“Why care where Percival has gone? He’s not out to kill me, too, is he?” Thoughts of such an ineffectual man as Percival Seaton didn’t raise any fear in Evan.
“Not that I’ve heard, but as I said, I haven’t been able to locate him this week. However, death threats aside, I would think you would care, having saved his life and all. And now he’s your brother-in-law. Saving his life made you a hero, and then an earl, in the first place. What prompted you to run out on that battlefield like that?”
The abrupt change in topic startled Evan. In an instant, the room seemed to close in around him as his mind rocketed from the chilly London study to the summer heat of Salamanca. What had prompted him to race into danger in Spain? Though he could hear the sounds of cannon and rifle, the screams of horses and men, though he could smell the smoke and blood and dirt, he couldn’t bring the battle action into focus. He clenched the arms of the chair, his eyes narrowing. Pain radiated from the back of his neck up across the top of his head. He took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to stay calm. A flash of an image, then another …
“I was running down a slope. I needed a horse quickly because I had to get back behind the lines to our command post …” The words came out as if he recited the story of another man. “I had a message for my commanding officer …” His voice trailed off as he stared into the fire, concentrating so hard, sweat popped out on his brow.
“What message?” Though Marcus asked in a soft voice, there was something in his tone that said he was anything but asking casually.
“It was vital.” Evan wracked his memories, feeling as if he stood in a pool of light in an otherwise darkened room as images and bits and sounds and thoughts whirled around him. He closed his eyes, grabbing at the wispy tail of memory. “I intercepted a spy—”
The door crashed open, and the Duchess of Haverly swept in. “Marcus, get your feet off that desk and behave like the gentleman I raised you to be.”
The memory snapped from Evan’s mental grasp and evaporated. Weakness radiated from his core, seeping through him like water across a stone floor. Slamming his eyes shut, he searched his head for the memory, but it was gone. He breathed hard, as if he’d run a great distance. He wanted to shout at the duchess for interrupting. He’d been on the cusp of remembering. But what?
A spy? He’d intercepted a spy?
He had been running down a hill. Toward the battle … but from the French side? That couldn’t be right. In the normal course of events, he would’ve had his rifle and been perched on some high ground, picking off the enemy’s officers one by one. But there had been a message to deliver? Another oddity, because he was a lieutenant, and if he had word for his commander, he would’ve sent an enlisted man instead of leaving his post to deliver it himself. He only would’ve relayed the message himself if it had been of the utmost urgency and secrecy. He opened his eyes.
The duchess shot him a hard look. He’d been so preoccupied with his memories, he’d forgotten to rise at her entrance. He pushed himself upright. “Good evening, Your Grace.” This was his first encounter with the duchess since returning to London, and he was not sorry.
“Hmm. The butler tells me you’ll be leaving tomorrow?” She wore a green frock, diamonds draped about her creped throat and ostrich feathers wafting above her iron-gray curls. “It’s all over town that you shunted your bride off to the country and left her there. Shameful, that’s what it is. How you can expect to be accepted into London society when you behave like a”—she waved her beringed hand, as if searching for the right descriptor, only to shrug, as if it exceeded her vocabulary to describe him—“man of no breeding, is beyond me. You should be making your appearances at the opera, the theater, dinner parties. And you should bring your bride and show everyone how happy you are.” She sniffed and fingered the quizzing glass hanging from a ribbon around her neck. “Marcus, your sister will be arriving tomorrow, and I expect you to be here to greet her. She’s created one excuse after another why she should stay in the country, but I’ve lost my patience. Sophie might be engaged and no longer needing the Marriage Mart, but she won’t do herself any favors pining away in the country until her fiancé returns. Why you men get delusions of grandeur and head off to war is beyond me. Baron Richardson should be here, and we should be preparing for the wedding of the Season.”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Sophie’s never much cared for town, and Rich is doing his duty as a Royal Marine. You’d be better to blame old Boney for prolonging this war than the brave men who have been and are still fighting it.” Marcus’s tone had a bit of bite to it, unusual when he spoke of or to his mother.
She scowled. “I might know you’d take the opposite side from my views. Marcus, why must you always vex me so?” She sailed out of the room as abruptly as she’d arrived, closing the door with vigor.
Evan massaged his temples. Maybe if he tried, he could remember …
“You said you’d encountered a spy?” Marcus returned to the topic. “How? What did you learn?” He leaned forward, one fist on the desk.
What could Evan say? That he didn’t remember? That he couldn’t recall much of anything from that day? That would lead to more questions he couldn’t answer. He chose to treat the situation lightly, at least until more of his memory returned—if it ever did.
“And look what it got me. I ran onto the battlefield, wound up rescuing the Prince Regent’s godson, and I have to dress up and play the fine gentleman for the rest of my life. I really can’t talk about military secrets. I’ve told you too much already.” He pressed his hands against his thighs and pushed himself upright, stretching and faking a yawn, praying Marcus wouldn’t ask him anything more. “I’ve got an early start in the morning, so I’d best head to bed. Thank you again for your hospitality and help.”
Marcus eyed him, creases forming between his brows. “I’ll continue on with the other things you’ve left for me to do, and I’ll be down to White Haven soon.” He rose, started to say something and thought better of it, then rubbed his palm against the back of his neck beneath his longish hair. “I know your estate seems a long way from London, but be careful all the same. Watch over Diana, and don’t underestimate Seaton. He won’t accept this without a fight, and when he does fight, he won’t play fair.”
Evan firmed his resolve. “If it’s a fight he wants, I’d say I have more experience. Perhaps he should be wary of me.”
“Do you think it will be today?”
Diana gave a small sigh. The maid had asked the same question every day for the last week. Glancing at her homemade calendar on the desk, Diana didn’t need to count to know Evan had been gone for eleven days.
In some ways the time had gone quickly, and in others the days had stretched out to feel like a hundred.
Eleven days at this inn lavishing attention on Cian, cuddling, singing, rocking, admiring his sweet smiles that came with more frequency. Eleven days without fear of an angry outburst from her father, a sly dig or slap from her brother. But also eleven days of worrying and wondering if the duke would send someone for the baby, and she would be powerless to stop him. Eleven days—and nights—of wondering about her new husband, about where he was, what he was doing. Eleven days of remembering that almost kiss and being filled with an odd longing and regret that it hadn’t happened. Wondering if they could be happy together and wondering when he would choose to exercise his marital rights.