Lord of Fire (55 page)

It felt like one inside, too, sprawling hectares of empty floor bereft of furniture, cold enough to preserve a corpse. He half fancied the place was infested with ghosts, but he knew too well that it was only he who was haunted. He had neither the gold nor the energy to see the house brought back to life and properly appointed, nor did he particularly care. Spartan that he was, he did not require luxury.

Upon arriving here in November shortly after Guy Fawkes Night, he had set up camp and had been bivouacking near the fireplace in what had once been the drawing room. His fellow officers from the regiment—what few survivors there were—had scattered and returned to their families, but at least he was still surrounded by his equipment, all sixty pounds of which he had carried on his back for hundreds of miles on marches through Portugal and Spain. It comforted him: his trusty tent; his scuffed and battered tin mess kit and wooden canteen; his greatcoat for a blanket; his haversack for a pillow; a bit of cheese, biscuit, and sausage to sustain him; a few cigars. A soldier needed little else in life, except, of course, for liquor and whores, but Damien had given these up in an earnest effort to mend his fractured wits through the ascetic life.

’Sblood, though, he missed the lasses a hundred times more than the gin, he thought with a wistful sigh. Lucien could have his refined lady wife; Damien preferred low, bawdy wenches who knew how to handle a soldier. The mere thought of a soft, willing female roused his body’s starved needs, but he ignored his agonized craving for release, coolly setting the axe out of the way as his brother approached. He could not risk anything that might upset his precarious equilibrium.

Snow flew up from under the black’s prancing hoofs as Lucien reined in, vibrant and pink-cheeked with the cold, his silvery eyes sparkling with the aura of the newlywed. He sat back in the saddle for a moment, rested his right fist on his hip, and shook his head, looking Damien over in sardonic amusement. “Oh, my poor, dear brother,” he said with a lordly chuckle.

“What?” Damien growled, scowling a bit.

“How charmingly rustic. You look like some hermit woodsman. Lancelot, maybe, after he became a monk.”

Damien snorted. “So, she let you out from under the cat’s paw for a few hours, eh? When’s your curfew?”

“Only long enough for my sweet lady to remember afresh how desperately she adores me. When I return—” He flashed a wicked smile. “—the welcome home ought to be worth it.” His luxurious black wool greatcoat whirled out behind him as he dismounted with an agile movement. Smart and elegant, full of Diplomatic Corps finesse, Lucien reached into his coat and presented Damien with a newspaper as he strode toward him. “I thought you might like to see what is going on in the world.”

“Napoleon still under guard on
Elba?”

“Of course.”

“That’s all I need to know.”

“Well, burn it for fuel, then, though you certainly seem well supplied in that particular. Planning on burning a witch?” Lucien looked askance at the giant woodpile.

Damien regarded him wryly and accepted yesterday’s copy of the
London Times
without further argument.

Lucien passed a shrewd glance over his face. “How goes it, Brother?” he asked more softly.

Damien shrugged and turned away, abashed by his concern. “It’s quiet here. I like it.”

“And?” Lucien waited for him to report on his mental condition, but Damien dodged the unspoken inquiry, avoiding his twin’s penetrating stare.

“Needs work, of course, this old place. Fences to be mended. We’ll plant barley there”—he pointed to the fields—“oats there, wheat over there, in the spring.”
If it ever comes,
he thought.

“God, grant me patience. Do not be deliberately obtuse, please. I didn’t ask how your house is. I want to know how you’re doing. Has there been any repeat of—”

“No,” he cut him off, flashing him a warning look. He had no desire to be reminded of his hellish delirium—or bout of madness or whatever the devil it had been—on Guy Fawkes Night. He hated even thinking about it. The booming of the festival cannons and exploding fireworks had played a kind of trick on his mind, deluding him into thinking he was back at the war. For a full five or six minutes, he had lost track of reality, a horrifying state of affairs for a man so highly trained to kill.

When he thought of how easily he could have hurt someone, it made his blood run cold. He had exiled himself here since that night and did not intend to show his face in Society again until he had somehow cured himself, was no longer a threat to the very people he had sacrificed his innocence to protect, and had become once more the ironclad military hero the world expected him to be.

He noticed Lucien studying him, reading him in his all-too-knowing way, those silvery eyes flashing with formidable intelligence. “Still having nightmares?”

Damien just looked at him.

He did not want to admit it, but the ghastly dreams of blood and destruction were even more frequent now, as though his addled brain could not unburden itself of its poisons fast enough. The rage in him was a frozen river like the ice-encrusted
Thames that wrapped around his property. He knew it was there, but the strangest thing was he could not quite . . . feel it. He could not feel much of anything. Six years of combat—of ignoring terror, horror, and heartbreak—had that effect on a man, he supposed.

“You really shouldn’t be alone at a time like this,” Lucien said gently.

“Yes, I should, and you know why.” Avoiding his brother’s scrutiny, he shoved some of the wood into a neater pile, then dusted a few stray bits of bark off his buff-leather trousers.

“At least you’re still coming to
London for Christmas with the family, I trust?”

He nodded firmly. “I’ll be there.” As long as the too-jolly prince regent could restrain himself from sponsoring another irritating fireworks show for the city, Damien saw little reason to worry. Christmas was a holy, tranquil night; it was New Year’s Eve that tended to be raucous, accompanied by the usual rowdiness, noise, and explosives. He would return to his sanctuary at Bayley House by then. “Do you want something to drink?” he offered, belatedly remembering hospitality.

“No, thanks.” Lucien slipped his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and looked away, squinting toward the horizon. He seemed to hesitate. “There is . . . actually another reason I’m here, Damien. The truth is . . . ah, hell,” he whispered, shutting his eyes. “I really don’t know how to tell you this.”

Damien looked over, taken aback by Lucien’s stark tone. A prickle of dread ran down his spine as his gaze took in his brother’s paling face and anguished stare. “Jesus, Lucien, what is it?” Abandoning the woodpile, Damien walked over to him, drawing off his gloves. “What’s happened? The family—”

“No, we’re all fine,” he said quickly, then lowered his head and spoke with difficulty. “I was in
London on business earlier in the week when I heard. The news is all over Town. I’m so damned sorry, Damien.” Steeling himself, he lifted his head and looked into his eyes. “
Sherbrooke’s dead. He was murdered Wednesday night.”

“What?”
He felt his stomach plummet with nauseating swiftness, but could only stare at his brother without comprehension.

“Apparently there was a robbery. The intruder shot him in the chest. I came as soon as I heard.” Lucien gazed at him in distress. “I know—God, I know—you’re in no condition to hear this, but I didn’t want you to find out some other way.”

Damien felt the air leave his lungs in a whoosh. “Are you sure?” he forced out.

Lucien gave a pained nod.

“Oh, God.” He turned and walked a few paces away, then stopped, blank with shock. He dragged his hand through his hair and just stood there, at a loss, staring at the bleak horizon and the winter-bare trees of the cherry orchard on the ridge, black and gnarled, and the cold glint of the frozen river. The sun had gone behind the clouds, and where there had been bright sparkles on the snow, now there was only a white, unforgiving glare.

There was a very long silence.

Behind him, he heard Lucien’s black stallion snort and paw the ground in princely impatience. His brother murmured softly, quieting the animal, while Damien fought in silence to absorb the blow without falling to his knees in sheer despair. He had thought they were safe now. The war was over. How could he have forgotten that death, the ultimate victor, marched on?

He spun around abruptly, wrath darkening his face. “Do they know who did it?”

“No.

“Thank you.” He looked away, trembling, his face hard and expressionless, but even he was shocked by how quickly he adapted to the news. To be sure, this was an old routine by now, the death of a friend, he thought in deep, welling bitterness. There were courtesies to be carried out, rituals to be observed. Duties to be fulfilled. He clung to them for his sanity’s sake.

His men would need him. As their colonel, it fell to him to set the example of conduct, discipline, manly self-control. They still depended on him, as they had on the battlefield, to stand firm against the chaos and disequilibrium they all felt. Half a decade of their lives had passed in a roaring, blood-spattered flash of horror, and suddenly, here they were, dazed to find themselves in tranquil old
England again, blooded savages thrown back into Society, where they must be gentlemen again.
By God, I have been selfish,
he thought, closing his eyes and damning himself for leaving them, coming out here to lick his wounds. If he had stayed in
London, if he had looked after
Sherbrooke better . . .
I should have been there
.

He bowed his head, agonized by the thought. Clearly, he had tarried in solitude long enough.

When he lifted his head again, his eyes were as cold and gray as stone, and when he spoke, his voice was the controlled, deadened monotone of a seasoned commander. “I will be needed in
London for the burial, I presume. He was not close to his family.”

Lucien passed an uneasy glance over his face, trying to read him. “There’s something else.” He reached into his waistcoat and took out a folded piece of paper, handing it to him. “
Sherbrooke’s solicitor has already tried to contact you. I told him I would deliver this. It seems Jason named you guardian of his ward.”

“Damn, I had forgotten,” he murmured, taking the letter. He cracked the seal and unfolded it with a private shudder to recall the conversation after the Battle of Albuera when Sherbrooke, half dead from saber wounds, his right arm gone, had begged him to accept the guardianship of his little orphaned niece if he didn’t survive. Damien had reassured him that, of course, he would.

With a wave of loss that he quickly tamped down, he remembered how
Sherbrooke used to buy souvenirs for the little girl, sending bits of Spanish lace and beads back to
England for her from every town they conquered. Gaudy, colorful scarves, little dolls, satin slippers.

What the devil was her name again?
He skimmed the solicitor’s letter.
Yardley
School
, Warwickshire . . .

He had never seen the child, but he knew she was the bastard daughter of
Sherbrooke’s deceased eldest brother, Viscount Hubert, by his mistress, who had been some sort of actress. Before Albuera, Sherbrooke had spoken often of the lively child, reading her earnest, little-girl letters aloud, to the hilarity of the officers at the mess, but after being maimed, he seemed to forget all about her, withdrawing into himself, drinking ever more heavily.

Ah, yes,
he thought, scanning down the page. That was it.

Miranda.

Just like the girl in Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
. A deuced fanciful name for an English schoolgirl, he thought with a stern frown. No doubt it was the actress’s doing. He supposed the chit was fourteen or fifteen by now—or had she passed that age years ago? he wondered with a sudden flicker of uneasiness. He brushed it aside. Folding the solicitor’s letter, he tucked it into his breast pocket.

Duty had a galvanizing effect on him. For a man of action, he had felt cut adrift since his regiment had been dissolved at the close of the war. He rolled up his emotions and tucked them away as quickly as a piquet could pull up camp and march. For the first time in weeks, he had some direction. After all, his demons could not haunt him when his mind was fixed on helping other people—his men, his new ward. He would hurry to
London, arrange the memorial service for Jason, and steady his men after this difficult blow. With Lucien’s background in espionage for the Foreign Office, the two of them would help