Claiming the Forbidden Bride (11 page)

‘B
elieve me, Rhys, I should like to help you,' Robert Veryan, Lord Keddinton said, ‘if for no other reason than the normal expectations of our relationship and my friendship with your father. Your commendations and service record, however, take precedence even over those.'

The ladies had finally departed, leaving the two of them alone in the vast dining room of Warrenford Park, the viscount's country estate. Keddinton's daughters, who had flirted with Rhys quite openly, had resisted all their mother's efforts to shepherd them away.

Although he had been waiting for this meeting with his godfather through the long months of his convalescence, Rhys had concealed his impatience and answered their endless questions about his adventures in Iberia. In the course of that conversation, the girls had let slip something Rhys had not been aware of. Apparently the crown, grateful for Keddinton's valuable, if clandestine, activities during the war, intended to reward him shortly with an earldom. Which should, he thought, bode well for the success of his mission.

‘Thank you, sir. For considering both.'

‘You must understand, however,' Keddinton went on, swirling the dregs of his brandy, ‘that the capital is flooded with ex-soldiers, all of whom believe they have the same expertise to offer. And many of them have connections that, quite frankly, trump any you might claim.'

Since Keddinton was Rhys's only connection to any seat of power, he realized he'd been counting too heavily on his godfather's help. It wasn't that he believed Keddinton lacked the influence to secure him a position. It seemed that, for whatever reason, he wasn't inclined to do so.

‘I quite understand,' Rhys said, attempting to mitigate the embarrassment of having asked for a favour that the man had no desire to grant. ‘I appreciate your time in hearing me out.'

‘Go home, my boy. Help Edward with the responsibilities of running the estate. You've sacrificed more than enough in the service of your country.'

‘I've never considered my service to be a sacrifice. It's all I've ever wanted to do.'

‘England's been at war for almost a dozen years. You've known nothing else your adult life. It's time to enjoy the fruits of your labour, Rhys. Particularly the blessed fruits of peace, which has accrued to all of us because of the sacrifices made by you and others of your generation. Now it's up to my generation to secure a lasting peace in Vienna, so that your children and grandchildren won't be called upon to put down another tyrant.'

‘And that's exactly the task I should like to help with. Believe me, sir, I would consider no post beneath me.'

‘Don't undervalue your gifts, Rhys. I can't see you as someone's undersecretary or clerk. You're too fine a man for that. And too valuable to your family. Go home. Enjoy what you've helped to secure. Your father would have wished that for you, I'm sure.'

‘Thank you, sir.' Rhys lowered his eyes, afraid his host would read the bitter disappointment in them.

He was vain enough to wonder, at least briefly, if Edward, acting behind his back, had urged Keddinton to take this tack.

And why should he have done that? Edward doesn't need my help anymore than England apparently does.

‘I know you're disappointed,' Keddinton said kindly, ‘but believe me, this is for the best.'

‘I'm sure you're right,' Rhys agreed, lifting his own glass to drain it.

‘Now tell me more about the accident you suffered on your journey here,' Keddinton urged. A change of subject they probably both welcomed.

‘A minor mishap,' Rhys said. ‘Unfortunately, it coincided with a recurrence of the relapsing fever I contracted on the Continent, delaying my arrival. I apologize for the inconvenience that may have caused you.'

‘No inconvenience at all. I only wish your note had provided more information about your location. Our local man is quite renowned for his skills. As a matter of fact, you should let him take a look at that shoulder while you're here.'

‘It's much improved, thank you.'

If there was anything Rhys desired less now than having another sawbones prodding about among his wounds, he couldn't think what it might be. He knew he would judge any other ‘healer' by a standard that had been set impossibly high.

‘And the fever?'

‘Successfully treated with bark from a tree in Peru.'

‘Indeed. I shall ask Dr Jennings if he's familiar with the remedy the next time I see him. Who did you say dosed you?'

Rhys hadn't said, but with the heady effects of the
brandy he'd just downed, he could see no reason not to. ‘A Gypsy healer.'

‘How did you come to be involved with the Rom?'

‘It's a long story.'

His godfather had already informed Rhys upon his arrival that he was off to London on the morrow. Although the conference in Vienna had cut into the normal autumn activities in town, his daughters had begged to be taken to the capital, and their indulgent father had agreed.

Despite his impending journey, Keddinton signalled the hovering butler to pour out another measure for each of them. After the servant replaced the bottle on the sideboard, the viscount said, ‘That will be all, Simmons. I shall call you if we need anything more.'

As soon as the door closed behind him, Keddinton smiled at Rhys. ‘Believe it or not, I knew a Gypsy girl once. More given to curses than healing, I'm afraid. I should be very interested to hear your story. And if it takes a while, we can always call Simmons back for another round.'

It seemed the brandy had mellowed his godfather's mood. Although Rhys refused to allow himself to hope, he raised his glass in a small salute to the older man's request.

‘No curses involved in this. Actually, it all started with the most bucolic of scenes—a small fair-haired child running across a country meadow.'

 

After Rhys finished his tale, their talk had ranged on for another hour or so, touching on a variety of topics. Keddinton attempted to catch him up on the current affairs of his father's boyhood friends, most of whom represented to Rhys nothing more than a vaguely remembered name.

Despite their advantages of birth and wealth, few of them, it seemed, had reached the heights to which the viscount
himself had climbed. Despite having refused Rhys's request, Keddinton didn't hesitate to refer to those in power with whom he enjoyed a deep and abiding friendship.

‘Come up to town with me tomorrow, and I'll introduce you to him,' he said of one such acquaintance. ‘Actually, I've been invited to a soirée at Fairmont's townhouse on Friday night. I'm sure you'd be welcome.'

‘I thank you, sir, but perhaps you're right. I should go home and offer Edward my services—belated though that offer might be.'

‘I'm certain your brother wouldn't begrudge you some small entertainment before you settle down.'

The offer was tempting. Besides, what could it possibly matter if Rhys delayed his return a few more days?

Even a few weeks, he admitted. His brother and sister-in-law would probably be glad to have their home restored solely to themselves. If only temporarily.

Which brought up the larger question. The proposed trip to London would only delay the evitable: a return to his brother's estate and his brother's largess.

Rhys would, no doubt, be given things to oversee, which he would, of course, carry out to the best of his ability. And both of them would know, but never admit openly, that those duties could have been done more efficiently by any of the extremely competent people his brother already employed.

‘What say you?' Keddinton's thin lips were curved into a smile, his greying brows raised questioningly.

Why not?
Rhys thought. Better that than the prospect of what lay ahead.

And far, far better than dwelling on the events of the last two weeks.

‘If you're sure it won't inconvenience you.'

Keddinton's smile widened, although it never seemed to
reach his eyes. ‘I should be delighted to have you accompany me. Do you a world of good, too, I should think. I'll write Fairmont and tell him of our plans before I go up to bed.'

 

The days since the raid had been exhausting, but Nadya had welcomed their demands. They helped fill the void she refused to acknowledge, even to herself. Instead she sought ways in which she could help those members of the
kumpania
whose lives had been disrupted by that night's horror. In doing so, she sought to atone for the nagging sense of responsibility she felt about what had happened to them.

After Rhys left, Andrash had come to her to warn her that she should be on her guard. He'd told her that the men who'd beaten him that night had been asking for the
drabarni
. The smith was concerned enough about the possibility they might return that he set up his new tent beside her
vardo
.

While downplaying any threat to herself, Nadya admitted to a sense of relief that he was there. She had no idea why she might have been a target for the raiders' anger, but Andrash's story, added to what the Englishman had said when he found her, argued that might be the case.

As she tried to think of anything she could have done to incur the villagers' ire, her greatest fear was that Rhys's speculation had been correct. That what had happened was in some way connected to her daughter.

Although Stephano had left the day after Rhys, having him in camp, even if for only a few hours, seemed to have set Angel's world back on its axis. Although the little girl still didn't want to let her mother out of her sight, she was at least willing to communicate her fears. And thankfully, her eyes were no longer filled with terrifying memories—both old and new.

In short, life was returning to normal. The move to a new
encampment, although forced and traumatic, had been no real inconvenience, considering the
kumpania's
normal nomadic existence. Most of the possessions that had been damaged or destroyed in the raid had been repaired or replaced. Their injuries were healing, even those of the spirit.

Why then did her life feel so empty?

It wasn't that Nadya didn't know the answer. It was that, in knowing, she had no remedy for it. In all her store of medicines, with her grandmother's legacy of wisdom about healing, there was nothing that could cure the sense of grief and loss she felt.

The loss of a thing that had never belonged to her. And never could.

Once she had foolishly believed she possessed everything she could ever desire. Then fate, that fickle deceiver Magda was always talking about, had mocked her arrogance by showing her something she'd never even dreamed of, before snatching it away to place it forever out of her reach.

 

The tailor his godfather directed him to was located on Old Bond Street and, Rhys decided from the look of the clothing displayed in the bow window, apt to be costlier than either he or Edward had anticipated. He hated to offend Keddinton, however, by not taking his advice in the matter.

As he stood before the shop, weighing the unaccustomed dilemma, a hand fell heavily on his good shoulder. ‘Too rich by far for the likes of you. They're cutting cloth for broken-down half-pay officers a bit farther down the street.'

He turned to find Reginald Estes, late of His Majesty's service, standing behind him. Reggie's round face under its thatch of unruly red hair was wreathed in a smile that left no doubt about his delight in running into a former comrade-in-arms.

‘Is that where you got your coat, Reggie? If so, I shall try my luck inside.' Laughing, Rhys slapped the former lieutenant on the back.

The bottle-green creation Estes wore might be the latest fashion for all he knew, but if so, neither Keddinton nor his brother had yet adopted the style. However, the intricately tied cravat at its neck was, Rhys acknowledged, very nearly a work of art, and the cream pantaloons fit his friend without a wrinkle. Reggie's valet must be a talented man to have turned the usually slovenly ex-soldier out so well.

‘Oh, no doubt Weston's the best. You won't go wrong here if you're after something your grandfather might wear. 'Course, the bastard's a bit touchy when it comes to paying one's bill. Weston, that is. Not your grandfather. Never met your grandfather that I recall.'

‘Since he's been dead for twenty years, you're unlikely to. I will say, however, that he was always well-dressed.'

The good-natured jibing that had been so familiar to Rhys during his days in the Army was welcome after the gloom and doom of the past few months. It seemed a burden that he hadn't been aware he carried had been lifted by Reggie's silliness.

‘What are you doing in town, you old cod?' Reggie asked, clapping him on the back in return. ‘Besides seeing to your deplorable wardrobe.'

‘Spending a few days with my godfather. He suggested this place.'

‘Probably ashamed to take you about in your present state. Come on. I'll introduce you. Dressed like that, you'll need someone reputable to vouch for you.'

 

During the next two hours, Rhys found himself committed to purchasing a vast array of garments he was assured
were the absolute minimum any gentleman might require. Even a gentleman, Weston's helper said with a slight sniff, who planned to live quietly in the country.

Rhys couldn't argue with the quality of the fabrics he was shown. Although he avoided the plum superfine Reggie swore was ‘all the go,' he was more than pleased with his final selections.

The tailor made no comment about his injury as he expertly pinned the material to hide the slight difference between the height of the damaged left shoulder and the right. Considering the number of ex-combatants returning to England during the last few months, the man had probably seen much worse. Or so Rhys told himself as he was finally permitted to don his own clothing once more.