For the Love of a Soldier (7 page)

G
ARRETT REINED IN
before the Corinthian pillars framing the imposing entrance to Montclair, his brother-in-law’s London residence. The hour neared one in the morning, but being early in the Season, the night was still young. He doubted Warren would be home, but the doors were always open to him.

Warren’s marriage to Kit linked them as family, but their real bonds were forged during their early days at Eton. Garrett never understood what had possessed him to intervene for the skinny boy floundering in a fight with his spectacles knocked askew. At ten years, Garrett had been an angry loner. Toss a dark dose of mean into the mix, and he was left to himself and had preferred it that way.

He would have kept out of it when the fight was two to one. That fight was fair, considering the bullies pounding on Brandon wielded their verbal abuse better than their fists. Small, wiry, and with those ridiculous spectacles, Brandon Andrews wore a target symbol like a brand burned on his forehead.

The loss of Brandon’s spectacles combined with a third boy jumping into the fray had forced Garrett to take exception to the odds. He had joined the battle to even things out. When the
bullies had sulked off, Brandon clipped Garrett’s cheek before he clarified friend from foe. And that was that. Like a tenacious dog, Brandon had trailed Garrett’s footsteps until he had chiseled away at his solitary fortress and breached his defenses.

Brandon had gained in height and weight, took a slab of Garrett’s mean for his own, and discarded the spectacles except for reading. Soon where one boy was found, the other followed, both leaving a trail of trouble in their wake.

Years later, after Cambridge, Brandon gained his earldom and married Garrett’s sister, Kit. The couple had two boys, with another child soon due.

Once again, Garrett was alone.

He cursed his detour down memory lane. For God’s sake, Kit hounded him often enough so he’d never be alone, even if he wanted to be. Needed to be. His hand tightened on Daniels’s waist and he grunted. And he certainly wasn’t alone now.

He shook his head and shifted Daniels to lay her gently over the front of Champion’s saddle. Pressing a hand to the small of her back to hold her steady, he dismounted. He eased Daniels from the horse, sliding his arms beneath her legs and swinging her into his embrace. With quick strides, he ascended the steps to Brandon’s front door and banged its brass knocker with a heavy hand. If Brandon was out, a servant should be up awaiting his arrival home, or so Garrett hoped.

When both his hopes and the door remained unanswered, he shifted Daniels in his arms to rap the knocker again.

An irritable-looking Poole, Brandon’s butler, yanked opened the door. He jerked his burgundy robe closed with one hand while the other grasped a brass candleholder. The scowl creasing the older man’s face changed to surprise upon recognizing Garrett.

“Sorry to drag you from your bed at this late hour, Poole,” he said, “but due to an unusual turn of events, my guest and I are in need of temporary lodgings for the night.”

“Of course, my lord,” Poole recovered quickly. He retreated from the door to allow Garrett entrance into the marble-floored foyer. “Lady Kristen always has your room ready for you.” He used Kit’s proper name. “We can settle your guest in the blue room, next to yours. If you’ll but follow me.” Poole turned to lead Garrett across the foyer and up the sweeping staircase to the second floor.

Brandon’s ancestors followed their passage from their seats in the portraits climbing the stairwell. They were an imposing, austere bunch of old codgers, quite like Poole.

“I’ll need someone to see to Champion as well,” Garrett said, repositioning Daniels as his body temperature rose with their combined heat. His boots echoed on the marble stairs, while Poole’s light cast dancing shadows over the staircase.

“Certainly. Will the gentleman be requiring the services of a surgeon or strong coffee?”

Garrett’s lips twitched at the veiled reference to his last visit when both were required. “Ah, no, neither will be necessary. We had a bit of an accident with the carriage, and my companion was tossed about. However, a maid would come in handy.” He nearly collided with Poole when the butler stopped short, turned, and cocked an imperious brow to peer down at Garrett from his lofty perch a step above.

An available maid
for a gentleman guest clearly was not a request the butler felt obliged to honor. No surprise there. Poole might be loyal to Brandon, but his service to Brandon’s late father had been decades longer. Thus the elderly servant had no compunction in spearing Brandon or Garrett with a look that reminded both men that he’d known them since they were in short trousers and deep trouble. His expression also managed to wordlessly convey that for the late earl’s sake, nothing illicit would transpire under his watch.

Garrett shifted his feet under the penetrating stare, bracing his weight against the mahogany banister behind him. “It’s of a delicate nature. You see,
he
happens to be a
she
, and while that appears quite damning to me in this situation, for once I am innocent of any foul play. When Warren returns home, I will explain everything to him. But first the lady is in need of a bed and a maid to assist her if that can be accommodated.”

Poole’s rheumy blue eyes fell to Daniels and narrowed speculatively. After a moment, he gave a curt nod and turned to continue up the stairs. “The earl is home. He returned and retired early.” He paused before a third door at the end of a long corridor and opened it, stepping back to allow Garrett to precede him inside.

“So Brandon’s keeping country hours?” Garrett laid Daniels on the immense feather bed jutting into the middle of the room.
She barely made an indent on the plush comforter. He leaned over and slid his evening jacket from her still form and tossed it to the end of the bed. Her lack of response did not yet concern Garrett. Experience had taught him that a knock to the head could render a man unconscious for hours. Often longer for those who didn’t wish to return to reality too soon, or so Garrett believed, well aware that oblivion was safe and pain free.

“No, my lord. He complained of a pounding headache brought on by bad drink and bad company.” Poole lit the lamp beside the bed. “My apologies, my lord, but I had assumed he was with you.”

Garrett met Poole’s blank expression. It was a wretched state of affairs employing servants who couldn’t be dismissed for brash impertinence. But there you have it. “Please. I only drink the best liquor.”

“Again, my apologies. You are quite right. It was quantity, not quality, with which you had the problem. Permit me to say I’m glad to see that is not true tonight. Welcome back, my lord. You have been missed.” Poole’s blue eyes sparkled before he crossed to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “And I trust that you have not abandoned one vice only to return to another.” His gaze pointedly landed on Daniels, then returned to Garrett. “I shall send Molly in to assist your friend. Shall I have Shelby wake Brandon?”

Garrett barely recovered from his surprise at Poole’s dual compliment and condemnation, cursing the man and his memory. It was too damn long. “Yes. I’ll wait for him in his study.”

He was happy to let Brandon’s valet have the honors of waking him. It might take the edge off some of his temper, though Garrett had no compunction over interrupting his friend’s precious rest. The last time Garrett had a full night’s sleep was over six months ago.

Before October 25, 1854.

Before hell had opened up and spilled all its horrors.

Garrett rubbed his neck and wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here, but it couldn’t be helped. He needed reinforcements, and Brandon had always covered his back.

Stirring from the bed drew Garrett’s attention. Daniels groaned and shifted restlessly, but did not wake. Garrett removed his gloves and pressed a hand to her forehead, sliding her hair
back and fingering the lump on her temple. Her skin was soft and warm, the bump the size of half an egg, hard and mean. He frowned.

He ran his hand over her head to find the fastenings of her wig, which he unclipped and slid off. A linen cap covered her hair, and he removed this as well, releasing the pins holding her hair up. Long strands tumbled free over his fingers, an undulating wave of golden honey. He leaned over and held a curl to his nose, inhaling a light floral fragrance he didn’t recognize. He closed his eyes.

Moments later, his eyes snapped open and, appalled by his actions, he jerked back from the bed. Spinning on his heel, he opened the door and nearly collided with the maid, Molly, who stood outside, her hand poised to knock.

When she recovered from her surprise, she bobbed a quick curtsy. “My lord, Poole told me ye be needing my assistance.”

“Yes, ah, that’s right.” Garrett waved his hand toward the bed. He had to clear his throat before he could string together a coherent set of directions for the maid. Once delivered, he bolted from the room.

Storming down the hall, he tugged at the knot of his cravat and yanked it free. Christ. He’d be damned if a mere slip of a woman distracted him.

He flew downstairs to the wing housing Brandon’s study.

It was time to get his reinforcements in line, for he was in more danger than he realized—and it wasn’t from those trying to kill him.

W
HAT
the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you behave like a civilized person and wait to discuss things in the bloody morning? Your life better be at stake because anything else can wait.” Brandon Andrews stormed into his study and slammed the door shut behind him. “And get out of my chair. If I can’t have my bed, I want my chair.”

Garrett wryly noted that Brandon hadn’t shot off all his temper at his valet, for he appeared fully loaded. His green eyes blazed, his dark brown hair stood up in uncombed tufts, and a scowl contorted his usually amicable features. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, his shirttails draped loose over buff-colored trousers.

“Stop whining. For God’s sake, you sound like a country bumpkin. It
is
morning. Just early.” As Brandon glowered at him, Garrett unfolded himself from Brandon’s leather chair and circled his desk. He moved to the table dividing the bookshelves that towered from floor to ceiling and lifted the brandy decanter and the glass beside it. “You should be at your club drinking. Since you’re not, you can catch up here.” He thrust
the glass at Brandon, who scowled at it before snatching it from Garrett.

“What the hell do you want?” Brandon grumbled, slumping in his seat and eyeing Garrett over the rim of his glass as he took a sip.

“It so happens that my life
is
in jeopardy, and you’re going to help me save it.”

Brandon lifted his hand and pressed it to his temple. “Not sure I heard correctly, but I’m listening and the pounding in my head can’t get any worse.”

“At Hammond’s tonight, someone overheard a conversation between two men haggling over the fee to murder me. The killer thought the price too cheap for a wounded war hero.”

Brandon paused in the act of lifting his glass to his lips. “Someone has been hired to kill you?”

“Yes, and they attempted it tonight. Two thugs ambushed my coach en route home.” Garrett paced the width of the room as he recounted the accident, his discovery of Daniels’s disguise, and his decision to come to Brandon’s.

“What a strange turn of events,” Brandon murmured.

Garrett stopped. “What do you mean?”

Brandon set his glass on his desk and leaned forward. “Considering you’ve been trying to kill yourself for the past six months, I’m surprised to hear you have issues with someone being paid to finish the job.”

Garrett stiffened and opened his mouth to deliver a scathing setback, but under Brandon’s piercing stare, he clamped it shut.

With Garrett’s history of carousing, gambling, and philandering, it was little surprise that some people wanted him dead. Since his return from the Crimea, he might have included himself among this group. It wasn’t that he wished to die during his period of self-imposed seclusion and inebriated exile, but rather that he hadn’t cared if he lived. There was a fine line separating the two and he had been walking it.

He closed his eyes but opened them to meet Brandon’s steady gaze. It was time to take a different path. He had survived while so many others hadn’t. If it took a murderous plot and the courageous young woman lying unconscious upstairs to remind him of the value of his life, so be it.

He was alive; it was time he started living.

He cleared his throat to respond. “Well, I
do
take issue.”

After a beat of silence, Brandon nodded. “Good, because I do, too.” He raised his drink in a toast. “Welcome back,” he said and downed the contents.

Brandon slammed his glass down, leaned forward, and grabbed a paper and quill from his desk drawer. He lifted a pair of silver-framed spectacles and slid them on. “Now then, let’s go over the information we have and draft our plan of attack. A good defense is often dependent on a strong offense.” At Garrett’s silence, Brandon lifted his head and leveled his stare on him. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s get started.”