Kindred Hearts (41 page)

“I
have
met him before, you know,” Tristan said as they wended their way through the crowd. “Last year, at the Honours.”

“That’s right; I was in Vienna with Castlereagh by then and quite forgot that he was in London,” Charles acknowledged. “Of course you would have met him; you two move in the same circles.”

“I doubt he would remember me, at any rate.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Charles said. “You’re just the type of young nobleman whose company he enjoys. I think he’s always been very conscious of his dignity, as the mere second son of an Irish peer, and he enjoys having the respect of the very class he’d grown up envying.”

“You and your theories!” Tristan laughed as they negotiated a crush near the door. “No one is safe from Charlie Mountjoy’s pokings and pryings.”

“I like to figure out why people do what they do,” Charles said mildly. “It’s interesting.”

“Lottie does, too, but she’s more, I don’t know,
abstract
about it. It’s a game for her. You take it much more seriously.”

“Blame it on the German side of the family,” Charles said with a chuckle. “The brooding and romantic Germans rather than the coldly analytical Prussians. Lottie got the Prussian blood, I think. Too bad she was born female; she would have made an excellent officer.”

“She’s certainly good at managing staff—and sometimes me,” Tristan shot back.

“Oh, she’s managed all of us since we lost Mama,” his lover said dryly. “Here’s the Duke.”

There was a crowd around His Grace, but by virtue of their superior height, they managed to catch his attention, and he beckoned them forward. “Mountjoy.” He nodded, then turned to Tristan. “Northwood. Welcome to Brussels. Come to see the fun?”

“Hardly,” Tristan said, shaking his hand. “My wife sent me to check on her brother’s welfare; I can’t convince her that he hasn’t completely forgot how to take care of himself. A few months under her roof and he’s her responsibility again.”

“Well, if he won’t get himself a wife, a sister will do. A man needs a woman to look out for him,” said the man who avoided his own wife at every opportunity. “Where are you situated?”

“Rue de Valois,” Tristan said.

“Pleasant prospect there. Quiet. I imagine Mountjoy will find it a refuge from the noise of his billet.”

“He is, of course, always welcome there. As are you, Duke. I don’t entertain largely, with Lottie in Leicestershire, but I’ve plans for a card party—gentlemen only. May I send you a card?”

“Certainly. I may not be able to stay, but I’ll look in on you.”

They chatted a few more minutes, then His Grace’s attention was drawn away, and with a casual, “Don’t go far, Mountjoy—I’m leaving in a quarter hour and require your attendance,” he left them. Charles made a wry face.

“The story of my life in Brussels, I’m afraid. I imagine we’re off to placate some terrified ally or other. I doubt we shall see much of each other, Tris.”

“I expected half as much,” Tristan said. He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket. “Here’s a key to the garden door. The stairs on the left go up to the front of the house; the servants’ quarters have a separate entrance. Come when you can.” He dropped his voice and said, “Whenever you can.”

Charles took the key, his fingers lingering a moment on Tristan’s palm. “It may be late,” he warned, “and only for a short while.”

“Whenever you can,” Tristan said again. They turned to watch the dancers in silence, shoulder to shoulder.

Captain Randall came up a few minutes later and said, “Mountjoy, Himself is looking for you; he’s ready to leave. Hullo.” He nodded at Tristan.

“Tris, this is my friend Captain Francis Randall. Randy, Mr. Tristan Northwood, my brother-in-law.”

“Oh, you’re the brother-in-law,” Randall said, and shook his hand. “How’s Mrs. Northwood?”

“Quite well, thank you. In the country for the summer.”

“Good. Welcome to Brussels, Northwood. Mountjoy?”

“Coming, Randy. Tris—I’ll see you later.”

Tristan watched them leave, following Wellington out like skiffs circling a merchantman; then, with no other real reason to stay, took his own leave of his hostess, and went back to the silent house on the rue de Valois.

A soft
sound woke Tristan in the black of the night; he lay still a moment, then heard it again, the thump of a boot hitting the floor. Grinning, he drew back the bed curtain to see Charles sitting in the armchair in the room in his shirtsleeves; as he watched, his lover carefully set the boots beside the chair.

Then, to Tristan’s consternation, he put his hands over his face and sat hunched in upon himself.

The posture was so unlike Charles that Tristan was out of bed and crouched at his side before he’d even consciously made the decision to move. “Charlie?” he asked in a low, concerned voice.

Charles glanced up and the expression on his face was so bleak, so exhausted, that Tristan sucked in a breath, then drew him into his arms, Charles’s head on his breast. Charles gave a great, heavy shudder. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Charles said in a thin, strained voice. “I’d forgot what it was like. I’ve become a coward in the last two years, Tris. I can’t bear this, seeing all these men and knowing that in a few days they’ll all be so much meat for worms. I’ve become wedded to the idea of healing them, not sending them out to die. Oh, God, Tris—he’s talking about giving me a command!”

“Is he serious?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think so; but he does this sometimes, throws out ideas as if he’s thinking out loud. We’re low on officers in the King’s German Legion; they’re mostly Hanoverians and having a commander that speaks German would be an asset, I can see that. And it comes with a promotion to colonel.”

“Does that matter?”

“God, no. I just don’t want to command any longer. A few years ago I would have fought for it, but I can’t do it, Tris. I can’t send them to their deaths. We’re outnumbered, outmanned and outgunned, from all reports; half the men in both the Dutch and the German armies are French sympathizers, and too many of our best troops are still in America.” He drew back and looked up at Tristan’s face. “I’m not afraid for myself,” he said wearily. “I’ll be fine; I’m always fine, so don’t look so aghast. But the men….”

Tristan smoothed a lock of hair back from his forehead. “Come to bed, Charlie. It will look different in the morning.”

“I’m too tired to do you much good tonight,” Charles said miserably.

“The only thing I want is for you to sleep beside me. There will be time later for everything else.” He glanced up at the clock on the mantel, illuminated by the lamp he’d left burning there for Charles’s anticipated arrival. “Good Lord, it’s nearly four. No wonder you’re tired.”

“And we’re to meet at nine,” Charles said. “It was supposed to be eight, but March talked him out of it.”

“Good for March.” He drew Charles to his feet and stripped him of his dirty clothes. “You’ll need to allow time in the morning to go back to your billet to change, unless you want to borrow a shirt from me. Not regulation, I’m sure.”

“Better quality. That would do.”

Tris drew back the bedclothes and pushed Charles onto his belly. “I’ve got the bottle of oil that you left for me,” he said, “and it’s my turn to take care of you for a change. So lie still and I’ll see if I can’t put you in better form before you drop off.”

Charles said nothing, just turned his head on the pillow and gave another great, shuddering sigh. Tristan warmed the oil in his hands and set about giving Charles a massage as Charles had done more than once for him. As he did, he named the muscles he rubbed, “Trapezius. Deltoid. Teres Major. Latissimus Dorsi….” He felt the faint rumble of Charles’s chuckle, then the laughter faded and Charles slept. Tristan kept working until he felt the muscles completely relax, knowing that Charles’s sleep was that of exhaustion, and that unless he was fully at ease, the sleep would not bring rest.

When there was no tension left in Charles’s body, Tristan eased over to lie beside him, drawing Charles’s limp arm over his waist and resting his head against Charles’s shoulder.

He’d
planned on staying awake through the night, to let Charles sleep soundly and wake him when he needed to make his meeting, but it seemed it had only been a moment and he was opening his eyes to drawn bedcurtains and Charles at the washstand, shaving. “You’re awake,” he said stupidly, blinking.

Charles turned to him, flashing a quick grin. “I am, and after a most comfortable sleep. Thank you, love. Your kindness last night is making it easier for me to face the day.”

“What will you do?” Tristan asked, sliding off the bed and reaching for his banyan.

Charles shrugged. “Meet with the Duke and whatever nervous noble he’s placating this morning. Follow him around and take notes and run errands, same as I always do.”

“About the command.”

His lover’s face went still. “It’s not an offer, yet.”

“But when it is?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it will depend on the tenor of the offer; if he’s determined, there’s no point in refusing him. If I do, he’ll just send me back to one of the regiments as a major, and I’ll be no better than before. Worse; I’ll have less control, following the orders of men I don’t know and can’t trust. If it’s just speculation, I’ll let him know tactfully that I prefer being one of his ADCs to command. It’s a compliment, really; he doesn’t do field promotions often. It’s one of the things we’ve argued about; he decries the quality of the officers he gets, but adheres to the promotion-by-purchase rules. The French system is better, but I suppose it’s some kind of patriotism on his part to stick with the British way.” He dried his face on a towel. “I just hope the British way is enough to stop Bonaparte.”

“You’ll do it,” Tristan said confidently.

“I hope you’re right. Did you bring the Brat to Brussels?”

“I did. This house shares a stables with its neighbors.”

“Good. The Duke’s got a tête-à-tête with one of his inamoratas this afternoon and has released us from durance vile for the nonce. Care to take a ride around one? I can show you the city.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come back here for a rest?”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Charles said with another grin. “Isn’t that one of your sayings?”

“Yes, and a bloody stupid one at that,” Tris shot back.

“Well, Paragon needs some exercise, since I rode Patch and Betsy yesterday, and so will Brat by this afternoon. We’ll take care of the horses first. That’s the way of the cavalry. Horses first, riders later.” He closed up his shirt and tied his cravat before turning back to Tristan and taking him in his arms. Kissing him tenderly, he said in a low voice, “The Duke’s tryst will go on into the evening; he’s already said he won’t need us until tomorrow. On the other hand, he’s just as likely to be late to his tryst, so I may be later than one. But there’s a fine restaurant in town; we’ll stop for lunch there on our travels.”