She brushed past him, knowing she ought not to provoke him, but no longer willing to pretend he was the kitchen’s indispensable talent.
Because he wasn’t and never had been, and that he’d ruin her great good spirits with his petty tyranny vexed her exceedingly.
Agricola had not initially shared Rye’s enthusiasm for some exercise on a cold, still morning, but as they’d approached the park, the gelding had caught sight of open expanses of grass covered in sparkling hoar frost. He’d gone so far as to give a ponderous buck and shimmy and to whinny to his kin on the bridle paths.
“That’s my boy,” Rye said, patting Agricola’s muscular neck. “Let’s have a gallop, shall we?”
They had more of a canter, albeit a brisk canter. Agricola was winded and had broken a light sweat by the time Rye brought him down to the walk.
Rye turned his horse up a quiet bridle path, because ambling a few streets in the morning air would not be enough to cool out his mount. Then too, Rye wanted to linger in the quiet of the park the better to savor memories of his latest encounter with Ann Pearson.
Beneath her tidy, sensible mien beat the heart of a passionate woman. And Ann wasn’t merely sensible, she was smart. Observant, as a good scout ought to be, and logical.
Who benefits from keeping you in disgrace?
Years ago, any other officer might have enjoyed seeing Rye fall from favor. He wasn’t from a military family, he was half French, he had no great wealth. He’d had no chance of ever becoming one of Wellington’s direct reports, because he wasn’t one of the bluebloods who could trace their lineage back to the Domesday Book.
Rye wasn’t from the enlisted ranks either, but he’d tramped across Spain right alongside the men who’d served under him. He’d been neither a harsh disciplinarian nor one to shirk battlefield duty. Rye could not see the rank and file bearing him any serious grudges, or having the social standing to put him in disgrace.
Something more than a grudge was at work.
Agricola whuffled as Rye steered him around a bend in the bridle path. They were working their way to the northeast corner of the park, putting off a return to London’s busy streets as long as possible.
A horse and rider came toward them at the trot, and Agricola sidled off the path in a creaky semblance of good spirits. The other horse—a chestnut with a graying muzzle—whinnied in response.
The rider looked to have every intention of trotting on past, but the horses had other ideas. The chestnut stopped and craned its neck, and Agricola did likewise. Nostrils flared, ears pricked.
Rye sat calmly through this reacquainting ritual, while Brigadier Horace Upchurch hauled hard on his horse’s reins.
“Stop that, Egret. Behave yourself at once.”
Egret stood a good eighteen hands, and his great size had been much envied by junior cavalry officers. A horse that tall—six feet at the withers—put his rider literally above the affray of battle, and galloped into any conflict with nearly a ton of momentum. Egret had enough draft horse in him to add muscle to that momentum and enough of the riding stock to be nimble as well.
Though even the brigadier’s mount was showing signs of age. His muzzle was gray, and he’d apparently developed a stubborn streak. All the brigadier’s blustering did not deter Egret from properly greeting his old friend.
“They don’t forget,” Rye said when the mutual sniffing concluded. “How are you, sir?”
“I am well, Goddard. And you?” Upchurch was very much on his dignity, as usual. He’d fallen into the stern-but-fair category of senior officer, and Rye had respected him for that.
“Managing. Might I ride with you for a bit?”
Upchurch glanced around. “If you must. One doesn’t like to encourage bad behavior in one’s mount, and Egret has forgotten his manners.”
“You don’t want to be seen with me.” The conclusion should not have hurt, but it did. Upchurch had quarterly officers’ dinners, rotating the invitations through all of his former direct reports and many of his peers. Rye had never received an invitation.
He’d attributed that slight to an oversight, to his frequent travel on the Continent, to Melisande Upchurch’s sense of who would socialize well with whom, to his lack of participation in the Hundred Days…
Never to his own commanding officer’s distaste for him.
“You’ve heard the talk,” Rye said. “What exactly is being said?”
Upchurch turned Egret in the opposite direction Rye sought to travel. “If you must know, the whispers are that you kept your vineyards and farms because you betrayed your country. That your father’s business was failing until you bought your colors, and within a year of you reporting for duty in Spain, those fortunes began to improve. That you yet prosper because the French recall how useful you were to them.”
“My father lost those vineyards and farms,” Rye said, “and they came to me only after the peace, when it became apparent no French heirs had survived to claim them.”
“I know that,” Upchurch said, “and you know that, but circumstances conspire to put you in a bad light, Goddard.”
A bad light? A bad light? “The talk has worsened lately. Any idea who might be behind it?”
Upchurch fussed with his horse’s mane. “Who knows? The longer we’re at peace, the more adept the typical officer becomes at gaming, wenching, and gossip.”
Was that how Upchurch spent his time? “My sister’s dowry brought my family’s finances right and bought my commission,” Rye said, though he ought not have to remind Upchurch of those facts. “But for Jeanette’s marriage to the marquess, my father might well have died in debtors’ prison.”
Upchurch peered about as if he’d not been hacking out in Hyde Park on sunny mornings for years. “Melisande mentioned as much.”
So Upchurch had discussed the situation with his wife. The fair Melisande had chafed against military life, then settled down to become the consummate officer’s helpmeet. She’d enjoyed the attentions of all the gallant young officers, but the marching, mud, and battle hadn’t appealed to her at all.
“Would Melisande consider buying her champagne from me?” Rye asked, half ashamed of himself for the question. “My business does not, alas, prosper. I bottle the finest champagne to be had in London, and increasingly, nobody wants it at any price.”
Upchurch looked at him for the first time in the entire exchange. “Your business is suffering?”
“I am not French enough for the customers who want the cachet of a French merchant for their fine wines, and I’m not a loyal enough British subject for those whose snobbery runs in a different direction.”
“You were always loyal.” Upchurch made the words a grudging admission rather than a ringing endorsement.
“I remain loyal.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem.” Upchurch gathered up his reins. “Have you considered a remove to France, at least until the talk dies down? Retreat can be the wisest course, Goddard. Live to fight another day.”
“As far as I know, nobody’s trying to kill me.” Kill his reputation, his business, his ability to support his dependents, and—worst of all?—his chances of more than a passing liaison with Ann Pearson.