“He knew who I was,” Dorning said, frowning. “I like to think I enjoy a certain cachet, but he’s a footman, and I’m nearly certain he’s never seen me before.”
“Why would you think that? You swan about at the Coventry like the king at a royal levee, you bear a resemblance to no less than eight siblings, one of them titled, and you are a stranger to any form of subtlety. Then too, you hold the vowels of half of polite society, and until recently, you also had a bachelor’s welcome.”
Rye led his guest to the Aurora’s lounge, which could have served as the library of any Mayfair town house, right down to the bookshelves along the inside wall and a scattering of the week’s newspapers on end tables and sideboards.
“You make me sound like a cross between a communicable disease and a meddling auntie,” Dorning muttered. “Your dear sister finds me charming.”
So did Rye, in the odd moment. “Jeanette has always enjoyed a challenge. She set out to dam up a stream once, and half the shire was soon complaining of the terrible drought. My father’s steward didn’t want to get her in trouble, so I had to help him unbuild what Jeanette had spent a week constructing.”
“She simply built it up again?”
“I explained the problem to her—sheep will turn up thirsty under all that wool—and she settled for re-creating the Pool of London. She was six years old and intent on joining the Royal Navy.”
Dorning scowled at one of Rye’s fondest recollections. “I don’t like that you know things about my wife that I don’t know.”
Rye had the same curiosity where Ann Pearson was concerned. How long was her hair? Who was her favorite poet? If she could be served any meal in the world, what would the menu be and with whom would she share it?
He’d learned one thing about her: She wasn’t a sot. Her toddy had hit her like a mortar blast, knocking her literally off her feet.
Well, no. Not exactly. Rye had swept her off her feet—a first for him—and she had cuddled up like a weary kitten. She was small, nicely curved, and sturdy, and holding her had been balm to Rye’s heart.
Also damned distracting. “Your siblings know things about you that Jeanette will never know,” Rye said, choosing a pair of wing chairs in a corner of the room. “In your case, that is doubtless a mercy. I haven’t the luxury of keeping you in ignorance about my own circumstances.”
Dorning settled into a chair and crossed his legs at the knee, dandy-fashion. “This is where you explain why flowers wilt when you pass and songbirds are struck mute?”
“To the extent I can explain. Some of it is mysterious even to me.” Before the lounge acquired any more occupants, Rye took a seat and sketched the particulars.
At his father’s urging, he’d bought his colors. His knowledge of French language and military history had marked him for attention from the generals. His career had advanced rapidly, until the final push into France.
At that point, his commanding officer had tasked him with occasional casual reconnaissance, and nothing had felt right since.
“What does that mean?” Dorning asked. “Nothing has felt right?”
“I was told from time to time go have a look around beyond the camp, to assay the mood of the countryside, to mingle with the locals and hear what I could hear. My Spanish is not as good as my French, but by then, it was certainly serviceable.”
Dorning withdrew a knife from his boot. “But wasn’t an officer out of uniform—?”
“Considered a spy if captured, and thus subject to torture. I was careful, my French was that of a native. I could spy with much less risk than most, but it struck me as odd that I was an ineffective spy.”
“Ineffective. Is that how you admit you made a poor job of listening at keyholes?”
Explaining the situation to another officer would have been difficult enough, but Dorning lacked military experience. He had no frame of reference for the story Rye was trying to relate.
“We all listened at keyholes as boys,” Rye said, “but spying for military purposes is a different matter. You note the condition of pastureland—has a large herd of hoofed stock recently grazed down and trampled what should be a hayfield ready for scything? Is the tavern out of summer ale well before harvest? Are the women particularly nervous, and have the children all been confined indoors?”
Dorning flipped the knife from hand to hand. “I do not think I’d enjoy the business of war.”
“We all half hope and half fear we’re ill-suited to it, but then you survive a battle or two, and it’s like a drug. Nothing makes you feel as alive, and nothing corrodes your soul as effectively. I reported back to my superior officer after every excursion, never having seen anything of any great value. The war was going well for us by then, and everybody—including the Spanish locals—knew it.”
“But the war did not go well for you?”
The war was still not going well for Rye. “Talk started in camp, probably from the pickets who saw me leaving after dark in civilian attire, then returning hours later. I was not a womanizer of any repute, my facility with languages was common knowledge, and my orders were to be kept secret.”
“With the entire camp ringed by sentries, whose sole purpose is to keep watch?”
“Precisely, and when the French began to have better luck ambushing our patrols and supply wagons, my name was brought up in a very unflattering context. To protect me, my commanding officer convened a board of inquiry. French desperation was blamed for our misfortunes, but the cloud over my reputation never entirely dissipated.”
Dorning slipped the knife back into his boot. “Is the crown in the habit of knighting spies?”
“I attributed that mishap to some general or other hoping to reward me for service that could not be acknowledged. After the board of inquiry, I was tasked mostly with interviewing prisoners and managing supplies, which is exactly where you’d billet a man whose loyalty was suspect. I offered to resume active duty during the Hundred Days and was politely told to go to hell.”
“Your name was not, then, cleared by the board of inquiry.”
“Far from it. Any measure taken to exonerate me—the board of inquiry, the promotion to colonel, the knighthood—has only made me look more guilty. My commanding officer has insisted that ignoring the whole problem and going quietly about my business is the only prudent course, but the scandal could well ruin my business. I am nearly certain I know the French side of this equation, but who the British traitor was, I cannot say.”
The maître de maison appeared in the doorway, a slim, immaculately groomed man of indeterminate years and African descent.
“Lavellais summons us,” Rye said, rising. “There’s more to the tale, but it can wait until we’ve eaten.”
“Colonel, Mr. Dorning.” Lavellais bowed, exuding the dignified good cheer of a duke. “Your table is ready, though, Colonel, you should know that Major MacKay and Captain Powell have just arrived. If you’d rather remove to a private dining room, I can take you through the cardroom.”
Dorning was family, Dylan and Alasdhair were more than family. The notion of serving as a social nexus for unrelated parties was novel for Rye, but probably a bit like translating between languages.