Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) (4 page)

“I understand it was quite the melee.”

“Indeed it was.”

“So it is possible that a man could be…misplaced.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’ve heard stories of men who returned from war having forgotten their own names.”

“Aye. It happened to some of my friends.”

“This is probably what happened to Peter. This is probably why he has not returned yet.”

His annoying expression faded into something worse. Condescension. He nodded and said, “Of course,” but his tone lacked any conviction.

She did not know why people always seemed to have this reaction, but she refused to let it bother her. She refused to let it douse her hope. Peter was alive. He was. Her gaze flew to his portrait and she sighed.

The earl’s gaze followed hers and he stilled. “Is that Peter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He stepped toward the fireplace and she followed. “He is verra…handsome.”

“And kind, and funny and bright.”

The earl tipped his head and studied the portrait from another angle. “Hmm,” he said.

When he did not elaborate, Britannia frowned at him. “Hmm, what?”

“I don’t know. He looks verra much like John St. Andrews.”

Britannia stilled. “Does he?”

“It is an uncanny resemblance.”

“And who is this John St. Andrews?”

“My groom.”

Her hope deflated. “Oh, well, Peter is not a groom.”

“John fought at Waterloo. He is one of those men I spoke of. After the battle, he could not remember who he was, or any aspect of his life before the war. We began calling him John because he needed a name, and St. Andrews because that was where we landed upon our return. I say, the resemblance is uncanny.”

Britannia’s breath caught. Her pulse kicked into a manic tattoo. “Do you…do you suppose John could be Peter?”

“Now, darling…” Her mother, who had been listening in, offered a protest.

“Do you suppose?” Britannia insisted. Her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird.

The earl looked at the portrait again and then his chin firmed. He shook his head. “John has a scar on his right cheek. Here.” He drew his finger along the side of his face. “This man does not.”

But the words were fading, along with all the light in the room.

The portrait had been painted years ago. And Peter had a scar just there.

Britannia should know. She was the one who had given it to him.

Thankfully, the Annoying Earl of Wick was attentive and he caught her as she swooned.

Chapter TWO

“Dear lord, Charles,” Caesar groaned as Charles carried his sister to the couch. She was as light as a feather and a delightful weight in his arms. “I asked you to chat with her, not encourage her fancies.”

Charles frowned at his friend. “It was not my intention to encourage her fancies.” Most certainly not about another man, at least.

And damn, he hated the look in her eye when she spoke of Perfect Peter.

“Then why did you mention this John fellow?”

“Because he looks very much like Peter. And I didn’t mention it intentionally. It just…came out.”

“Why!?”

“Because it’s true.” He waved at the portrait. “He does look like John. Without the scar, of course. “

Her Grace, the Duchess of Axminster—patting her daughter’s cheek and exhorting her to wake up—shot him a glare. It was a quelling glare.

Caesar sighed and raked his hair. “Peter does have a scar.” He turned to his father. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

The duke nodded; his expression was somber.

“What?” Charles asked. “What does it mean?”

The duchess stood and approached like a lioness stalking her prey. A furious lioness. “It means she will insist on following this up,” she hissed. “She will insist on going to Scotland to find her lost love.” She ended on a wail and threw up her hands.

“Now, now, darling.” The duke attempted to comfort her, but failed.

“She was so close to accepting the truth of it. Finally! She’d even started wearing black. So close to moving on.”

“Mother,” Caesar said in a dry tone. “This is Tannia. She’s never given up on anything in her life.”

The duchess whirled on him. “She doesn’t have time for this. Her birthday is two short months away.”

Charles blinked and stared at Britannia, pale, fragile and lovely on the couch. The girl was hardly on the shelf.

Caesar was unmoved. “But what if Charles’ John
is
Peter?”

Well hell. He wasn’t
his
John.

“What nonsense. Peter is dead.”

“It does seem a strange coincidence. Both men having a similar scar. Both having fought at Waterloo.” Caesar shrugged. “This John having no memories.”

“Peter would not have forgotten our Britannia.”

The duke stepped forward and enfolded his wife in his arms. “Darling. The battle was hellish. Some men did return from battle confused, lost. There have been stories about them in the papers.”

The duchess set her hand to her husband’s cheek. “It is wrong to foster her delusions, Alex.”

The duke glanced at his daughter, still motionless and insensate. “You are right, of course.”

“And Scotland? It’s so far. Practically on the other side of the world.”

“Not so verra far,” Charles felt the need to mention. This had the unexpected consequence of making him suddenly the center of attention. All three sets of Halsey eyes pinned on him. It was a disarming moment.

Fortunately, the lovely Britannia roused just then, and their intensity shifted to her. She pushed herself up and raked back a coil of curls that had come undone and fixed her gaze on Charles.

It sent a riot of emotions through Charles. This woman had haunted his dreams every night from the moment he’d set eyes on her. It had scored him to the core that her every glance in his direction was cold and reserved. But now… Now she looked at him with a flare of hope in her eyes. A dewy sort of desire.

Granted, it wasn’t a desire that matched his, but it was a lovely thing to see.

“I must go to Scotland,” she said.

The duchess wailed.

The duke frowned.

Caesar scrubbed his face.

Charles blinked. For one thing, when she said it, she most definitely said it to
him
. As though she fully expected that he would—

“You must take me.”

Good God. She did. She did expect him to take her.

It had been a trial keeping a distance from her, knowing she was betrothed, knowing she was his best friend’s sister. How on earth would he survive a two-week-long carriage ride in close confines with her?

“That is out of the question.” At the duchess’ pronouncement, Britannia’s attention skewed to her parents. Her jaw firmed and a light blazed in her eyes.

The duke crossed his arms and nodded. “We are in the middle of the season, Britannia. Parliament is in session.”

“I could give a fig for Parliament.”

“Are you suggesting we allow you to go alone?”

Britannia smiled. Likely the smile she had used since childhood to charm her father into giving her everything she wanted. “Of course not, Papa.”

The duchess nearly collapsed with relief.

“Wick shall take me.”

A squawk rose in the room. “You are not traveling to Scotland with the Earl of Wick.”

Charles reared back at the duchess’ tone. Really? Was he such a brigand?

Britannia rose and crossed the room, swishing her skirts in a manner that made clear her determination. “Why not? He’s a reputable man.” She whirled on him. “Are you not?”

He had to nod. He really had no choice. But words were beyond him.

“And he is heading there already.”

“Out of the question.”

“It will take me five minutes to pack.”

A smile, of its own volition, curled on his face. He had a sister. He knew the lunacy of such a claim.

“You are not going with Wick.” The duchess sent him a glower, as though this whole debacle had been his fault, which, in retrospect, it might have been.

Britannia took her mother’s hands and said imploringly, “I must know for sure. I could never live with the uncertainty if I did not go and see for myself.”

“Perhaps Caesar can travel with the earl to Scotland,” the duke suggested. “He knew Peter. He would recognize him at once.”

“A perfect plan,” Caesar said, taking his sister in his arms and giving her a squeeze—though the loving gesture seemed to annoy her. “But I cannot go with Wick. I have some business to attend to in Suffolk. It should take about a week. And then I will continue on to Scotland and meet this John.”

“What kind of business do you have in Suffolk?” the duchess asked, and, for some reason, Caesar pinkened and rocked back on his heels.

“Business,” he said in a cheery tone.

“Fine,” the duke gusted. “It is settled then. Caesar shall investigate for you, Britannia. You shall stay here in London and enjoy the season.”

To which the elegant Lady Britannia snorted. “I am in mourning. There is very little for me to enjoy.”

“We shall have a lovely time, darling,” the duchess said, wrapping her arm around her daughter.

“Excellent. It is settled then,” the duke repeated.

Although Charles could tell, given Britannia’s expression, in her mind, the matter wasn’t settled in the least.

It was annoying, having to grovel to a man like the Annoying Earl of Wick, but Britannia had no choice. Obviously her parents were not going to budge on their decision and Britannia was determined to see this mysterious John with her own eyes.

If she knew Caesar—and she did—his business in Suffolk involved a woman, and when it came to women, Caesar simply lost his mind. He would become embroiled in some tawdry romance and completely forget about her mission.

Aside from that, Britannia could not wait a month or two or more to discover the truth. She was going to Scotland and no man alive would stop her.

Given the length of the journey and the reports of danger on the Kings Road—as the countryside swelled with homeless and destitute soldiers following the war—it only made sense for her to travel with the earl.

All she had to do was convince him.

She found him in the library, sipping whiskey and staring into the fire.

“Hullo,” she said as she entered the room.

She liked the way his eyes lit on her. Warmed.

It gave her a brilliant idea.

Most men would never gainsay her father’s decision. He was a powerful duke. But Charles was an earl. Nearly as powerful as Papa. He might be swayed. And perhaps she could use her feminine charms to get him to give her what she wanted. It had certainly worked before.

“Good evening.” He lifted his glass.

“May I join you?”

His lips lifted with the hint of a smile. “Please.”

She sat with a sigh and then fixed him with her most besotted smile.

He blinked in surprise, but then smiled back.

“So you fought on the continent?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“You must be very brave.” Surely her tone wasn’t too…gushy.

“Ah… Thank you?”

“Are all Scotsmen as brave as you?”

He took a sip and eyed her warily over the rim of his glass. “One would suppose.”

“Are they all as tall?”

Perhaps she was overdoing it, because he snorted.

“I do love a brave man.” She batted her lashes.

“Do you?”

“Oh yes. Men who stand for something. Men who make up their own minds and stick to their principles, no matter what others say. Men who—”

“Britannia?”

Oh bother. How rude of him to interrupt. She was just getting started. “Yes?”

“I am not taking you to Scotland.”

Blast. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Apparently he found her ferocity amusing. He laughed.

“Did you think I would completely ignore your father’s command?”

“A brave man would.”

“A foolish man would.”

“Coward.”

He seemed torn between indignation and amusement—the amusement baffled her utterly.

“How can you be so heartless?”

“Heartless?”

“This is a matter of love. Of destiny. I must know the truth.”

“Caesar will—”

“Caesar is feckless.”

“I beg your pardon. Caesar is a war hero.”

“A feckless war hero. I wager he will take months to arrive in Scotland, and then it will be too late…” She trailed off and looked away.

“Too late for what?” Well, finally. Something that did not amuse him, that annoying, annoying man.

Britannia sighed and held out her hand, the one that bore The Lucius Ring. “I have two months to find him,” she said.

The earl shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“This ring. There’s a curse on it. If I do not find my true love by my twenty-fifth birthday, I shall be alone and loveless forever.” Though she certainly didn’t believe in curses, she was not beyond using such theatrics to convince him she needed to go to Scotland. Besides, he was a Highlander. Certainly
they
believed in curses, savages that they were.

He stared at the ring for a moment and then met her gaze solemnly. “My lady. Surely you jest.”

Outrage swelled in her breast. How dare he doubt her? “It is a family legacy,” she spat. “A virulent curse. If you deny me, you condemn me to an eternity of agony.”

“Oh dear.” Caesar’s warble rounded the room and Britannia turned to glare at her brother as he stood in the doorway. “Surely she is not babbling on about that old family curse.”

She stood and set her hands on her hips, though it was not a ladylike position in the slightest. “How easy for you to mock the curse,” she said. “You are a male.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the earl asked. She disliked the thread of humor in his tone, as though he were patronizing her. Which, of course, he was.

“The curse only affects the females of the family,” she explained.

“How verra inconvenient.”

Caesar flopped indolently into Britannia’s chair and poured himself a dram from the decanter on the table. “Curses so rarely are convenient.”

“How true.” The earl lifted his glass.

“Is she trying to convince you to take her to Scotland?”

“I believe so.”

The hair on Britannia’s neck riffled. How she hated being talked about when she was standing in the room.

Caesar shot her a smile. “He won’t do it, poppet.”

“Don’t call me poppet.”

“He can’t, you see. Wick and Papa have joined forces in a business venture. It would be the height of stupidity to blatantly oppose one’s new partner, now wouldn’t it?”

Oh hell. Bloody hell. Britannia glanced at the earl and he offered a repentant smile, one that did nothing to ease her chagrin.

He was, without exception, the most irritating, selfish, pompous man on the face of the earth.

He would, without a doubt, never agree to take her to Scotland.

She narrowed her eyes on him, filling her glower with every ort of her revulsion, raking him with a savage perusal.