A Scandalous Proposal (14 page)

“Thank God I've found you, my lord. A messenger ar
rived nearly an hour ago and set the house in an uproar. He brought you this letter.”

Evan snatched the note, broke the seal and held the candle close as he read. “Dear God,” he whispered when he'd finished, squeezing his eyes together tightly as though reeling from a blow. Folding the note with hands that now trembled, he took a deep breath.

“Have the stables ready my two fastest horses and pack me a kit. Did you tell my mother where—”

“No, my lord. I didn't tell her ladyship nobbit but that I'd find you. I figured as how you'd be either here or at the office. I tried here first.”

Evan nodded. “Good. Go, then. I'll want to leave at once.”

“Yes, my lord.” After a surreptitious glance over Evan's shoulder toward Emily, the valet disappeared.

Evan shut the door. Reaching the chair in two strides, he thrust down the candle and began gathering his clothes. Emily threw on a robe and went to assist.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked as she fastened one shirt cuff.

“Nothing. It's Richard.”

“Your friend—the one in the army?”

“Yes. The note is from a regimental surgeon. Richard's been wounded, perhaps mortally. He was evacuated with some other soldiers on a packet that made port yesterday. He told the doctors to contact me. I must go at once.”

“Of course. I'm so sorry.”

Looking up from the boot he was jamming on his foot, Evan opened his lips as if to speak, then swallowed hard instead. He nodded and picked up the other boot.

“Mistress,
está bem?
” Francesca's voice sounded from behind the door.

Emily ran to open it. “Tell Jenkins to saddle Lord Cheverley's horse at once.”

Francesca, a shawl wrapped around her nightdress, frilly nightcap askew, peered in at the frantic activity and made the sign of the cross. “
Imediatamente,
mistress.”

Emily followed Evan downstairs, helped him shrug on his overcoat. He leaned down to give her a swift, fierce kiss. “I don't know how long I'll be gone. I'll send word as soon as I can.”

“A safe journey. I'll be praying for you—and him.”

He brought her fingers to his lips briefly, squeezed them, then flung open the front door and disappeared into the night.

E
van saw lights at the windows, a groom holding horses and servants hurrying about as he approached his front door at a gallop. Tossing his reins to a stable boy, he leaped from the saddle and ran up the steps.

The entry hall held more milling servants, his weeping sister in the arms of his mother, and Andrea. Stone-faced and tearless, she stood in her riding dress, crop in one gloved hand. “I'm going with you,” she said flatly.

“Andrea, dearest, you mustn't,” his mother said over Clare's head, continuing what appeared to be a running argument. “'Tis a grueling ride, and you know Evan can proceed faster without you. Reaching Richard as quickly as possible is the most important consideration.”

“I may not walk well, but I can still ride better than Evan. Richard's my brother, the only family I have left, and I'm going.” She looked over at Evan and raised her chin. “If you won't take me, I'll ride alone.”

Evan smiled at her. “I'll take you.”

“Evan!” his mother protested, and shook her head. “Oh, very well. But I'm bringing the coach. Someone must be sensible, and we'll need a comfortable conveyance to bring him home, not some ill-sprung jarvey.”

“Then I'm coming, too!” Clare cried.

“I need you to stay and get the house ready.” She gave the tear-stained girl a shake. “You'll do that for me, won't you darling? And for Richard?”

Baines appeared at the landing, saddlebag and heavy riding boots in hand. While Evan changed boots, his mama briefly related the news they'd gleaned from the messenger: Richard and several other wounded soldiers had been carried to the Cross and Anchor, tended by the regimental surgeon who'd written Evan. And his case appeared grave.

“I've had the messenger fed and shown to bed,” his mama finished as he donned the heavy greatcoat Billingsly held out, and drew on his thickest gloves.

“Good. Fetch my cloak for Miss Marlowe, please,” he told the butler, and turned to Andrea. “We'll wrap you up in that. 'Twill be a cold ride. Thank you, Baines. Billingsly, you'll help Miss Clare prepare?”

“Of course, my lord. Godspeed to you both.”

Evan gave his mother and sister a quick kiss. “We'll see you at the inn, Mama.” He held out a hand to Andrea.

She threw her arms around him and hugged tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she took his wrist, and the two made their way to the waiting horses.

 

After a long, frigid, punishing ride, during which they stopped only to change mounts and fortify themselves with bread, meat and steaming mugs of tea, they reached the coast. Though he knew she must be exhausted by the pace—he was exhausted himself—Andrea uttered not a word of complaint. There was iron under that fragile exterior, Evan thought with admiration.

They found the well-known inn without difficulty. When Evan helped Andrea to dismount, her lame leg crumpled.

“I'll be all right,” she protested as he lifted her. “I'm just stiff from the saddle.”

“And no wonder,” he said, setting her on her feet gently. “You've been a trooper. I'm proud of you, Andy.”

She gave him a brief smile and took his arm. “Let's find Richard.”

They were directed to a small private chamber. A surgeon met them at the door. “Lord Cheverley? Thank God you've arrived! And…”

“Captain Marlowe's sister. She will come in, so there's no use telling her she can't. What can we do?”

“Not much, I'm afraid. Captain Marlowe is feverish and unconscious now, though I'm hoping he may come round. He was most insistent that he talk with you.”

“And his condition?” Evan asked.

The surgeon glanced at Andrea.

“Tell us straight out. She didn't ride all day to hear it sugarcoated.”

The surgeon shook his head. “I can't offer much hope. Quite frankly, I'm surprised he's held on this long. Better let the young lady say her goodbyes.”

He heard Andrea's quick intake of breath, and his own chest tightened. This was Richard, the best friend who'd grown to manhood with him, the man with whom he'd gambled and fished and hunted. Richard couldn't be dying.

But the gray-faced, sweat-soaked man sleeping fitfully on the bed looked more like an actor grease-painted with Richard's features than his dearest friend. Shocked, Evan halted by the bed.

Andrea, however, limped quickly over and took her brother's hand. “Richard, it's Andy. I'm here now. Everything will be all right.” Over her shoulder she called back to Evan, “Have someone bring cold water and a cloth.”

As the day dimmed and night came on, Andrea sat sponging her brother's fevered face and chest, talking, talking in her soft calm voice. The sound seemed to quiet him, for he
grew less restless. Finally, just after the candles were lit, he opened his eyes.

“Andy?” A whisper of sound.

“Yes, Richard.” She swallowed hard, and one tear spilled down her cheek as she stroked her brother's sunken cheek. “It's Andy.”

“Thirsty,” Richard croaked. Evan hastened to carefully lift him, gritting his teeth at the muffled moan of anguish even that slight movement caused his friend, while Andrea put a cup to his lips.

“Evan,” Richard said, turning his head slightly toward him after he'd lowered the soldier back to his pillow. “Good. Must…talk.”

“Rest now, Richard. We'll talk later.”

A thin, hot hand sought Evan's and gripped it. “Stay?”

“Absolutely. I'll be here every minute, and in the carriage when we take you home.”

The injured man's lips curved into a slight smile. “Home,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.

Voices sounded in the hallway outside, and a moment later Evan's mother walked in. Her eyes widened when she saw Richard, and she put a hand to her mouth as if stifling a cry. After a struggle, she seemed to master herself and walked over to Andrea. “Has she eaten or rested?” she whispered to Evan.

“Not since we arrived hours ago.”

His mother nodded, then gave Andrea a little shake. “You must have nourishment and get some sleep, my dear. We'll need you strong when we bring him home tomorrow.”

“I can't leave him.”

“You won't have to. I've directed the innkeeper to deliver a cot. But you must eat, and you'll want to freshen up. I've brought some things. Come, Evan will call us immediately if there's any change.”

Stubbornly Lady Cheverley murmured to Andrea until she
convinced her to go below for some food and fresh air. After helping her downstairs, his mother returned.

“How is he?”

Evan shook his head, unable to put the doctor's prediction into words. If he did not speak them, they could not be true.

The wounded man stirred, opened his eyes. “Evan?”

Evan bent over his friend. “Here, Richard. Another drink?”

“No. Talk.”

“Don't tire yourself. We can—”

“Now. Andrea's…letters. Never…wanted London. Shouldn't…have forced her. Take…her home. Please?”

“Of course. If she wants to go home, I'll take her.”

“So…sweet. Needs…good man. If…I die—”

“You won't die!”

“If I die…marry her. Promise.”

Evan sat silent. A scent of lavender, the whisper of a voice teased his mind.
Emily.

Richard grasped his arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Marry…her. Promise me!”

Evan swallowed hard. “I promise.”

The hold on his arm loosened. “Good.” The brief flicker of a smile passed over Richard's cracked lips. “Bless you…friend.”

His eyes closed again and a sigh shook his fevered frame, as if a great weight had been lifted.

Evan's mother, whose presence he'd totally forgotten, startled him by coming to lean over Richard.

“Is he…?” she whispered, her eyes wide with anxiety.

“No! Just sleeping.”

His mother exhaled sharply. “Thank God! I'll fetch Andrea.”

The three of them kept vigil through the night. Evan managed to coax Andrea into resting for a few hours on the pallet and persuaded his mother to take a bed in another
chamber, but true to his pledge, he remained at his friend's bedside. And as the first birds began to carol in the faint glimmerings of a new morning, with Andrea holding one hand and Evan the other, Richard's soul slipped away.

Andrea sensed it, as he did. She looked up at Evan, her expression bewildered, as if unable to comprehend such a catastrophe could actually occur. Then she laid her head on her brother's chest and for the first time since the messenger arrived, she wept.

 

As he'd promised, Evan rode back to London in the carriage beside the body of his friend, Andrea, once again stone-faced and silent, at his side. From time to time he reread a part of the letter the surgeon had given him, apparently the last Richard had written before the attack in which he was wounded.

Evan refolded the letter and gazed unseeing out the window. The fighting had been confused, one of the other wounded men told him. As usual, the riflemen of the 95th attacked first, harrying the arriving French columns, while the infantry, Brown Besses on their shoulders, waited for the enemy to come within range. But before the distance narrowed enough for the infantry to fire, the riflemen seemed to pause. Misfires were exploding all over, the soldier told Evan, many more than normal. When unexpectedly the French column wheeled and charged into them, the riflemen's fire nearly ceased. The French mowed through them like a scythe through tall grass.

Had their ammunition been defective, as the misfires seemed to indicate? Had they run short? Did Richard die because some venal public servant abused his trust, selling off the powder and shot that could have saved his life and the lives of many others fallen that day?

I will find out, Richard,
Evan vowed silently.
If that is what happened, I'll find out—and the guilty will pay.

The next two days passed in a blur. With the methodical precision for which he was justly famed, Evan notified friends and family, organized the funeral service, consulted with the solicitors and stood by a stoic Andrea as she received calls of condolence. She greeted mourners with cool calm, and only Evan knew what it cost her fragile strength to present a brave face to the world.

Evenings he spent at the office gathering every detail he could find on the ordering and shipment of ammunition for the Baker rifle, abstracting a dossier of names and contact points. The day of Richard's funeral he dispatched his friend and colleague Geoffrey Randall to Portugal with orders to quietly gather information about each man on that list. “No heroics, now,” he warned Geoffrey in a gruff attempt at humor. “Gather intelligence only. I can't afford to lose another friend.”

He had time only to send a brief message to Emily, telling her of Richard's death and promising to call as soon as possible. He drove himself to exhaustion as much to prevent himself reflecting on the implications of his new promise to Richard as to keep at bay his trenchant grief.

Andrea wished to leave London, so he must take her home. He could not depart without seeing Emily again, that also was absolute. Beyond those two constraints, he had neither leisure nor heart to think further.

A drizzly rain fell the day of the funeral, for which Evan was grateful. Brilliant blue skies and sun would have grated against the raw wound of loss. The swirling, spiraling mist
suited his mood and cloaked the ceremonies in proper solemn dignity. Though Clare broke down in his weeping mother's arms, and he wiped away tears himself, Andrea endured it all dry-eyed, shoulders squared and head erect, her attention never wavering from her brother's coffin. Among the mourners a scarlet slash of coat caught his eye, and he saw Captain Winstead beside his sister, his somber gaze fixed on Andrea.

But when they reached the town house after the service, Andrea fell going up the stairs. As Evan rushed to assist her, the enormous weight of loss finally cracked her calm. Sagging limply in his arms, she began to weep, and no comfort or soothing could reach her. She clung to him, sobbing, as he carried her to her chamber, where he held her sobbing still until at last she subsided to hiccups. As he eased her, barely conscious, onto the pillows, his mama sent him off for food and strong drink while she and her maid stripped Andrea and put her to bed.

Though the food was tasteless in his mouth, he appreciated the sharp, warming bite of the port. A bottle Richard had brought back on his last leave, he remembered with another raw wave of pain. An urgent, desperate desire to be with Emily swept through him, to apply the healing salve of her passion and nearness to the ragged gash Richard's death had ripped in his life. Though he needed sleep, and a shave, he could wait no longer.