstairs open, and the low, melodious sound of Lord Geoffrey's voice as he responded to Ballow's greeting. Her heartbeat quickened. He was here. It was time for the lessons to begin.

She intentionally dallied upstairs for another few moments, fluffing curls and deciding on her strategy. She would have liked more time for plotting, but the encounter with Robert had taken all of her wits and attention. Interesting, that. She would have thought that conversing with someone who seldom spoke in return would have been less… involving. Except that he
had
spoken to her—and
with
her.

A scratch came at her door. "Miss Barrett?" the butler said as Helena pulled open the door, "your father requests that you join him in his office."

"Yes, of course."
Concentrate, Lucinda
. This wasn't just a social call, as her visit with Robert had more or less been. This was about setting the course for her future matrimonial status.

Trying to clear her head of the morning's events, she followed Ballow downstairs and slipped into the general's office. "Good afternoon, Papa, Lord Geoffrey," she said, dipping a curtsy.

"Miss Barrett," the Duke of Fenley's son returned, rising from his seat to grip her fingers. "General Barrett tells me that you've agreed to record our efforts."

"I have," she said, stepping around to plant a kiss on her father's cheek and motioning both men to sit. "I'll be by the window, so I won't intrude on your work."

"Nonsense." Lord Geoffrey pulled out the chair beside him. "I always tell a better story with an audience present. Especially an audience so attentive she's actually taking notes."

While Lucinda settled into the chair with a pencil and paper, the general opened the torn, half-burned and water-stained journal that contained his Salamanca notes. "Damned galley fire on the ship returning me to England after Boney sailed off to Elba," he grumbled, turning the pages gingerly despite the gruff nonchalance of his words. "My Pamplona journal was destroyed completely. All over a damned colonel wanting a slice of toasted bread for his bloody sea sickness."

"I hope you had him demoted," Lord Geoffrey agreed. "But it so happens that I saw some action at Pamplona, as well. Not as much as you did, I'm certain, but I'd be happy to offer my recollections if you think they could be of use."

"That's very kind of you, my lord."

" 'Geoffrey,' please. With three brothers ahead of me, the odds of my actually inheriting a title are something beyond abysmal."

The general smiled. " 'Geoffrey' it is, then. Salamanca was your first engagement, was it not?"

"Yes, it was—and quite the introduction to battle, if I may say so. A French musket ball took off my hat two minutes after I entered the field."

Lucinda listened to the two men talking, taking down notes on dates, weather conditions, troop movement, and personal observations. She could almost feel the heat of the battle, see the smoke and the ebb and flow of the troops as Wellington shadowed the forces of Marshal Auguste Marmont, the Commander of the Army of Portugal.

She actually gasped when Geoffrey described nearly being swept downriver as his squad crossed the Tormes River during a storm toward the end of the battle. "Apologies," she muttered, blushing, as both men looked over at her. "You tell a vivid story."

Geoffrey inclined his head. "I only hope it's not too horrific for a gently bred lady such as yourself."

Ah, opportunity
. "I assure you, my lord, that while I never saw battle, I have read all of my father's notes and correspondence, and the drafts of his chapters. I also volunteered at hospitals for wounded soldiers directly after the war. One does not grow up as the daughter of General Augustus Barrett without knowing something about conflict and warfare."

"And the proper way to tell a tale," her father seconded, giving her a fond smile. "Not one to flinch, my Lucinda."

"I stand corrected, then," Lord Geoffrey conceded, "though in all honesty I think your father would agree that there are some aspects of battle that a gentleman does not speak of to a lady."

"After all, what do soldiers fight for if not to preserve a certain… quality of peace and amity at home?" he went on.

"Very good point, Geoffrey," the general said. "Do you mind if I have Lucinda take a note of it?"

"Not at all." He pulled out his pocket watch, consulting its time against that of the mantel clock. "I'm afraid I have a meeting with my finance man at four o'clock," he said.

"Of course." The general marked their place in the damaged journal and carefully closed it again. "We've made a good start." He glanced at his desk calendar.

"Would you care to continue the skirmish on Tuesday for luncheon? My cook makes a fine roast chicken."

"It would be my pleasure." Geoffrey sent Lucinda a warm glance.

"Noon, then?" she asked, rising.

"Noon it is."

When Lord Geoffrey took her hand again she couldn't help noticing that his grip lingered a moment longer than custom dictated. My goodness, things were going well. And they'd have an even better opportunity for chatting at Evie and Saint's dinner, evening after next.

"Nice, upstanding lad," the general said, as Lord Geoffrey returned to his horse and cantered down the drive.

"He does seem to be, doesn't he?"

"And still a captain, not on active duty. If Boney had won at Waterloo, Captain Lord Geoffrey'd be a major by now. Perhaps even a lieutenant colonel. Has the right attitude for it. Just not enough war to go around."

For a fleeting moment, troubled azure eyes crossed Lucinda's thoughts. "Quite enough war, I think. I'm happy to see you employed at the Horse Guards and writing memoirs now rather than field journals, thank you very much."

"Yes, yes, my girl." The general turned back to the papers on his desk, where she knew he'd spend most of the evening outlining the next chapter of his book. "Even so, I'm glad you suggested that I consult with him."

"So am I," Lucinda murmured, heading for the library to look for a map of Spain and the town of Salamanca. She wondered whether Robert had fought there, and whether his recollections would be similar to those of Lord Geoffrey and her father. And she wondered whether she dared ask him.

As Robert pulled on his greatcoat and riding gloves he heard Edward pounding down the stairs behind him.
Damnation
. This was why he preferred midnight rides to those during daylight.

"Where are you going?" his youngest brother asked.

"An errand." He took his hat from Dawkins and rammed it onto his head, noting the butler's disapproving glance at his too-long hair.

"You always say that," Edward complained. "I want to go, too."

"It's boring," he said, waiting impatiently for Dawkins to pull open the front door.

"I still want to go. Shaw's going on a picnic with some chit, Tris has Parliament, and Georgie's going shopping."

Shopping with Lucinda Barrett, if he'd heard correctly
. "What about Mr. Trost?" he asked, even as he remembered that it was the tutor's day off.

"He's visiting his mother. And I am
not
going to do lessons for no good reason."

Wishing their other brother, Andrew, didn't still have another week before he could come down from Cambridge, Robert sighed. "Then get your coat," he said.

"Hurray!" Edward thundered back up the stairs, but came to an abrupt halt on the landing. "You're not going to leave without me, are you, Bit?"

The thought had crossed his mind. "No. I'll be at the stables, having Tolley and Storm Cloud saddled."

"I'll be right down!"

Robert went outside, inspecting his patch of a garden while he waited for the horses. The family's apparent ignorance about his square of uprooted lawn had continued through dinner and his hasty breakfast, but he doubted anyone could stop Edward from saying something about it eventually.

He'd gone to bed tired and awakened at sunrise with aching shoulder muscles, surprised and grateful that he'd actually slept through the night and that he couldn't remember dreaming. That fact alone was enough to make him want to continue cultivating the rose garden.

He swung up on Tolley as Edward ran from the house. "Where are we going?" the Runt asked, stepping into John the groom's hands and hopping into Storm Cloud's saddle.

"The river."

They cantered down the drive and headed southeast. As they reached Pall Mall, Robert fought the urge to send Tolley into a gallop. It was still early, but Mayfair was bursting with people. Milk vendors, rag and bone men, vegetable and fruit carts, servants fetching this and that, coal and firewood salesmen, orange girls, and a few early-rising nobles all crowded onto the streets, pushing and yelling, shouting and singing.

"Why are we going to the river?" Edward asked.

"Fish."

"We're going fishing?"

He hid a scowl at the anticipation in the boy's voice. "No. I need some fresh fish for the garden."

"You can't grow fish in a garden, Bit. I'm not a baby, anymore, and you can't fool me with that nonsense."

"They're fertilizer, to help the roses root. That's the theory, anyway."

The boy opened and closed his mouth again. "Oh."

" 'Oh,' what?"

"I'm not supposed to ask about the rose garden. I'm not even supposed to say the word 'rose.'"

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody. First Georgie told me, then Tristan, and then Shaw nearly scared me to death when he jumped out of the drawing room to tell me not to talk about roses. I think I hate roses."

"If we're lucky, by the end of the morning you'll hate fish even more."

"Are you going to let me help you with your garden, then? Because Georgie said I couldn't ask you that, either."

They passed out of Mayfair, but if anything the streets seemed even more crowded. Robert's chest began to tighten, and he fought to keep his breathing steady. If he went under here, there was no telling what might happen to Edward. He needed to distract himself while he still had some control. "Do you
want
to help with the garden?" he asked. "I thought you'd rather go riding with Shaw or Tristan."

"I like riding with you, too. You hardly even use the reins with Tolley. I want to learn to do that with Storm Cloud." Edward frowned. "But since nobody else will even talk about it, I'll help you with the garden. You shouldn't have to do it alone."

"Thank you, Runt."

Edward grinned happily, perfectly content at the Tightness of the world. Robert envied him. He'd grasped that once, felt it, but somehow knowing what he'd had and lost only made things worse now. He could never tell anyone how far he'd fallen from that light, or that because of what he'd done, he could never return to daylight again.

"Is that a fishmonger?"

Robert blinked. "Yes." He dismounted and limped up to the withered old man and his weathered old cart. "I need to purchase some fish."

"Very good, milord. I have all kinds, very fresh. Cod, mackerel, smelt—"

"I need two dozen," Robert interrupted, hoping the catch smelled better than the vendor did.