Hesslewhite had been chosen because of its proximity to the Valentine home, and so after only ninety minutes in the carriage, they turned onto the drive and began the last short stretch.
“The trees are certainly well leafed this year,” Aunt Anna remarked. “Your mother’s roses are doing well, I trust.”
Harry nodded absently, trying to gauge the time. Was it still late afternoon, or had the day made its way into early evening? If it was the latter, he’d have to invite them in for supper. He’d have to invite them in in any case; Aunt Anna would want to say hello to her sister. But if it was late afternoon, they’d expect only tea, which would mean they could be in and out without a glimpse of his father.
Supper was a different story. Sir Lionel always insisted upon dressing for supper. It was, he liked to say, the mark of a gentleman. And no matter how small their dinner party (just Sir Lionel, Lady Valentine, and whichever of their children were in residence, 99 percent of the time), he liked to play the host. Which generally meant quite a lot of storytelling and bon mots, except that Sir Lionel tended to forget the middle bits of the stories, and his “mots” weren’t terribly “bon.”
Which in turn meant quite a lot of pained silence on the part of his family, who spent most of the supper pretending they didn’t notice when the gravy boat was knocked over, or when Sir Lionel’s wineglass was refilled.
Again.
And again.
And then, of course, again.
No one ever told him to stop. What was the point? Sir Lionel knew he drank too much. Harry had lost track of the number of times his father had turned to him and sobbed, “I’m thorry, I’m tho, tho thorry. Don’t mean to be a trouble. You’re a good boy, Harry.”
But it never made a difference. Whatever it was that drove Sir Lionel to drink, it was far more powerful than any guilt or regret he might muster to stop it. Sir Lionel was not in denial about the extent of his affliction. He was, however, completely powerless to do anything about it.
As was Harry. Short of tying his father to his bed, which he was not prepared to do. So instead he never invited friends home, he avoided being in the house at suppertime, and, now that school was done, he counted the days until he could depart for university.
But first he had to make it through the summer. He hopped down from the carriage when they came to a stop in the front drive, then held up his hand to aid his aunt. Sebastian followed, and together the three of them made their way to the drawing room, where Katarina was pecking at her needlepoint.
“Anna!” she said, looking as if she might rise to her feet (but not quite doing so). “What a lovely surprise!”
Anna leaned down to embrace her, then took a seat opposite. “I thought I would give Harry a ride home from school.”
“Oh, is the term finished, then?” Katarina murmured.
Harry gave a tight smile. He supposed he deserved the blame for her ignorance, as he had neglected to tell her that school was done, but really, shouldn’t a mother keep up on such details?
“Sebastian,” Katarina said, turning to her nephew. “You’ve grown.”
“It happens,” Sebastian quipped, flashing her his usual lopsided grin.
“Goodness,” she said with smile, “you’ll be a danger to the ladies soon.”
Harry very nearly rolled his eyes. Sebastian had already made conquests of nearly all the girls in the village near Hesslewhite. He must give off some sort of scent, because the females positively fell at his feet.
It would have been appalling, except that the girls couldn’t all dance with Sebastian. And Harry was more than happy to be the nearest man standing when the smoke cleared.
“There won’t be time for that,” Anna said briskly. “I have purchased a commission for him. He departs in a month.”
“You shall be in the army?” Katarina said, turning to her nephew with surprise. “How grand.”
Sebastian shrugged.
“Surely you knew, Mother,” Harry said. Sebastian’s future had been decided several months earlier. Aunt Anna had been fretting that he needed a male influence ever since his father had died. And since Sebastian wasn’t likely to come into a title or a fortune, it was understood that he’d have to make his own way in the world.
No one, not even Sebastian’s mother, who thought the sun rose and set on her boy, had even suggested he consider the clergy.
Sebastian wasn’t overly excited about the prospect of spending the next decade or so fighting Napoleon, but as he’d said to Harry—what else could he do? His uncle, the Earl of Newbury, detested him and had made it clear that Sebastian could expect no perks, monetary or otherwise, from that connection.
“Maybe he’ll die,” Harry had suggested, with all the sensitivity and tact of a nineteen-year-old boy.
But then again, it was difficult to offend Sebastian, especially when it concerned his uncle. Or his uncle’s only son, the heir to Newbury. “My cousin’s even worse,” Sebastian replied. “Tried to give me the cut direct in London.”
Harry felt his brows rise with shock. It was one thing to abhor a family member; it was quite another to attempt public humiliation. “What did you do?”
Sebastian’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Seduced the girl he wanted to marry.”
Harry gave him a look that said he did not believe him for a second.
“Oh, very well,” Sebastian relented, “but I did seduce the girl at the pub he had his eye on.”
“And the girl he wants to marry?”
“Doesn’t want to marry him any longer!” Sebastian chortled.
“Good Lord, Seb, what did you do?”
“Oh, nothing permanent. Even I’m not foolish enough to tamper with the daughter of an earl. I just…turned her head, that’s all.”
But as his mother had pointed out, Sebastian wouldn’t have much opportunity for any sort of amorous efforts, not with a life in the army awaiting him. Harry had tried not to think about his departure; Seb was the only person in the world he trusted, completely and absolutely.
He was the only person who had never let Harry down.
It all made sense, really. Sebastian wasn’t stupid—quite the opposite, actually—but he wasn’t suited to academic life. The army was a much better choice for him. But still, as Harry sat there in the drawing room, uncomfortable in the too-small Egyptian chair, he couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for himself. And selfish. He’d rather Sebastian went to university with him, even if it wasn’t the best thing for Sebastian.
“What color shall your uniform be?” Katarina asked.
“Dark blue, I should think,” Sebastian answered politely.
“Oh, you shall look smashing in blue. Don’t you think so, Anna?”
Anna nodded, and Katarina added, “As would you, Harry. Perhaps we should buy you a commission as well.”
Harry blinked in surprise. The army had never been discussed as a part of his future. He was the eldest, due to inherit the house, the baronetcy, and whatever monies his father didn’t drink before his death. He was not supposed to be put in harm’s way.
And besides that, he was one of the few boys at Hesslewhite who actually liked studying. He’d been dubbed “the professor” and hadn’t minded. What was his mother thinking? Did she even know him? Was she suggesting he join the army to improve his sense of fashion?
“Eh, Harry couldn’t be a soldier,” Sebastian said wickedly. “He can’t hit a target at close range.”
“That is not true,” Harry shot back. “I’m not as good as he,” he said with a jerk of his head toward Seb, “but I’m better than everyone else.”
“Are you a good shot, then, Sebastian?” Katarina asked.
“The best.”
“He’s also exceptionally modest,” Harry muttered. But it was true. Sebastian was a freakishly outstanding shot, and the army would be thrilled to have him, so long as they managed to keep him from seducing the whole of Portugal.
The half of Portugal, that was. The female hal
f.
“Why don’t you take a commission?” Katarina asked.
Harry turned to his mother, trying to read her face, trying to read her. She was always so maddeningly blank, as if the years had slowly washed away everything that had given her character, that had allowed her to feel. She had no opinions, his mother. She let life swirl around her, and she sat through it all, seemingly uninterested in any of it.
“I think you would like the army,” she said quietly, and he thought—Had she ever made such a pronouncement? Had she ever offered an opinion as to his future, his well-being?
Had she only been waiting for the right time?
She smiled the way she always did—with a tiny sigh, as if the effort was almost too much. “You would look splendid in blue.” And then she turned back to Anna. “Don’t you think?”
Harry opened his mouth, to say—well, to say something. As soon as he figured out what. He had not planned on the army. He was to go to university. He’d earned a spot at Pembroke College, in Oxford. He thought he might study Russian. He’d not used the language much since Grandmère had died. His mother spoke it, but they rarely had complete conversations in English, much less Russian.
Damn, but Harry missed his grandmother. She wasn’t always right, and she wasn’t even always nice, but she was entertaining. And she’d loved him.
What would she have wanted him to do? Harry wasn’t sure. She would certainly have approved of Harry going to university if it meant that he would spend his days immersed in Russian literature. But she’d also held the military in extremely high regard and had openly mocked Harry’s father for never serving his country.
Of course, she had openly mocked Harry’s father for any number of things.
“You should consider it, Harry,” Anna pronounced. “I am certain Sebastian would be grateful for your company.”
Harry shot a desperate look at Sebastian. Surely he would understand Harry’s distress. What were they thinking? That he might wish to make such a decision over tea? That he might bite into his biscuit, consider the matter for a brief moment and decide that yes, dark blue was a splendid color for a uniform.
But Sebastian just did that tiny one-shoulder shrug of his, the one that said: What can I say? The world is a foolish place.
Harry’s mother lifted her teacup to her lips, but if she took a sip, it was undetectable by the tilt of the china. And then, as her cup descended toward its saucer, she closed her eyes.
It was just a blink, really, just a slightly longer than normal blink, but Harry knew what it meant. She heard footsteps. His father’s footsteps. She always heard him before anyone else. Maybe it was the years of practice, of living in the same house, if not precisely in the same world. Her ability to pretend that her life was something other than it was had been developed right alongside her ability to anticipate her husband’s whereabouts at all possible moments.
It was far easier to ignore what one did not actually see.
“Anna!” Sir Lionel exclaimed, appearing in, and then leaning against, the doorway. “And Sebastian. What a fine surprise. How’re you doing, m’boy?”
“Very well, sir,” Sebastian replied.
Harry watched his father enter the room. It was hard to tell yet just how far along he was. His gait was not unsteady, but there was a certain swing to his arms that Harry did not like.
“S’good to see you, Harry,” Sir Lionel said, giving his son a brief tap on the arm before making his way to the credenza. “School’s done, then?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said.
Sir Lionel splashed something into a glass—Harry was too far away to determine precisely what—then turned to Sebastian with a sloppy grin. “How old r’ you, now, Sebastian?” he asked.
“Nineteen, sir.”
The same as Harry. They were only a month apart. He was always the same as Harry.
“Are you serving him tea, Katy?” Sir Lionel said to his wife. “What are you thinking? He’s a man now.”
“The tea is quite adequate, Father,” Harry said sharply.
Sir Lionel turned to him with a blink of surprise, almost as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Harry, m’boy. It’s good to see you.”
Harry’s lips tightened, then pressed together. “It is good to see you, too, Father.”
Sir Lionel took a hearty swallow of his drink. “Is the term finished, then?”
Harry gave a nod, along with his customary, “Yes, sir.”
Sir Lionel frowned, then drank again. “You’re done, though. Aren’t you? I received a notice from Pembroke College about your matriculation.” He frowned again, then blinked a few times, then shrugged. “Didn’t realize you’d applied.” And then, as an afterthought: “Well done.”
“I’m not going.”
The words emerged from Harry’s mouth in a quick tumble of surprise. What was he saying? Of course he was going to Pembroke College. It was what he’d wanted. What he’d always wanted. He liked studying. He liked books. He liked numbers. He liked sitting in a library, even when the sun was shining and Sebastian was yanking him out for rugby. (Sebastian always won this battle; there was little-enough sun in the south of England, and one really did have to get out when one could. Not to mention that Sebastian was fiendishly persuasive, about all things.)
There could not be a boy in England better suited for life at university. And yet—
“I’m joining the army.”
Again the words came forth, no conscious thought involved. Harry wondered what he was saying. He wondered why he was saying it.
“With Sebastian?” Aunt Anna asked.
Harry nodded. “Someone’s got to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”
Sebastian gave him a dry look at the insult, but he was clearly too pleased by the turn of events to make a retort. He’d always been ambivalent about a future in the military; Harry knew that, for all his bravado, he’d be relieved to have his cousin along with him.
“You can’t go to war,” Sir Lionel said. “You are my heir.”
Everyone in the room—all four of them his relations—turned to the baronet with varying degrees of surprise. It was, quite possibly, the only sensible thing he’d said in years.
“You have Edward,” Harry said bluntly.
Sir Lionel drank, blinked, and shrugged. “Well, that’s true.”
It was more or less what Harry would have expected him to say, and yet deep in his belly he felt a nagging pit of disappointment. And resentment.
And hurt.
“A toast to Harry!” Sir Lionel said jovially, lifting his glass. He did not seem to notice that no one else was joining him. “Godspeed, m’son.” He tipped back his glass, only then realizing that he had not recently refilled. “Well, damn it,” he muttered. “That’s awkward.”
Harry felt himself slumping in his chair. And at the same time, his feet began to feel itchy, as if they were ready move forward. To run.
“When do you leave?” Sir Lionel asked, happily replenished.
Harry looked at Sebastian, who immediately spoke up. “I must report next week.”
“Then it shall be the same for me,” Harry said to his father. “I shall need the funds for the commission, of course.”
“Of course,” Sir Lionel said, responding instinctively to the tone of command in Harry’s voice. “Well.” He looked down at his feet, then over at his wife.
She was staring out the window.
“Jolly fine to see you all,” Sir Lionel said. He plunked down his glass and ambled over to the door, losing his footing only once.
Harry watched him depart, feeling strangely detached from the scene. He’d imagined this before, of course. Not the going into the army, but the leaving. He’d always supposed that he’d head off to university in the usual fashion, packing his things into the family carriage and rolling away. But his imagination had indulged in all sorts of dramatic exits—everything from wild gesticulations to ice-cold stares. His favorites involved flinging bottles against
the wall. The expensive ones. The ones smuggled in from France. Would his father still support the Frogs with his illegal purchases, now that his son was facing them down on the battlefield?
Harry stared at the empty doorway. It didn’t matter, did it? He was done here.
He was done. With this place, with this family, with all those nights steering his father into bed, placing him carefully on his side so that if he did vomit again, at least he wouldn’t choke on it.
He was done.
Done.
But it felt so hollow, so quiet. His departure was marked by…nothing.
And it would take him years to realize that he’d been cheated.
Chapter One
They say he killed his first wife.”
It was enough to make Lady Olivia Bevelstoke cease stirring her tea. “Who?” she asked, since the truth was, she hadn’t been listening.
“Sir Harry Valentine. Your new neighbor.”
Olivia took a hard look at Anne Buxton, and then at Mary Cadogan, who was nodding her head in agreement. “You must be joking,” she said, although she knew quite well that Anne would never joke about something like that. Gossip was her lifeblood.
“No, he really is your new neighbor,” put in Philomena Waincliff.
Olivia took a sip of her tea, mostly so that she would have time to keep her face free of its desired expression, which was a cross between unabashed exasperation and disbelief. “I meant that she must be joking that he killed someone,” she said, with more patience than she was generally given credit for.
“Oh.” Philomena picked up a biscuit. “Sorry.”
“I know I heard that he killed his fiancée,” Anne insisted.
“If he killed someone, he’d be in gaol,” Olivia pointed out.
“Not if they couldn’t prove it.”
Olivia glanced slightly toward her left, where, through a thick stone wall, ten feet of fresh springtime air, and another thick wall, this one of brick, Sir Harry Valentine’s newly leased home sat directly to the south of hers.
The other three girls followed her direction, which made Olivia feel quite foolish, as now they were all staring at a perfectly blank spot on the drawing-room wall. “He didn’t kill anyone,” she said firmly.