Charles Kirk, late of His Majesty's army on the Iberian Peninsula, felt his tension ease as the soft summer breeze drifted acrss his face. The air was not particularly fresh, not in London, but it was English air, and the view was of the garden outside the drawing room at Sherbourne House. Lounging on the windowseat, apart from the others who sat in the drawing room, he felt curiously detached from their casual talk of ton events, of discussions of marriages and betrothals and other on-dits. He hadn't expected this, not any of it, to feel the hollowness on seeing the happiness of his brother Geoffrey, Viscount Sherbourne, with his wife Ariel, and, more surprisingly, of Lord Adam Burnet. He had married his Elizabeth only a few weeks previously, though everyone considered him too lazy to do anything. "I never expected to return home to find all this," Charles burst out, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "Everyone's married. You, Geoffrey, Adam, even Lyndon. What has possessed everyone?"
Geoffrey and Ariel exchanged a look. "I'd wager you could guess," he said, making Ariel give him another look.
"Lud, dear boy," Adam said from his lounging position on a sofa. "Love, don't you know."
"Something you should consider, Charles," Geoffrey remarked.
Charles glanced away, wishing he'd never brought up the topic. Marriage seemed to have tamed Geoffrey, who had been something of a rake before Charles had gone to war. Yet now he seemed content in a way he never had before. Charles well knew that feeling would never be for him. "I suppose you'd see me leg-shackled to this year's Incomparable. Or the Diamond of the First Water, or some such."
"Of course not." Ariel looked up from her knitting and smiled. "I was certainly no such thing. Neither was Lyndon's wife, but when we saw them on their country estate they seemed perfectly happy."
"Who are this year's Diamonds, by the by?" he asked, in an effort to appear interested.
Geoffrey, settled in a high-backed chair with curving, polished wooden arms, gave him a look that said he knew perfectly well why Charles had asked. "The Diamond, as you call her, is a Miss Watson. A quite beautiful widgeon."
"Perfect for Charles, don't you think?" Adam said in languid tones.
Charles gave a mock shudder. "Lord save me. And the Incomparable?" he asked. "Or is there one?"
Geoffrey and Ariel looked at each other again. "The Incomparable seems to have disappeared," Adam said.
"Disappeared? Gone home, you mean?"
"No. Disappeared, yesterday. No one knows where she is. Her father's tried to hush it up, of course, but servants always seem to know everything."
For the first time, the conversation intrigued Charles. "How could someone possibly do something like that? Especially an heiress? I take it she is an heiress, or she wouldn't be so sought after."
"That's terribly cynical of you," Ariel protested.
"But true, I imagine. It was such when I left. Who is her father?"
"The Earl of Harlow."
Charles gave a low whistle. "Lady - who is she now? I know there was a Lady Anne Fairchild."
"Her sister. This one is Lady Serena."
"Then she does have expectations. Does anyone know why she left?"
"No." Ariel frowned down at her knitting. "Oh, dear, I seem to have dropped a stitch."
Charles glanced at her work, something small and white and fluffy. He was, so he'd been told, going to be an uncle. Not a father. Never a father. "It's rather strange."
"Lud, so it is," Adam said. "It's become one of the scandals of the Season."
"Adam," Elizabeth reprimanded him softly. "That's not kind."
"But true."
"No one knows what happened." Ariel put in. "She seemed to be enjoying herself. Certainly she had suitors aplenty."
"For her fortune, you mean."
Ariel's answer was slower in coming this time. "Perhaps."
"I wonder what they would do, were she poor."
"Harlow's been patient with her," Adam put in. "I hear she rejected a number of suitors."
"Perry Faraday, for one. He's only one and twenty, but I do believe he's in love with her."
"Calf love. His mama mustn't be pleased about it."
"No, I gather she's not, especially now," Adam said.
"Then there's Ronald Gaskin, definitely a fortune hunter. Harlow sent him to the roundabout."
"Adam," Elizabeth said, reproving him on his language. He merely grinned at her.
"George Duncan," Ariel pressed on. "I do think he really cares about her, even now."
"Mayhap," Adam said. "And then there's Sir Osbert Hyatt."
"That round little dandy?" Geoffrey said in disdain.
"Everyone knows he's always pockets to let," Adam said.
"I wonder if he has something to do with her disappeance," Charles said, entering the conversation for the first time in a while.
Adam gave him a long look. "I doubt that, dear boy. He's more concerned with his clothes." His smile faded. "In any event, no one will want her now."
"Poor girl," Charles said softly.
Adam gave Charles another searching look, making him uncomfortable. "Yes. Do you go to Lady Hathaway's rout tonight?" he asked, and the conversation became general. It was still about ton events, though, so that Charles, drifted away, content simply to be in this room, in this house. There were arranged marriages aplenty, he heard, some marriages of convenience, even some love matches. It meant little to him. He would never marry, there was no doubt of that. Nor would he ever fit into ton life again. He had, once. He had been a dashing young officer wearing the green uniform of the 95th Rifles, pretending to be self-deprecating that his uniform wasn't scarlet, to all the pretty girls who were making their come-outs. There was a reason, though, why he'd bought his colors in that particular regiment. He was deadly with any firearm, shotgun or pistol or rifle, and he knew his services were needed. That was something the pretty young debutantes didn't know. That the uniform didn't protect a man was something only another soldier would understand.
Someone was watching him. Charles's instinct for danger, for sensing a possible enemy, had been finely honed in Spain and Portugal. Casually looking up, he saw Geoffrey assessing him from across the room. Charles returned the look with a sardonic smile. Geoffrey, he suspected, was about to act, not only as the head of the Kirk family, but as an older brother. There was irony in that. As boys growing up, they had not been close.
Their guests had made their farewells before Geoffrey approached him. "Come to the library with me for a drink."
Ariel looked up from her knitting. "Geoffrey, do you intend to play the heavy-handed viscount again?"
"'Tis what I am." His face softened as he looked down at his wife, as he briefly touched her shoulder before moving away. So there was love in the world, Charles thought, feeling that familiar ache inside him. It simply wasn't for him.
Wordlessly Geoffrey walked into the library. ignoring the footman who opened the door for them. He glanced inquiringly at the decanters of drinks, which were on a table that had straight, carved legs. Charles shook his head, and they settled into club chairs of well-padded, glove-soft leather. He had forgotten how beautiful this room was, with its glass-fronted bookcases and the large mahogany library table. Sunlight streamed across the Turkey carpet, making its colors glow. It was a comfortable room, a welcoming room, and Charles wished to the devil he were somewhere else. He no longer belonged here.
He leaned back, his legs crossed. If Geoffrey wanted to talk, then let him begin. This had not been his idea. Yet the silence stretched on, yawning between them.
"You look like hell," Geoffrey said abruptly.
Charles inclined his head. "Thank you. I appreciate the compliment."
"What happened to you?"
"War happened to me."
"No." Geoffrey's eyes searched his face. "There's something more."
"Oh, for God's sake, Geoffrey," he said, shifting in his chair to find a comfortable position. There were days when his arm hurt like the devil, though he hoped no one noticed. "Ariel was right. You are being particularly heavy-handed."
"I care about you."
Charles gave a bitter laugh. "When did that occur?"
"A very long time ago."
"Ha. As I recall, the person whose affections you wanted was Father's."
Geoffrey stiffened. "What passed between him and me has nothing to say to this matter."
"Doesn't it? It rather left me out."
"It did, didn't it?" Geoffrey said after a moment. "I owe you an apology for that."
Charles waved him off. "It's of little moment."
"Not to me." Geoffrey leaned forward. "Charles, what happened to you? I don't mean just your wound."
Charles looked bleakly at him, as bleak as he felt. "War," he said again. "Shall I describe it for you?"
"I read the newspapers."
"Ha." His laugh was mirthless. "The newspapers."
"I am your brother, Charles. Whether you wish to acknowledge that or not, it's true."
Charles shook his head. "I do, but I fail to see how that can help me this late."
Geoffrey leaned back, his legs crossed, too, his eyes shrewd. "I'm giving you the management of Oakhurst," he said.
"The devil! One of your properties?"
"A smaller one, in Sussex. It needs a good manager."
"I know nothing about farming, Geoffrey."
"You'll learn in time. It's well enough now," he went on, forestalling Charles's next protest. "I didn't know anything about it until I came into the title."
"Until you married, is what I heard."
Geoffrey smiled. "Yes, from Ariel. She ran her father's estate for years."
Charles blinked. "Ariel?" He tried to reconcile that image with the laughing, seemingly carefree woman Geoffrey had married. "That comes as a surprise."
"To me, too, at first. She saw things at Oakhurst I might otherwise have missed." His grin was wry. "Of course she noted everything down."
"Is there anything left there for me to do?" he burst out.
"Yes," Geoffrey said seriously. "It needs a master's touch. All properties do. And you" - he took a deep breath - "need it."
Charles looked at him sharply. "Charity, Geoffrey?"
"No," he said quietly. "Concern and affection."
Affection. It was a long time since someone had offered him that. It was something he couldn't fight. "Oh, very well," he said, his capitulation obviously something that came sooner than Geoffrey anticipated. He nearly laughed at the look of ludicrous surprise on his brother's face. "It will give me something to do, any roads."
Geoffrey nodded. "You're not made for London."
"Not now," Charles agreed promptly. "Perhaps once, a long time ago."
Again Geoffrey nodded, as if he understood, and then rose. "I'll see to it that all the necessary papers are sent to you."
"Thank you." Charles looked at his brother across that abyss again, and then impulsively held out his hand. It wasn't just a handshake, but a bond between brothers that Charles hadn't even known was there. "'Twill be good to have something to do, at least. Perhaps I should visit my tailor." He looked down at his buff pantaloons and his jacket of dark green merino. Why had he chosen green, of all colors? "I haven't the ensembles for a stay in the country, and one must be prepared for all eventualities," he said, in the languid tones of a bored dandy.
Geoffrey grinned. "One must," he agreed.
"Then I'd best get started, curse it. I feel like a man-milliner already."
Geoffrey walked to the door with him, his hand upon Charles's good shoulder. "Oakhurst is worthy of a well-dressed manager."
"We must see to that it has one, then," he said, grinning.
"You'll do," Geoffrey said, opening the door, his voice relieved. "You'll do, indeed."
"I believe I will," he said, as they went into the hall.
"Yes." Geoffrey stayed back a few paces, waving off the footman who stepped forward to close the library door. He spoke so softly that Charles was never quite certain he'd heard him aright. "And perhaps it might heal you."
Thus, a few days later, Charles's horse picked its way along the narrow lane which branched off the main road from Mayfield, under a spread of leaves that let through the occasional ray of sun; past a wildflower meadow to his left; past a green, green field stretching to his right. It all still felt a little unreal to Charles. Two years on the Peninsula had accustomed him to a different landscape, a different view, of merciless sun and dusty plains, of ruined towns and wary, frightened people. Not so here. In high summer, England was in glorious bloom, and all the foliage was lush. More importantly, the towns and villages he'd passed through were prosperous and bustling, and the people were for the most part busy and cheerful. It was very hard to remember that there was war raging someplace. It was hard to remember that, not long ago, he'd been part of that war.
In an odd way, Charles regretted that he was no longer in the army. He'd felt important there in a way he never had at home. Oakhurst, he'd no doubt, was no more in need of an estate manager than he was of an estate. Geoffrey, for all his former rackety ways, would have seen to that. No, he'd likely been given the management of the estate simply as a way to keep him busy. He didn't know whether he resented such largesse, or welcomed it.
Oakhurst was just ahead, perhaps a mile or so along the lane. Though he'd been here only a few times when he was younger, already he recognized landmarks. Over there, long-felled by a lightning bolt, lay one of the oaks that gave the estate its name; here was the stream, which cut deeply enough in its banks to require a plank bridge, rather than a ford. Samson's hooves rang hollow as he crossed it, the sound so homey that insensibly he felt his spirits lifting. He breathed deeply of the smell of damp earth, listened more intently than he ever had to the counterpoint of birdsong and the buzz of a cicada, and rejoiced in the view of fields as devoid of threats as they were of people. If he'd been put out to pasture, as it were, he could think of worse fates, and worse places. He would grow roses, he decided, and let peace again seep into his soul.
From the corner of his eyes he caught just the merest flicker of motion, so small that he wasn't sure he'd seen it. It was enough, however, for him to stand in the saddle, scanning the field. Nothing. It was likely just a bird, he thought, triggering a response to danger honed too well on the Peninsula. That, more than anything else, was an indicator of the state his nerves had been reduced to.
No, there it was again, a flash of blue through the trees edging the field, neither fast enough nor small enough to be a bird, after all. He tightened one hand on the reins, reaching his other hand down to his saddlebag, where he kept his pistol, primed and ready. Damn, but he'd not expected to face possible danger, not in England. Not on this peaceful, restful lane. Again the blue flashed, closer this time. He aimed the pistol, his arm steadier now than it had been since his return. Closer now, and closer – and the blue flicker resolved itself into a woman's skirts. She held them almost to her knees as she ran, throwing quick, frightened glances over her shoulder. For a moment he relaxed his posture. There certainly was something amiss, but it wasn't likely dangerous. Not here on -
Behind the woman – a girl, he realized, likely not much older than his sister – lumbered a rough-looking character, a man who shouted at her in words he couldn't quite make out. Their tone was clear, though, and so was the long, deadly pistol in his hand. He was followed by another man, not quite so rough in appearance, but as deadly, judging by the pistol he held.
"Oh, help me, sir!" the woman cried, swerving and running toward him. "Help me!"
Through Charles's mind flashed another time, another place, and a scene that was still part of his nightmares. His stomach sank. He didn't want to be involved in anything like this, he truly didn't, and yet this time he knew enough to react more quickly. Jabbing his spurs into Samson's side to intercept her, he held down his hand. "Take hold," he called.
"Oh, thank you!" She grasped his hand, and, not knowing quite how he did it, he pulled her up behind him, though fierce pain rocketed up from his wounded shoulder almost behind his teeth. "Oh, thank you!" I didn't know what I would do - "
Abruptly a pistol barked. The shot flew harmlessly by; it, too, was a reminder of another time, and of a peril he'd not though to encounter again. The first man might have discharged his shot, but the other hadn't, and both were pounding too near for his comfort. Holding his arm absolutely steady, as he had countless times during battles, he fired, and the first man fell.
"Oh, capital!" the woman said, perhaps the most bizarre moment of this entire bizarre incident. There was no time to consider that, though, not with one of the enemy still standing. Retreat was clearly in order. Wheeling Samson around, he dug his spurs in again. They took off at a gallop, pounding down the lane. A pistol sounded behind them again, but there were safely out of reach. For now.
"Oh, thank you! I - "
"Do they have horses?" he demanded at the same time.
"No. Yes, Of course they do. They brought me here in a closed carriage, but they could use the horses for riding, couldn't they?"
Overhead arched the same leafy trees as before; to his right, now, was the wildflower meadow. What was different was that he had somehow managed to saddle himself with a totty-headed female. "Quite," he said, his voice clipped.
Surprisingly, she chuckled. "I do beg your pardon. That was an extremely ridiculous thing for me to say, wasn't it? I do hope they don't catch us up."
"On Samson? Highly unlikely."
"So I'd think. Arabian, is he not?"
"Yes," he said, startled.
"And very nicely mannered, considering all he's been through the last few moments. Very nice horseflesh, sir."
"Thank you," he said, the conversation only adding to his feeling of unreality. "Excuse me, miss, but who are you?"
She gurgled with laughter, strange in someone who had been in dire peril not five minutes hence. "Of course. We've not been properly introduced, have we?"
Charles smiled in spite of himself. One would think they were in a London drawing room, from the way she talked. She had bottom, this young lady. And a lady she was, he had no doubt, in spite of her disordered hair and crumpled gown. "My apologies. I am Major Charles Kirk, late of His Majesty's army." Now why the devil had he introduced himself like that?
"Oh, so that is why you reacted as quickly as you did, and thank heavens for me."
"Yes. May I ask who you are? I do like to know the names of the damsels in distress I rescue."
She laughed again, a low, seductive, and yet innocent sound, and he felt a shiver go up his spine. "Of course. I am Serena Fairchild, Sir Knight."
Bedamned! "Lady Serena? The Incomparable?"
"Yes, sir," she said, startled. "Though I very much doubt I am incomparable, no matter what others might think."
"What the devil are you doing here?"
"I was abducted."
"Bedamned! My apologies. Why?"
She was quiet a moment. "Now that, sir, is something I would like to know. I imagine, though, that my disappearance has caused any number of rumors in Town."
"Quite," he said again, more concerned about her present situation than any damage, real or imagined, to her reputation. For the moment, though, they seemed to be safe. He eased Samson to a canter. "My estate is near here. Once I find a different way to it, you'll be safe."
"Thank God," she said, so fervently that for the first time he realized that she wasn't so nonchalant as she had appeared. With the danger behind them, he could feel her trembling, a reaction he'd noted in himself after a battle was over. He was also uncomfortably aware of her body, so close to him, and of her breasts pressing into his back. "Mayhap I could have a bath."
He smiled to himself again. "I believe that can be arranged. Oakhurst has - "
"Oakhurst?" she said sharply.
"Yes."
"That is the name of your estate?"
"My brother's, actually, but yes."
"Oh, no," she moaned.
For the first time she sounded so dispirited that he wanted to turn and comfort her. "What is it?"
"I heard them say that was where they were taking me."
