The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(18)

“It doesn’t hurt, sir,” Edward said. Not much.

Strickland shook hands with him, a dry, limp clasp. “Waterloo?”

“Yes.”

Interest sharpened in the old man’s eyes.

Edward braced himself for the inevitable questions, but instead Sir Arthur said, “Sherry?”

“Please.”

Strickland rang for a servant. Edward sat silently while the butler bustled into the library, poured two small glasses of sherry, and left. Sir Arthur’s gaze was on his face. Edward watched the old man trace the scars, saw him note the missing ear. Finally the perusal ended. “Waterloo as well?”

Edward nodded. He sipped his sherry. It was mouth-puckeringly dry.

Strickland sighed. He leaned back in his armchair. “My son . . . you were with him when he died?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir Arthur glanced at the fire, blinked several times, swallowed, and brought his gaze back to Edward. “Would you mind . . . telling me?”

A rush of memory ambushed Edward. For a brief moment he was back at Waterloo. The smells of blood and cordite filled his nose. Toby’s shout rang in his ears—Get up, Ned!—as vivid, as clear, as if the battle had been yesterday, not five months ago.

Muscles clenched in Edward’s stomach. He gulped a fortifying mouthful of sherry. “Not at all.” He looked away from the old man’s face and began his tale.



There was silence for a long time after Edward had finished, then Arthur Strickland cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Edward nodded.

The old man stood slowly. “We dine at six.”

Edward glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Half past five.

“My sister’s nurse-companion dines with us. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

He gave Strickland a few minutes to make his way slowly from the library, leaning on his cane, then summoned the butler with a jerk of the bell rope and followed the man up creaking stairs and along dark, chilly corridors to his bedchamber. The mutton smell of tallow candles hung in the air.

The fire in his room was as meager as the one in the library. The four-poster bed loomed like a crêpe-shrouded mausoleum, hung with dark green velvet. His valise had been unpacked and his few clothes neatly put away. The package of Toby’s effects lay on the dresser. Edward turned away from it. He’d deal with that later. He’d had all the memories he could cope with for the moment.

Tigh bustled in, stocky and middle-aged, his face weather-beaten beneath bristling eyebrows. He carried a jug of steaming water. “It’s colder than a nun’s monosyllable in ’ere, sir.”

Edward grunted agreement. He stripped out of his traveling clothes and dressed quickly in pantaloons and a fresh shirt. He washed his face and ran a comb through his hair. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror; no trick of styling his hair would hide the jagged remnants of his left ear or mask the scars that disfigured his cheeks and brow. The neckcloth took several minutes of concentration; the lack of fingers on his right hand made it hard to form the exact creases. He almost gave up and let Tigh do it, but it was an independence he’d fought hard to regain—tying his own neckcloth—and he gritted his teeth and persevered, while outside the rain drummed heavily down.

A glance at his pocket watch showed that it wanted five minutes to the hour. Edward donned his white waistcoat, shrugged into the black long-tailed coat Tigh held out, nodded his thanks to the batman, and retraced his steps to the ground floor. The corridors were dim, lit with the barest number of candles.

At the foot of the stairs he paused and looked around. A door stood ajar opposite the library. Faint light and the sound of women’s voices came from within.

Edward walked over and touched the door with his fingertips. It swung open. The conversation inside halted.

“Er . . . good evening,” he said, as the room’s two occupants turned to stare at him.

Their reaction was one he still hadn’t become accustomed to. Both ladies were well bred enough not to recoil, but he saw the startled widening of their eyes, the stiffening of their faces as they took in his appearance.

There was a moment of silence while they examined each other. His brain mentally cataloged them: one pretty and petite, one tall and plain. He knew what they saw: a hulking brute of a man with a scarred face.

Both ladies were dressed in the gray of half-mourning. The plain one was brown-haired and built on robust lines, with a deep bosom and wide hips. The pretty one looked as if she’d stepped out of a poem, except that her golden hair, blue eyes, and milk-white complexion were entirely real. A line flicked through Edward’s mind: Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory.

His gaze swung between the two ladies. The larger one had to be the nurse-companion, sturdily competent, which meant that the ethereal little blonde was Toby’s cousin, Matilda Chapple. He focused his attention on her and bowed. “Miss Chapple?”

“I am Miss Chapple.”

Edward’s gaze jerked back to the brunette.

“You must be Mr. Kane.” Her voice was a low contralto.

“Yes, ma’am.” Edward bowed again.

Miss Chapple smiled warmly. “Welcome to Creed Hall.” She advanced across the room towards him, holding out her hand, a friendly gesture. She was even taller than he’d thought, all of six foot.