Kindred Hearts (10 page)

Jamie noticed. “Papa sad?”

“No, love. I’m fine.” Tristan smiled at him.

He worried that Jamie would miss him when he was gone, and the older Jamie got, the more likely that was. He needed to do this quickly, but he was hampered by Charlotte’s pregnancy. Once the baby was born and he’d got them settled in the country…. He supposed he could lessen the blow to Jamie by becoming more like the other fathers of his acquaintance, only having contact with their children on rare occasions, but he was too selfish for that. He enjoyed Jamie. He just hadn’t thought ahead when he’d got into the habit of spending time with his son, hadn’t expected that Jamie would come to enjoy his time with his father as well.

He remembered the day when it had been brought to his attention just how foolish he’d been. It had been about four months ago; he’d gone to the nursery just as he always did, and found Jamie standing up in his cot, holding onto the wooden slats. And Jamie’s face had lighted up at the sight of him. It staggered Tris. Jamie was
happy
to see him. Happy to see
him
. It shook Tristan to his core.

And then he’d gone down to lunch, and Charlotte had casually mentioned that she was increasing again, and he’d realized that that would be another little being who would come to look forward to seeing him, to care for him, to expect to be cared for. He’d managed to find the right words to say to Charlotte, half-hearing her complacent statement that he no longer needed to come to her at night, and he’d thought,
Never again
. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to lie with any other woman, either. He’d shut himself off from that part of his life for good—it was too
dangerous
. The idea of bringing
another
life into the world that might look to him….

He couldn’t bring himself to stop visiting Jamie. But he’d started in train his plans for the future—arranging things so that Charlotte and his children would be settled, so that when the time came, he could take himself out of their lives. Set them free of him, for good.

Smiling at Jamie, he reached out and tickled his plump little belly. Jamie chortled, and with a laugh, knocked over his tower of blocks.

“Oh,
no
!” Tristan exclaimed in mock horror. “What do we do
now
?”

“Again!” Jamie yelled, and Tristan laughed.

Charlotte
was reading a letter when he came down to luncheon; one hand held her fork immobile in midair, the chunk of chicken dripping sauce onto the plate while the other held the letter up. It was a not-uncommon sight—Charlotte had dozens of correspondents across the whole of Britain and not a few elsewhere in the Empire—but she usually managed to eat and read at the same time. This letter held her rapt.

He’d served himself the chicken and settled into his chair to eat before she put the letter down and turned to him. “News?” he asked mildly.

“Charlie’s coming home,” she said happily. “He’s coming back in the next month or so. He doesn’t say why; just that he’s well and looking forward to being home again. It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

“I can’t venture to say,” Tristan observed dryly, as he poured himself a glass of wine. “I was not acquainted with Major Mountjoy the last time he was in England.”

“Although Charles had been on Lord Wellington’s staff, he didn’t come back to England when his lordship did for the Honors last summer. He transferred to Lord Castlereagh’s staff just about then. I think he was last here in 1808,” Ellen said prosaically. “You two weren’t yet married. And as I recall, he was only here on a flying visit. He came down to Chilson on his way with his regiment to the Peninsula.”

“Oh, yes, that was about Grandfather’s legacy,” Charlotte nodded. “I remember now. He doesn’t trust Daniel to handle his funds for him.”

“I should think not,” Tristan said austerely. “Still, it will be nice for you to see him again.”

“I wonder if he’s just coming for a visit, or if he’s selling out?”

Ellen said, “With the war over, surely he’s selling out? You don’t think he’s being posted to America?”

Tristan said, “I wouldn’t think so. The Ghent negotiations will be resolved soon enough, and we’ll be done there; Gambier and Goulburn seem to expect that we’ll be able to reach some accommodation by the end of the year. If the major is smart, he’ll sell out as soon as he can while his commission is still valuable.”

“I don’t understand any of that,” Lottie complained. “It’s all above my head.”

Tristan shook his head. “Lottie,” he said, “don’t play stupid. It’s beneath you.”

“But it’s entertaining,” Lottie said complacently. “And it’s good practice for when I’m bored with someone at social events. They get this glazed look in their eyes, and I know it’s only a matter of a few minutes before they go away and I can look for someone
interesting
to talk to.”

“It’s no use,” Ellen said to Tristan. “I’ve been trying to get ’round her for years. She’s as stubborn as a rock.”

“I noticed. Jamie seems to take after her.”

“Oh, as if you’re not as obstinate as a mule,” Charlotte retorted.

“Children,” Ellen sighed. Tristan and Charlotte exchanged a conspiratorial grin.

December, 1814

“I thought
we’d got rid of you days ago,” a voice said from the doorway.

Major Charles Mountjoy glanced up from the bureau, a stack of cravats in his hand, and grinned. “You’ve got rid of my trunk—that was sent out on Tuesday. But His Grace demanded I stay on through last night’s soiree at the Margrave’s. How was Venice?”

“Cold. Wet,” Captain Randall said, dropping into the small room’s one chair. “And it smells. But the ladies are
quite
nice. Almost made it worthwhile.”

“And your mission successful?”

“More or less.” Randall made a face. “We have promises.”

Charles echoed his expression. “Promises. Wonderful.” His tone of voice made it anything but. “Have you seen His Grace yet?”

“Are you joking, Monty? Went straight there in all my dirt. He seemed pleased, though, so I suppose I’m just being cynical.”

“Perhaps. Who did you deal with?”

“Gian de Luca.”

“Oh, de Luca.” Charles shrugged. “He’ll come through.”

“You know him?”

“Met him a few times in Portugal. He was with the Venetian contingent there, trying to deal with their investments in Lisbon in case Boney made it across the border. One of the more sensible men I’ve had to deal with. Came through in a couple of tight spots when we needed a bit of assistance; he’s got a good relationship with the Duke.” Charles put the cravats into his traveling case and went back to the bureau, this time to pour them each a sherry from the decanter on top. Handing the glass to Randall, he said, “And speaking of Portugal—how’s Keighley working out?”

“Brilliantly,” Randall said, and toasted Charles. “Thanks to the genius that is Charlie Mountjoy. I would have hated to lose him; he’s one of the best sergeants I’ve ever worked with. I can’t believe how he’s turned around since you spoke to him.”

“Sometimes,” Charles said, dropping onto the narrow bed and regarding the sherry through the glass, “all a person needs is someone he can talk to. Poor Keighley was stuck in the rough spot so many sergeants seem to end up—all the men above him are nobs, all the ones below report to him, or resent him for raising himself up above the common muck. And his fellow rankers? Too many are irretrievable drunks or bullies. I hate waste.” He took a sip of the sherry. “Losing Keighley to the drink would be a waste. From your reports he wasn’t like that as a corporal, so I knew there had to be a way to reach him. It was simple enough.”

“Simple for you, perhaps,” Randall said. “I don’t understand—you’re not a martinet, but you’re not
easy
, either, and your brigade was one of the tightest, best-run of them all.”

“I had good men,” Charles said.

“Hah! I knew half your men when Coverdale was your battalion’s major, and they were
not
good men. Talk about bullies and drunks….”

“The key word is ‘half’,” Charles said. “The ones I could work with, I kept, and transferred the ones that were irretrievable. For the rest, it was simply a matter of gaining and keeping their respect, and unlike most of the officers in this man’s army, I knew that wasn’t by handing out floggings like they were Christmas sweeties.” He shook his head. “You can’t always choose the people you work with, but you can choose to learn how to deal with them. They’re all different.”

“The Duke says you’re the best judge of character he’s ever known. And he should know—he’s damn good at it himself.”

Charles shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps I’m just lucky. Or maybe just observant.”

“So then why are you selling out? I’d think he’d be demanding you stay, now that he’s here.”

“The kind of character judgment you need in the ranks is different from the kind of character judgment you need when dealing with politicians. It’s not my style. I did what I could for Lord Castlereagh, but Wellington’s got a better grasp of the politics involved here than I ever could learn.” Charles took a sip of sherry. “Plus, there are enough German-language interpreters around that he doesn’t need my services here. We’ve put paid to Bonaparte; there’s nothing for me on the Continent, and I’m not eager to go running off to America. They’re mad over there.”

“Says the man who insists there are no madmen.”

“I didn’t say there weren’t any madmen. I just said that there are men called mad who might still be brought to reason, if one could only reach them. And not by the methods used in the average madhouse.”

“You still think of him, don’t you?”

Charles nodded. “Winstead should never have been in that place—should never have died, not like that. If Warren had only
listened
to me….”

“You were a mere captain then, Warren a colonel—and one not likely to listen to anyone. I can’t say I was broken up when I’d heard he’d bought it at Ciudad Rodrigo.”

“I’m just glad he wasn’t involved with Badajoz,” Charles said dryly. “He would have made it even worse than it was. I don’t know how; I just know he’d have managed it.”

“Absent friends,” Randall said, raising his glass. “Oops—it’s empty. The toast to Warren must be canceled.”

Charles snorted. “Just as Warren was canceled. There is justice in the world, somewhere. Warren’s dead, and Keighley, at least, is alive.”

“For which I’m grateful.”

“Well, if you’re
smart
, you’ll make sure he’s made a lieutenant before too much time passes.”

“A lieutenant? Keighley?”

“He wouldn’t be the first to rise through the ranks, Randy. I know he hasn’t the funds to buy a promotion, but find a way. He needs the challenge. More than that, he needs the status. Make him a lieutenant, and he’ll walk through hell for you.” Charles drained his glass. “Me, I’ve got a walk through hell to deal with tomorrow. Or at least a ride through bloody Germany. In December!”

Randall took a sip of sherry. “So, you’re leaving just as I return?”

“Almost. Tomorrow morning, after one last meeting with His Grace. I only stayed after Castlereagh left because he knew I’d been one of the Duke’s aides-de-camp in the Peninsula and he’d asked me to help get the Duke up to snuff with what’s been going on here.”

“Well, if we’ve one last night, let’s go find some supper and a lass or two to entertain…. Whoops! Speaking of lasses!” Randall dug in the pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out an envelope. “The Duke told me to take this on to you; it came in today’s packet.”

Charles took the envelope and looked at it, then smiled. “It’s from Lottie. I wrote her a month ago that I’d be returning home. D’ye mind waiting a bit?”

“Not at all.” Randall leaned back in his chair.

Charles broke the seal and opened the letter. It smelled of lily of the valley, Lottie’s favorite scent, and was written in Lottie’s execrable English instead of German, their preferred language for correspondence. That was deliberate, to annoy the English censors who read all correspondence back and forth out of Austria and required all personal letters to be written in English—and another reason he would be happy to be going home. With the crossing of the lines to conserve paper, reading her letters was a project.

Dearest, most wonderful Charlie!

I was Extatic to hear from you that you would be Returning Home from the Wars at Last!! I have Missed you terably. I cannot wait for you to meet Jamie. He is quite the Little Man now, and is walking and talking, though not very Well. But he is very Smart. He must get it from Tristan, for as you Know, I am Not at All Clever.

I am Espeshully glad that you are returning Home, for I am Much Troubled in my mind. Tristan has assured me that we are not at all Rolled Up, but he has put his Hunters up for Sale, wich I do not understand at all, Altho he says it is because they are Wasteful. I do not understand this because Father and Daniel do not consider Hunters wasteful. Perhaps they have different Speesies of Horses? Tristan has changed much in the last few Months and is much more Sereous than he ever was before. He treats me as well as always. I cannot Complain of him. He is always Gentle and most Kind to me, espeshully now that I am Increasing again. I am so Happy about that, for Tristan has Promised that after this child is born, he will settle us in the Country again, which is of all things what I most Desire. He says he has lost Interest in Town. I am Distressed for him, for he has always Loved Society, but he does not Partisipate in many ton Activities as he did once. I hope that you will be Friends with him and Engage him in more Activities, for he is a Social Creachure, which I am not!!

I know you are Aware of his past Deeds, and hope you do not Judge him too Harshly. He has always been Discreet, but I do Believe that he has been Faithful to me for some Time now. I do not Understand all about the Ways of Men, but I think it espeshully Kind that he does not Importune me for Favors any longer, under the Circumstances. I have never Enjoyed such things, and he has Assured me that I need not Concern myself with That any longer. He is such a Good, Loving Husband. I am more Blessed than I can say. Partickulerly since my Best Loved Brother is on his way Home to us!!

Your delighted,

Charlotte

Charles reread the letter, a sinking feeling in his gut. Northwood? Tired of London? He recalled a quote—was it Ben Jonson or Samuel Johnson who said “When one is tired of London, one is tired of Life”? Maybe it was Samuel Pepys. He always got them all confused.

“Bad news?”

He glanced up at Randall. “No. No. Lottie’s excited about my return, of course.” He folded the letter and put it back into the envelope.

“But?”

“‘But?’”

“Your voice is not as certain as your words, my friend. I may not be as good a judge of character as you, nor as clever in managing men, but I know you.”

Charles sighed. “She’s worried about her husband. He seems to be under some kind of strain; he’s put his hunters up for sale, although he told her that it wasn’t because they were done up. And he’s tired of London.”

“That should make her happy—isn’t she always complaining how much she hates it there?”

“It does, but… Northwood’s a bit of a skylark. He’s far more social than Lottie, and has a wide circle of friends. Even when he’s in the country his place is an endless house party, much to Lottie’s annoyance. I can’t imagine him being happy in Leicestershire very long. Particularly not without a string of hunters.”