Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (25 page)

‘She is all right, but that hardly matters, does it? I must find a suitable bride one day and she is one of the ladies who would be suitable. But right now I cannot think of such things.' Henry glanced up from his letter. ‘Nor should you. Duty is paramount right now, Seb.'

‘You needn't lecture me about duty, Henry. I have served England with my own blood and will again.'

Henry studied him closely. ‘We all do what we can, I suppose. Here, give these letters to Father. And I hope you are not tempted to add a little line to Miss Manning. Ladies like that are not for such as you, Brother. Besides, perhaps she will be better off in Portugal. I hear her own mother was from Lisbon.'

‘Oh, believe me, I know that she is not for me very well indeed.' Sebastian took the letter from his brother, looking into Henry's cold blue eyes, and turned on his heel to leave the room. His brother had long been studious, long been focused on following their father's footsteps, but when had be become so very distant? So hardened to people like Miss Manning, seeing only her ‘usefulness'?

Then again—Sebastian knew he himself had been no better. Surely his brother was right. Now was not the time to chase Miss Manning and make her listen to his poor excuses. She had her own family to think of now, her own work, and he had his.

Perhaps only through his work could he one day make her see how sorry he was and how he would work to erase that one night. If only he could some day see her again.

* * *

‘Sebastian!' Sebastian heard Nicholas Warren call from across the street as he stepped out of his father's house. He glanced over to find his friend hurrying between the carriages and horses, his hat threatening to fly away in the breeze, and the sight actually made him start to smile. Nicholas often had that effect on people.

But his brief smile faded as he saw Nicholas's face. His friend was usually quick to smile, yet today he looked solemn as a funeral, and Sebastian was reminded sharply of that disagreeable scene at the ball—as if he could forget it. He would never forget the darkness that came into Mary Manning's bright eyes.

‘Were you calling on your father?' Nicholas asked. He glanced up at the Barrett house, looking as if the bricks and stone could suddenly sprout teeth and bite him. Most of Sebastian's friends seemed to have that reaction.

‘Yes, duty done for the day. I was on my way back to my lodgings.' Sebastian almost suggested they go to the club for a claret, but then he remembered too clearly what had happened the last time they were there.

Nicholas nodded. ‘Surely too early for the club,' he said, as if he had read Sebastian's thoughts. ‘Shall I walk with you? I am supposed to escort my sister to the milliner later and I'd rather like to put off that errand for as long as I can. Can I walk with you for a time?'

‘Of course,' Sebastian answered. ‘If you can bear my company right now.'

Nicholas was quiet for a moment as they made their way along the walkway. ‘Do you mean because of what happened at the ball? Surely it was my fault for introducing you to such a bounder as Gilesworth. I know you haven't been, well, quite yourself since you returned to London and I thought the chaps at the club might amuse you. I'm sorry for that.'

‘It is not your fault in the least, Nick,' Sebastian said, feeling even worse now that he knew he had hurt and disappointed one of his best friends as well as Miss Manning. ‘You are quite right—I have not been myself since I left my regiment. I have been behaving terribly, and after what happened I felt as if I woke from a nightmare to find I had done terrible things in my sleep. You tried to stop that wretched wager from ever happening and I thank you for that.'

Nicholas reached up to fiddle with his hat, his face gong a bit red. ‘Well. Yes. What shall you do now?'

‘I wanted to apologise to Miss Manning myself, but it seems she has gone away. One day, though, when that chance comes, I hope I can tell her I was not myself and prove it to her.' An image of Mary Manning's face flashed in his mind again, her shy smile, the glow of her eyes.

‘A goal more worthy of you, I must say,' Nick said encouragingly. ‘How will you do that?'

Sebastian shrugged. ‘Return to my regiment, I suppose. Do my duty the best I can.' He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘If you ever happen to run into the Mannings in your own work...'

‘Shall I pass on a message?'

Sebastian was tempted, but he could imagine the dismay on Miss Manning's face to hear his name. Surely she could only think any secondhand words most insincere. ‘No. Just speak kindly of me to Miss Manning. If you can bear to.'

They walked along in silence for a few more moments and Sebastian thought of her. The warmth and welcome of her kindness after his rocky homecoming, the way she made him think of the more pleasant things in life when he was with her. He had ruined all that much too quickly. But if he had learned one thing from his Army life, it was that men could always redeem themselves if they wanted to, if they tried. They could always be better. And he would try to do that, if only in memory of Miss Manning.

Chapter Five

Lisbon, two years later

I
t sounded as if the world was cracking open.

Another deafening peal of thunder broke over the tiled roof of the Manning house in the Baixa district of Lisbon, making Mary's lady's maid scream and duck down to cover her head.

‘Mother of heaven,
senhorita
, but it is the French, come to murder us in our beds!' she cried.

‘Don't be silly, Adriana,' Mary said sternly, though she was far from feeling certain herself. She had to force herself to stay with her embroidery by the fire and not leap up at every noise. True, it was just a storm rolling in from the hills—this time. ‘It is only rain.'

A gust of wind caught at one of the shutters, making Adriana scream again. Mary jumped up and ran to catch it.

The chilly autumn wind rushing over the rooftops was a relief after being closed inside all day, ever since her father received an urgent message summoning him to the royal palace at Mafra, outside the city. He'd warned Mary to stay in, to keep the servants calm, but that was becoming harder and harder to obey. The whole city felt as if it would burst at any moment from the terrible strain of fear and uncertainty. The storm only made everything worse.

Mary leaned out the window, letting the cold, damp wind catch at her loosely braided hair, the fringe of her shawl. Their house was on a small plaza, like so many in Lisbon, a tall, whitewashed structure along a cobblestone square with a communal fountain at its centre. Over the steep red-tiled roofs she could see the purple outlines of the hills against the night sky, inky and impenetrable. The storm clouds scuttled past overhead, casting shadows over the moon. Only sizzling, silvery bolts of lightning split the gloom.

Mary shivered and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Usually the nights in Lisbon were full of sound. Music from the salons, their windows thrown wide to the flower-scented breezes. Laughter from the people parading together around the plazas. Lights sparkling in long, snaking rivers up the narrow lanes into the hills. It was one of the things she loved about the city, the birthplace of her beautiful mother. She tried to write of it in her long letters to Louisa back in England, to show it all to her friend. The laughter and fire of it, the warmth and life. So different from London, especially the London from Louisa's return letters, a place of assemblies and plays with the same people every night. Compared to that, Lisbon had felt so—freeing.

But now the city was completely transformed, as if a wicked fairy had cast a dark spell over it all. The plaza was deserted, the fountain gone still. Many of the doors and windows were barricaded, some of the houses deserted as families fled to the countryside. Even the church bells were quiet. No one knew what would happen next. It was quite certain Portugal's hard-fought neutrality between England and France could no longer hold. But which way would things tumble?

Mary curled her fingers into the wood of the windowsill, forcing herself to breathe deeply, to remain still. With her father, she had seen the careful diplomatic dance many times before, yet it had never felt so very urgent.

She glanced up at the dark hills and imagined the armies that were on the move just beyond them, on the Iberian plains. Was Sebastian Barrett among them, dashing in his red coat, urging his men onward to defeat the French? Or was he already dead on some distant battlefield, once more lauded as great hero in London? The thought of his spirit being gone from the world made her shiver.

‘Stop it, Mary,' she whispered to herself. She had to push away memories of Sebastian, as she always did when he slid unbidden into her mind, her dreams. Usually she was much too busy to let him there again, to let him charm her all over again. But sometimes, especially in tense, quiet moments like this one, he slipped back in. Taunting her with how foolish she had once been.

She had let no one court her since London, since she let herself care for Lord Sebastian Barrett, let herself believe his lies. Lord Henry Barrett had married someone else and had passed away from a fever on a posting to Madeira, news which her father had received sadly. Lord Henry had written to her once or twice, but his words on the page had been as stiff and dutiful as their meetings in London had been. After she had danced with Sebastian, she had known that any marriage based on business, on abrupt convenience, could never be for her, even though such romantic feelings had ended badly. She thought perhaps she would end a spinster, keeping house for her father always. But she had heard little of Sebastian in all those months. Louisa had once given an offhand mention in one of her letters that it was rumoured Sebastian would marry his sister-in-law's sister, some viscount's daughter, but naught had come of it. Mary hadn't wanted to ask too much, to seem too eager. And she half feared to hear bad news. Even though he had hurt her...

The thought of him being gone was still too painful. He had shown her a new way of feeling, even if it had only been for a moment.

Lightning suddenly crashed out of the sky, a sizzling lavender-white flash, and Mary drew back, startled. Thunder rattled the roof tiles and the first cold drops of rain touched her hand on the windowsill.

Adriana screamed again. ‘'Tis the French!'

Mary glanced outside one more time, hoping her father might be returning at last with some news, but there was nothing. Only the rain, falling harder now, and the boarded-up houses across the plaza.

She pulled the shutters closed and turned back to her maid. The drawing room was usually stylishly grand, with new silk wallpaper and a frescoed ceiling arching high above their heads, gilt-and-satin sofas and chairs clustered around for intimate conversations beside the white marble fireplace. But tonight it was shadowed, echoing, empty.

‘Don't be silly, Adriana,' she said again. ‘Even General Junot could not cross the Pyrenees so fast as that.'

‘But he
is
coming? That is what they say. That Napoleon is angry with Portugal, and is sending his armies. Just as he did in Denmark.' Adriana crossed herself. Everyone knew now what had happened when Napoleon bombarded Copenhagen, punishing them for siding with the British. The port was firebombed and almost a thousand Danish civilians died. No other country wanted such things for their people.

‘Of course not. We would have heard something by now,' Mary said. Yet she wasn't so sure. Her father and the rest of the English delegation had been called to the palace complex at Mafra for several days now, trying to persuade the Prince Regent, Dom Joao, to formally ally with the British at last. But Dom Joao was a most indecisive monarch indeed, changing his mind at every moment.

Soon his mind would be made up for him, one way or the other.

‘If you go back to England,
senhorita
, you will take me with you, yes?' Adriana asked eagerly. ‘You would not leave me here?'

‘I don't think we will be going back to England any time soon, Adriana. But if we do, I will take you with me. You don't need to worry about that,' Mary said with a calm smile. It would do no one any good to panic now. She made her way back to her embroidery hoop by the fire. ‘Would you please fetch some tea now? We should eat something, at least.'

If there was anyone left in the kitchen to make it for them. Even the Mannings' servants had been slipping away in the last few days, as rumours of invasion flew around.

Suddenly, the front door in the hall below the salon banged open, as if pushed by some unseen hand. As Adriana sobbed, Mary ran out to peer over the balustrade, her heart pounding.

It was her father at last, untying his damp cloak and letting the footman take it. Sir William Manning was generally said, especially by the ladies, to still be extraordinarily handsome, with his silveri-touched dark hair and tall figure. But the long days and nights with the Portuguese court had made his face look more heavily lined, wearier, his shoulders stooped. She worried that he had no rest of late.

‘Papa!' Mary cried, running down the stairs. ‘You're here at last. I was getting worried.'

‘Mary, my dear.' He kissed her cheek quickly, smiling as if he would try to reassure her. His lips were cold from the rainy night outside. ‘You are certainly a sight for sore eyes. Is all well here?'

‘Of course. But what of you? What of the royal court?'

He glanced up at where Adriana peered down at them, tears still on her cheeks, her lacy cap crooked. ‘Let's go sit down for a while, Mary, just the two of us. Shall we?'

Mary swallowed hard. She knew what it meant when her father needed a quiet word with her. There was news. ‘I just sent for some tea. Adriana will fetch it while you warm yourself by the fire. You have been out too long in the chill.'

‘We have faced more hardships than a bit of rain, have we not, my dear?' he said wryly, as Mary took his arm and led him up the stairs. Adriana dashed away towards the kitchens.

She settled her father next to the fire, wrapping a fur-trimmed blanket around his shoulders. The wind beat at the shutters, the sky releasing the cold torrents of rain on to the tiled roof. It did sound terribly like guns.

Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet, studying his face carefully. He smiled down at her, but over the years she had learned to look beyond his smile to the worried depths of his eyes.

‘Shall we have to face such things again soon?' she asked quietly. ‘Has a decisions been made at last?'

He gave a wry laugh. ‘I have certainly dealt with my share of ditherers and prevaricators in my work, Mary, as you will know. Everyone is most uncertain when it comes to dealing with Napoleon and who can blame them? But Dom Joao is something else entirely. I do wonder for his sanity. The mother, Queen Maria...'

Mary nodded, thinking of poor Queen Maria, quite mad and shut away in a convent since her husband's death many years before. ‘But has he decided?'

‘Lord Strangford is a persuasive man, I'll give him that. I had my doubts when he was appointed to Lisbon.' Lord Strangford, before he was appointed to the Foreign Office, was best known for translating poetry, especially of the Portuguese poet Camões, and was a well-known dandy. But he was also known to be a great defender of British interests everywhere. ‘But he has at last shown Dom Joao that time is now of the essence. Junot's Army is making its way towards Lisbon and, when it arrives, they will be no friend to the royal family. It will be too late to flee.'

Mary nodded. She recalled too many stories of what happened to ruling families when Napoleon overran their kingdoms—and of how fast his armies marched. ‘He will go, then?'

‘And we will go with him. I have my orders from London.'

‘When?' Mary asked. She had known this was coming, had prepared for it, but it still made her stomach tighten with uncertainty.

‘Very soon, though I have no embarkation dates. Several British warships are on their way to serve as escort across the Atlantic, along with some fresh British diplomats to assist us with the transition. Nothing like this has ever been tried before.' Her father gave a deep sigh and looked into the fire. ‘God knows what will happen, my dear.'

Mary nodded, wondering about what might lie ahead—and what Brazil would be like. Not like Russia, of course. And surely not like London, either, which she hadn't seen in so long—and where so many bittersweet memories rested. Brazil would be entirely new. ‘It's so far...'

Her father reached down and grasped her hand. ‘Too far for you, my dear Mary? We have been in some strange places, true, but nothing like South America.'

Mary squeezed his hand and smiled up at him. ‘It will surely be warm there. I would like that after all this chilly rain. South America—it will be quite a grand adventure! I look forward to it.'

She wasn't sure that was
entirely
true. She'd been reading all she could find about Brazil and knew there would be other, not-so-lovely things in addition to the sandy beaches and fresh fruit trees. She read there were few real houses, that there were insects and lizards as large as lapdogs. But it
was
far away. A new beginning, for herself and for her father. Maybe there he could rest.

‘Dearest Mary. You are so like your mama. So full of courage and curiosity.' He looked away again, into the fire, and his eyes turned misty, as they always did when he spoke of his wife. Maria Manning had been born in Lisbon, leaving it to marry a handsome young diplomat and journey with him around the Continent. She had been so beautiful, Mary remembered, full of laughter and music. What would her mother think of her homeland now? A mad queen, a prince regent who waffled on every decision, his Spanish wife who loathed him and schemed behind his back. A court that now had to flee across an ocean.

‘Would Mama really be excited about seeing Brazil?' Mary asked, hoping to distract her father from his memories and look into the future.

‘Of course she would! And what is more, she would be able to persuade everyone else to be excited about it, too. She was a much greater diplomat than I could be.'

‘Do some of the royal court still need—persuading? Is there still much reluctance?'

He snorted. ‘Reluctant? Ha! If it isn't exactly the way things have been done for five hundred years, these Iberian courtiers won't even consider it. But they'll have to now. It's either go now, or face the French.' His eyes narrowed as he looked down to Mary again. ‘Are you still good friends with Doña Teresa Fernandes? The lady-in-waiting to Dom Joao's wife, Doña Carlota?'

‘Oh, yes,' Mary answered. ‘She is very amusing.' She thought of Doña Teresa, who had stood next to her at one of Mary's first diplomatic receptions in Lisbon and explained who everyone was in wicked, gossipy whispers, with much laughter. Stuffy dinners and balls were always more fun when Teresa was there; she was one of the first friends near her own age Mary had ever met, it made leaving Lady Louisa behind in London a little easier. But she hadn't seen Teresa in several days, everyone had been kept hiding indoors. Doña Carlota and her court hadn't stirred from their own palace at Queluz.