A Difficult Disguise (14 page)

“Ow! Stop it,” Billy cried, desperately trying to cover her rump with her hands.

“And this one is for damn near killing yourself with your stupid, headstrong stunt,” he went on doggedly, pushing her hands away. “And these are for damn near killing me!”

Tears stung at Billy’s eyes as Fletcher unceremoniously dumped her onto the ground and stood up, calling to Pagan, who immediately raised his head from the clump of grass he had been nuzzling and walked over to his master.

“You can’t just leave me here,” Billy whined, wiping at her runny nose as she looked up at the monster that had once been William Darley’s best friend.

Fletcher refused to look at his groom. He couldn’t look at him, not without letting Billy see the self-disgust on his face. It had happened again, dammit! He had only delivered a long-overdue spanking to an insufferable, willful brat of a child. So, why was he feeling that same, now familiar surge of frustrated passion that had first struck him when he woke up at the inn?

His hand tingled at the memory of its contact with Billy’s well-rounded buttocks. His loins throbbed with a longing that proved more damning than exciting. His mouth had gone dry, his heart pounded painfully, his legs were unsteady—and none of his reactions had anything to do with his spill from Pagan.

“I’m not going to leave you, halfling,” he said at last, his voice gentle, but still not daring to look at his groom. He rounded up She-Devil and brought the mare close by so that Billy, making use of Fletcher’s cupped hands, could boost herself into the saddle.

“I—I’m sorry,” Billy whispered hoarsely, sniffling, once she sat astride the mare, her abused buttocks stinging as she moved about, trying to find a hallway comfortable spot. “I didn’t mean any harm. Truly.”

Fletcher looked up at his groom, his features drawn and pale. He couldn’t really be angry with Billy. It wasn’t Billy’s fault that he, Fletcher Belden, despised himself very much at the moment.

All Fletcher’s thinking centered on returning to Lakeview, sending Billy off to his aunt in Tunbridge Wells as soon as humanly possible, and finding himself a willing woman—any willing woman—so that he could make himself believe he hadn’t turned into some sort of twisted monster. “I know you didn’t, halfling,” he said kindly, turning away just as the skies opened and a drenching rain descended on the valley. “Now, let’s go home.”

Chapter 6

“F
letch, can this woebegone creature I’m seeing really be you? Lethbridge told me you were back. You look terrible—even worse than you did in London. I thought you went away for a rest, yet I’ve seen you looking fresher after a three-day bout with the bellyache. Don’t let your aunt stumble on you looking like this, or she’ll be trotting out some nasty physic, sure as check.”

“A bellyache?” Fletcher repeated tonelessly, and slumped into a chair in his dressing room. “To tell you the truth, Beck, I believe I should welcome a bellyache at this moment, as it might serve to take my mind off this blasted headache.”

“Sleeping outside isn’t what it used to be, I imagine,” Beck inserted playfully, shaking his head as Fletcher groaned.

“Never let it be said you’d ever delight in another man’s misery, my friend. Do you think you could leave off gloating long enough to round up some brandy for me? Lethbridge gave me such a nasty look when I asked him to fetch some that I don’t believe there’ll be a decanter brought up here any time soon. Do you know, dear Beck, how lowering it feels to realize that I am no longer master in my own house?”

Beck closed and locked the door to the dressing room before unearthing a decanter and two glasses from a nearby cabinet, and poured them each a drink.

“Your aunt has read some learned tome discussing the rising of ill humors in the liver caused, naturally, by demon drink. I believe Lethbridge to be only following her order that no spirits be served until the dinner hour, in the interest of health, you understand. But that’s nothing to the point, old friend. Now, would you mind telling me why you look as if you’ve just been told the world’s going to end tomorrow, just when you had extensive plans for next spring?”

Fletcher took the glass, draining it before holding it up to be filled once more. “When did you take to hiding the brandy, Beck? Surely you aren’t afraid of my aunt.”

Beck pointedly ignored the question as he refilled both glasses, not wanting his friend to know that he had indeed taken the path of least resistance, hiding away a supply of brandy rather than upsetting dear Miss Belleville, whose intentions, if not her ideas, were good. “Didn’t you have any fun at all while you were haring back and forth across the countryside, communing with nature?”

Fletcher stared into the bottom of his glass, wanting to unburden himself to Beck but not knowing how to start, where to begin, if, indeed, there were anything he could say without damning himself. What could he say? Could he tell Beck that he had found himself attracted to his groom? Hardly.

Could he tell him that he had acted the buffoon, bragging about his exploits like some strutting rooster, just to soothe his unease at the sight of Billy Belchem’s doelike eyes? Why didn’t he just start his hair on fire and dance a jig while he went up in flames? It couldn’t be any less shocking.

“I discovered that our impertinent Billy Smith is really the equally impertinent Billy Belchem,” Fletcher said at last, knowing he had to say something. “He’s a runaway, with a sermon-reading aunt in Tunbridge Wells. I’d like you to arrange to have him transported there posthaste, if you would.”

Beck looked at his friend, unable to identify the tone of his voice. Fletcher sounded weary. Yes, that was it, weary, and somehow troubled. “Well, then,” he said, forcing a smile, “it would seem you accomplished what you set out to do. That was what you set out to do, wasn’t it, Fletcher? Get the boy alone and gain his confidence so that you could worm the truth out of him? You may have fooled your aunt, but then it doesn’t take much subtlety to do that. I convinced myself you were only trying to do a good deed. Please accept my congratulations. What did it? Your open, honest face, or spending a few nights out of doors in the damp? I’d vote for your face, myself.”

Fletcher smiled, his heart heavy as he remembered the spanking he had given Billy. Even Beck wouldn’t consider that incident a good deed. “Thank you, Beck. Now, if you believe it possible, I should like to change the subject. I passed by the yellow saloon on my way upstairs. My compliments for a job well done. Has anything else transpired in my absence—not that I would think you had time for it.”

Beck sat down, stretching his stiff leg out in front of him. “There was one thing, Fletch,” he said, reaching into his pocket and extracting a worn, wrinkled envelope. “If you’ll recall, you had your campaign bags sent directly on to Lakeview when you returned from Spain. I found them in the attics while I searched out the tables your aunt had ordered removed there from the yellow saloon, and took the liberty of unpacking them.”

Fletcher gave a short laugh. “My campaign bags? That’s a lovely way of speaking about the rags and tatters I brought back with me. You shouldn’t have bothered, Beck. It would have been easier just to make a bonfire of the stuff, as I don’t think I’m the sort of fellow to wax nostalgic over worn-out boots and faded uniforms.”

Beck nodded his agreement. “That’s precisely what I did with the majority of the stuff, saving only your shaving kit, as it came to you from your father, and a few other items.” He held out the envelope. “They’re packed away again in the attics. But I did think you might like to see this. I found it stuck in the lining of the smaller bag.”

Fletcher rose to accept the envelope, taking hold of it gingerly. “I don’t remember any envelope.” He brought the thing closer to see that there was some inscription on it, half-hidden beneath smudges of dirt. “It’s addressed to me and marked Personal,” he said, walking over to his dresser to pick up a knife, breaking the seal.

Pulling out the single page that made up its contents, Fletcher allowed the envelope to fall to the floor as he unfolded the paper and exclaimed, “Good God, Beck, it’s from William Darley. I’ve just been speaking of him with Billy. Now, why on earth do you suppose he would have written a letter to me, and then hidden it in my campaign bag?”

“Darley?” Beck repeated thoughtfully, moving closer, trying to read the letter over Fletcher’s shoulder. “Isn’t he the fellow you told me about, the one that saved your hide from some French sniper? What does it say?”

Fletcher stepped away from Beck, his voice shaking slightly as he read the words from his dead comrade-in-arms: “ ‘It would be a damn pity if you ever got to read this, my friend, for it would mean that my premonition has come true, and I am no longer with you. I can only hope I took a few dozen Old Trousers with me before I went. I had a dream last night, Fletch, a particularly nasty dream, in which I saw myself lying on the field of battle, my eyes open but not seeing anything, and a bloody great hole in my chest. It wasn’t a pretty picture, let me tell you, and didn’t flatter me at all.’ ”

“He imagined his own death?” Beck broke in, reaching for the brandy decanter. “That’s bloody gruesome.”

Fletcher barely heard him, for he was still reading. “What in Hades,” he exclaimed, his jaw dropping. “Beck, listen to this: ‘I’ve been watching you, Fletch, and listening to you when you talk about Arabella. No matter what you say, you’re a decent man, and I know you were a fine brother. That’s why I want you to take care of my sister if anything happens to me. I know I never mentioned her to you, but after hearing about Arabella, I didn’t want to open old wounds by talking about Rosalie. We don’t have anyone else, Rosalie and I, unless you count Mrs. Beale, and I certainly don’t. The thought of having her in charge of poor Rosalie remains a more terrifying nightmare than the one I’ve just described, and her son, Sawyer, is even worse. I couldn’t let such a sad fate befall my dearest sister. She’s a good little girl, delicately nurtured, and bright as a penny. You’ll adore her, Fletch, you really will.’ ”

“Which probably means she is a terrible, runny-nosed brat who puts toads in her governess’s bed,” Beck put in, shaking his head.

Fletcher shot his friend a quelling look and continued. “ ‘I’ve already written to tell her of my decision to name you as her guardian, and also told her how much I trust you to come to our aid. I know you’ll do what’s best for her until she reaches her majority or you can settle her in a respectable marriage. There’s plenty of money for a Season in London if Rosalie wants one. This letter should serve to make it all legal with the solicitors, as I’ve had Captain Peterson witness it. Besides, with any luck at all, I’ll tear this miserableness up tomorrow evening after the battle, and you’ll never even see it.’ ” Beck subsided into a chair as Fletcher refolded the letter and moved to stare out the window. “My God, Fletch, how long has William Darley been dead?”

“Months,” Fletcher answered hollowly, noticing that his hands had begun to shake. “Months and months. Peterson died that day as well, which explains why he didn’t come to me about the letter. My God, Beck, that poor little girl! What was her name? Rosalie? What can she be thinking?”

Beck leaned back, pursed his lips, and considered the question. “I would imagine,” he said after a moment, “she is thinking that you, as well as her brother, are dead. Either that, or that you’re the biggest rotter ever to draw breath.”

Aunt Belleville, belatedly smarting ever so slightly under the niggling thought that her dearest nephew had only been flattering her and really did prefer the yellow saloon to be yellow, deliberately shunned the saloon and sat in the music room, her mind still struggling over the possibility of gilding the room’s depressingly plain, domed ceiling.

Even Lethbridge, the dear man, had warned her that the price of gilt being what it was could put a crimp in her latest inspiration, giving rise to the unhappy thought that even dearest Lethbridge had attempted to tell her something. Perhaps, just perhaps, her contributions to the beautification of Lakeview were not appreciated.

“No, no, I must be wrong,” she assured herself aloud, arranging her many-tasseled paisley scarf more comfortably about her shoulders. “My personal taste cannot be at fault, for surely I have been complimented on my dress more than once by the good women in the village. Perhaps there exists the problem of cost, although I have yet to see any hint of economizing in the way of cheaper vegetables or tallow candles.”