Not likely.
Stubbs walked over to his desk and opened a drawer. “I have his ring.”
Edward watched as he carefully removed a box, opened that, and then pulled out a signet ring.
Stubbs held it out. “I thought his family would want this.”
Edward stared at the gold circle that was dropped into his palm. Truth be told, he didn’t recognize it. He’d never looked closely at Thomas’s signet ring. But he knew that Cecilia would know it.
It would break her heart.
Stubbs cleared his throat. “What will you tell your wife?”
His wife. There was that word again. Goddamn it. She wasn’t his wife. He didn’t know what she was, but she wasn’t his wife.
“Rokesby?”
He looked up. There would be time to make sense of Cecilia’s dishonesty later. For now, he would search his soul for a little kindness and allow her to grieve for her brother before confronting her with her lies.
Edward took a breath and looked the colonel squarely in the eye as he said, “I will tell her that her brother died a hero. I will tell her that you regret that you were unable to tell her the truth when she first asked due to the secretive nature of his extraordinarily important work.” He took a step toward the colonel, and then another. “I will tell her that you plan to speak with her directly, to apologize for the pain you have wrought upon her, and to personally give to her any and all posthumous honors he received.”
“There were no—”
“Make them up,” Edward snapped.
The colonel’s eyes held his for several seconds before he said, “I will make the arrangements for a medal.”
Edward nodded his assent and headed for the door.
But the colonel’s voice stopped him. “Are you sure you wish to lie to her?”
Edward turned slowly around. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t feel like I know much anymore,” Stubbs said with a sigh, “but I know marriage. You don’t want to start it off with a lie.”
“Really.”
The colonel looked at him with an odd speculation. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Captain Rokesby?”
Edward pushed the door open and walked out, at least three steps past the colonel’s earshot before muttering, “You have no bloody idea.”
Chapter 16
I have not heard from you in so long. I try not to worry, but it is difficult.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas
When Edward did not return by nine, Cecilia grew curious.
When he did not return by half past, her curiosity gave way to concern.
And at ten, when the bells of the nearby church tolled far too loud, she picked up his note again, just to make sure she had not misread it the first time.
Gone to fetch breakfast. I shall return before you awaken.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. It was hard to see how one could misread that.
She began to wonder if he was stuck downstairs, waylaid by a fellow officer. It happened all the time. Everyone seemed to know him, and most wished to congratulate him on his recent safe return. Soldiers could be a garrulous lot, especially when they were bored. And everyone seemed bored these days, although most were quick to point out that it was preferable to fighting.
So Cecilia headed down to the front room of the Devil’s Head, fully prepared to extricate Edward from an unwanted conversation. She’d remind him of their “very important appointment,” and then maybe they’d go back upstairs . . .
But he wasn’t in the front room. Nor the rear.
I shall return before you awaken.
Clearly something was amiss. Edward always woke up before she did, but she was no slugabed. He knew that. She was always dressed and ready for breakfast by half eight.
She had half a mind to go out looking for him, but she just knew that if she did, he’d return five minutes after she left, and he’d go out looking for her, and they’d spend the whole morning not quite crossing paths.
So she waited.
“You’re off to a late start this morning,” the innkeeper said when he saw her standing about indecisively. “Nothing to eat for you?”
“No, thank you. My husband’s getting—” She frowned. “Have you seen Captain Rokesby this morning?”
“Not for several hours, ma’am. Bid me good morning and then headed out. Looked right happy, he did.” The innkeeper gave her a lopsided grin as he wiped out a tankard. “He was whistling.”
It said something of Cecilia’s level of distraction that she couldn’t even manage a tinge of embarrassment over that. She glanced toward the street-facing window, not that one could make out anything other than a few blobby shapes through the warped glass. “I expected him back some time ago,” she said, almost to herself.
The innkeeper shrugged. “He’ll be back soon, you’ll see. In the meantime, are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“Quite, but thank you. I—”
The front door made its customary groan as someone pushed it open, and Cecilia whirled around, certain that it must be Edward.
Except it wasn’t.
“Captain Montby,” she said with a small curtsy, recognizing the young officer who had given up his room for her the previous week. He’d gone away for a few days and then come back and was now bunking with another soldier. She had thanked him several times for his generosity, but he always insisted that it was his honor and duty as a gentleman. And anyway, half a room at the Devil’s Head was better than most British soldiers got for sleeping quarters.
“Mrs. Rokesby,” he returned in greeting. He bowed his chin, then followed this with a smile. “A fine morning to you. Are you off to join your husband?”
Cecilia snapped to attention. “Do you know where he is?”
Captain Montby made a somewhat directionless nod over his shoulder. “I just saw him over at the Fraunces Tavern.”
“What?”
She must have sounded shrill because Captain Montby drew back an inch or so before saying, “Er, yes. I only spied him across the room, but I was fairly certain it was he.”
“At the Fraunces? You’re sure?”
“I believe so,” the captain said, his words taking on the wary tone of one who does not wish to get involved in a domestic dispute.
“Was he with someone?”
“Not when I saw him.”
Cecilia’s lips pressed into a firm line as she headed for the door, pausing only to thank Captain Montby for his help. She couldn’t imagine what Edward was doing over at the Fraunces. Even if he’d gone there to fetch breakfast (which made absolutely no sense, since they served the exact same fare as the Devil’s Head), surely he’d be back by now.
With an extremely cold meal.
And he was alone. Which meant that—well, frankly she didn’t know what that meant.
She wasn’t angry with him, she told herself. He had every right to go where he pleased. It was just that he’d said he was coming back. If she’d known that he wasn’t, she might have made other plans.
Just what those other plans might be, since she was stuck on a strange continent where she knew almost no one, she wasn’t sure. But that wasn’t the point.
The Fraunces was not far from the Devil’s Head—all the local taverns were relatively close together—so it took only about five minutes in the rapidly brightening sun for Cecilia to reach her destination.
She pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim and smoky light of the tavern. A few blinks cleared her vision, and sure enough, there was Edward sitting at a table on the far side of the room.
Alone.
Some of the fire that had been fueling her steps slid out of her, and she paused, taking in the scene. Something wasn’t right.
His posture was off. He was slouching in his chair—which he never did in public, no matter how tired he was—and his hand—the one she could see from her vantag
e point—was bent almost into a claw. If his nails were not so neatly trimmed, he would have left gouge marks in the wood of the table.
An empty glass sat in front of him.
She took a hesitant step forward. Had he been drinking? It certainly looked like it, although again, this would be highly out of character. It wasn’t even noon.
Cecilia’s heart slowed . . . then pounded, and the air around her grew thick and heavy with dread.
There were two things that could render Edward so altered. Two things that could make him forget that he’d promised to return to the room they shared at the Devil’s Head.
Either he’d regained his memory . . .
Or Thomas was dead.
Edward hadn’t meant to get drunk.
He’d left Colonel Stubbs’s office in a fury, but by the time he exited to the street, it was gone, replaced by . . . nothing.
He was empty.
Numb.
Thomas was dead. Cecilia was a liar.
And he was a damned fool.
He stood there, stock-still and staring sightlessly into space in front of the building that housed the headquarters of so many of the top British officers. He didn’t know where to go. Not back to the Devil’s Head; he was not ready to face her.
God above, he didn’t even want to think about that right now. Maybe . . . maybe she’d had a good reason for lying to him, but he just . . . He just . . .
He drew in a long choke of breath.
She’d had so many opportunities to tell him the truth, so many moments when she could have broken the quiet with a soft mention of his name. She could have told him she’d lied, and she could have told him why, and bloody hell, he would probably have forgiven her because he was so damned in love with her he would have pulled the moon from the sky to make her happy.
He’d thought she was his wife.
He thought he’d pledged to honor and protect her.
Instead, he was the worst sort of reprobate, a true beau-nasty. It mattered not that he’d thought they were married. He’d still slept with an unmarried virgin. Worse, she was the sister of his closest friend.
He’d have to marry her now, of course. Maybe that had been her plan all along. Except that this was Cecilia, and he thought he knew her. Before he’d even met her he thought he knew her.
He swiped his hand across his brow, his fingers and thumbs settling into place at the indentations of his temples. His head hurt. He squeezed hard against the pain, but it did nothing. Because when he finally managed to push Cecilia out of his mind, all that was left was her brother.
Thomas was dead, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about how no one would ever know exactly what had happened, about how he’d died among strangers, under suspicion of treason. He couldn’t stop thinking about how his friend had taken a shot to the gut. It was a terrible death . . . slow, agonizingly painful.
And he couldn’t stop thinking about how he would have to lie to Cecilia. Tell her it was something less gruesome. Something quick and painless.
Heroic.
The irony was not lost on him. It was his turn to lie to her.
But he knew that it was his responsibility to inform her of Thomas’s death. No matter how angry he was with her—and truth be told, he didn’t know what he felt just then—Thomas had been his closest friend. Even if Edward had never met Cecilia Harcourt, he would have traveled to Derbyshire just to deliver her brother’s ring into her hands.
But he wasn’t ready to see her yet. He wasn’t ready to see anything other than the bottom of another glass of brandy. Or wine. Or even just water, so long as he was having it alone.
So he went to the Fraunces Tavern, where he’d be far less likely to see a friend than at the Devil’s Head. They didn’t do a brisk business in the morning. A man could sit with his back to the room and if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to say a word for hours.
When he got there, the barkeep took one look at him and silently handed him a drink. Edward wasn’t even sure what it was. Something homemade, maybe illegal, definitely strong.
He had another.
And he sat there in the back corner all morning long. Every now and then someone would come and replace his glass. At some point a maid set a slice of crusty bread in front of him, presumably to soak up the spirits. He tried a bite. It sank in his stomach like a rock.
He went back to his drink.
But try as he might, he could not seem to intoxicate himself to the point of oblivion. He could not even make himself forget. It didn’t seem to matter how many times his glass was refilled. He’d close his eyes in a long, heavy blink, thinking that this time everything would go black or even just gray, and maybe Thomas would still be dead, but he at least wouldn’t be thinking about that. Cecilia would still be a liar, but he wouldn’t be thinking about that, either.
But it didn’t work. He could never be that lucky.
Then she arrived.
He didn’t even need to look up to know it was she when the front door opened and a bright slash of light fell across the room. He felt it in the air, in the dank, saturnine knowledge that this was the worst day of his life. And it wasn’t going to get any better.
He looked up.
She was standing by the door, close enough to a window so that the filtered sunlight touched upon her hair like a halo.
It figured she’d look like an angel.
He’d thought she was his angel.
She didn’t move for several seconds. He knew he should stand, but he thought the alcohol might finally be catching up with him, and he didn’t quite trust his balance.
Or his judgment. If he stood, he might walk to her. And if he walked to her, he might take her in his arms.
He’d regret that. Later today, when he was thinking more clearly, he would regret it.
She took a wary step toward him, and then another. He saw her lips form his name, but he heard nothing. Whether it was because she made no noise or he just didn’t want to hear, he’d never know, but he could see in her eyes that she knew something was wrong.
He reached into his pocket.
“What happened?” She was closer now. He had no choice but to hear her.
He pulled out the ring and set it on the table.
Her eyes followed his motions, and at first she did not seem to grasp the significance. Then she reached out with one trembling hand and took the ring within her fingers, bringing it to her face for a closer inspection.
“No,” she whispered.
He remained silent.
“No. No. This can’t be his. It’s not so unique. This could belong to anyone.” She set the ring back on the table as if it had burned her skin. “That’s not his. Tell me that’s not his.”
“I’m sorry,” Edward said.
Cecilia kept shaking her head. “No,” she said again, except this time she sounded like a wounded animal.
“It’s his, Cecilia,” Edward said. He did not move to comfort her. He should have. He would have, if he did not feel so dead inside himself.
“Where did you get it?”
“Colonel Stubbs.” Edward paused, trying to figure out just what he wanted to say. Or not. “He asked me to apologize. And offer his condolences.”
She stared at the ring, and then, as if a tiny pin had been jabbed into her, she looked up suddenly and asked, “Why would he apologize?”
It figured she would ask. She was clever. It was one of the things he loved best about her. He should have known she would immediately latch on to the part of his statement that did not quite fit.
Edward cleared his throat. “He wished to apologize for not telling you sooner. He couldn’t. Thomas was involved in something very important. Something . . . secret.”
She clutched the back of the chair next to him, then gave up all pretense of strength and sat. “So he knew, all this time?”
Edward nodded. “It happened in March.”
He heard her gasp—a tiny sound, but filled with shock. “He sat w
ith me,” she said in a bewildered whisper. “In the church, when you were still unconscious. He sat with me for hours one of the days. How could he do that? He knew I was looking for Thomas. He knew . . .” She brought her hand to her mouth as her breath started coming in heavier gasps. “How could he be so cruel?”
Edward didn’t say anything.
Something in Cecilia’s eyes sharpened, and the pale green of her irises took on a metallic edge. “Did you know?”
“No.” He gave her a flat, direct stare. “How could I?”
“Of course,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She sat there for a moment, a hopeless statue of baffled grief. Edward could only wonder at her thoughts; every now and then she seemed to blink more rapidly, or her lips would move as if she might be forming words.
Finally, he could take no more. “Cecilia?”
She turned slowly, her brows drawing together as she asked, “Was he given a burial? A proper one?”
“Yes,” he said. “Colonel Stubbs said he saw to it himself.”
“Could I visit—”
“No,” he said firmly. “He was buried in Dobbs Ferry. Do you know where that is?”
She nodded.
“Then you know it’s far too dangerous for you to visit. Far too dangerous for me to visit unless I’m ordered to do so by the army.”
She nodded again, but this time with less resolve.
“Cecilia . . .” he warned. God above, he could not even contemplate chasing after her into enemy territory. That area of Westchester was a sort of no-man’s-land. It was why he’d been so surprised when Colonel Stubbs had said he’d gone alone to meet with Thomas. “Promise me,” Edward growled, fingers biting into the edge of the table. “Promise me you won’t go.”
She looked at him with an expression that was almost puzzled. “Of course not. I’m not a—” She pressed her lips together, swallowing whatever she’d thought to say in favor of: “That’s not the sort of thing I would do.”
Edward gave a curt nod. It was all he could manage until he got his breathing back under control.
“I imagine there is no headstone,” she said after a few moments had passed. “How could there be?”