My Favorite Major (Heroes Returned Book 1) (17 page)

O’Leary shrugged. “’Bout ta ask ye the same thing, sir.”

Tristan glanced around the tavern once more. “I’m looking for a fellow.” Then an idea popped into his mind. “Actually, you might remember him. Tall Welshman. He was with the 69th. Mason. Lieutenant Mason.”

O’Leary shook his head. “Doesna ring a bell.”

With the way Mason had behaved in Belgium, O’Leary had to remember him. “He was the one strutting around like a peacock after Waterloo. Demanding passage on the first transport back to England.”

The Irishman chuckled and then pushed back from the bar. And that was when Tristan realized O’Leary was missing an arm. Dear God in heaven. The sergeant had been injured in the battle? Damn it all to hell. O’Leary was good man, and now…

“
I was probably under a surgeon’s knife at the time or unconscious. Either way, I doona remember your friend.”

“
Hardly a friend,” Tristan muttered to himself. Then he took another look at the Irishman. “What
are
you doing in a place like this, O’Leary?”

The sergeant turned his eyes to the floor. “It’s cheap, and it helps me forget things I’d rather not remember.”

“
You left your regiment,” Tristan surmised aloud. After all, O’Leary wasn’t in uniform, now that he’d taken a good look at him.

A mirthless laugh escaped the Irishman. “Left my regiment? Good, able-bodied men have been tossed aside, Lieutenant. The 27th has no use for a one-armed infantryman, and especially not now.” Then he lifted his dirty tankard with his one hand in a mock toast. “Ta the French for finally surrenderin’ and puttin’ good men out o’ work.”

Never before had Tristan considered that the war ending wasn’t the best outcome for a number of Britain’s soldiers. But O’Leary was right. A number of good men had come home from Belgium and found nothing waiting for them. He’d spent the last few months so preoccupied with his own foolish problems, he hadn’t given much thought to anyone other than himself. But O’Leary didn’t deserve to waste away in the River’s End.

Tristan reached into his pocket, retrieved a vellum card with his name scrawled across it, and handed it to the Irishman. “If by chance Mason does stumble in here, send word to me, will you? I’ll see you generously rewarded.” It was the least he could do, especially as he was fairly certain O’Leary’s pride wouldn’t allow him to take any charity.

The one-time sergeant frowned as he pocketed the card. “Really that important ya find this friend o’ yours, huh?”

Tristan shook his head. “Not a friend. The man I’m looking for shot Major Moore in the back a fortnight ago. The authorities are—”

“
Major Moore?” O’Leary’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “This Mason fellow you’re lookin’ for shot
Major Moore
? Of the 45th?”

Tristan nodded. “As I said, the authorities are looking for him, but I’d like to find the fellow first.”

“
Aye, I bet ya would.” The Irishman scratched his head. “Shot in the back, ya say?”

“
I’m worried Mason might make another attempt, and I’d like to prevent such an occurrence.”

O’Leary agreed with a slow incline of his head. “I know quite a few other fellows who would be happy ta look for Mason too. Some o’ them might remember the peacock ya mentioned earlier.” Then he patted his pocket where he’d tucked Tristan’s card away. I can promise ya, Lieutenant, if the coward’s in London, we’ll find him for ya.”

Philip winced as he tossed on his shirt. His injury still felt tight, but he wasn’t going to get any better staying abed. Doing so would only make him weaker. Amelia wouldn’t like finding him out of his chambers, which was why he needed to dress as quickly as he could and join everyone in the breakfast room before his doting wife could stop him.

He’d slid his jacket on and managed to button his trousers before he heard a knock at his door. Damn it all to hell. “Yes?” he called.

“
Philip?” Cordie’s voice filtered into the room. “Do you have a moment?”

Thank God it was Cordie. Philip breathed a sigh of relief as he reached for his cane. He opened the door himself, which earned him a look of astonishment from the countess. “Morning, Cordie.”

“
Dear Heavens!” She gasped. “What are you doing out of bed? Amelia will—”

“
I am done with lying in beds.” He started past his childhood friend towards the steps. “And I’m done with eating in beds. I want a real meal at a real table.”

Cordie followed him down the corridor. “Do you really think you should be up and around, Philip? Doctor Watts—”

“
Is overly cautious,” Philip finished for her. “I know myself, Cordie. And I know what I need to heal. And lying in bed like an invalid is not it.” He began to carefully descend the stairs. Damn it all. He’d already spent too much time in bed. His leg ached like the devil.

“
But Philip,” she complained from behind him. “I really don’t think now is the best time…”

But he paid her no attention and simply concentrated on finding each step in front of him. Once he reached the bottom of the staircase, he glanced over his shoulder at the countess. “I do hope breakfast is ready.”

Cordie frowned at him as she quickly descended the steps at a pace he would never again master. “You aren’t listening to me, Philip Moore.”

“
And you rarely listen to anyone else. Frustrating, isn’t it?”

She thumped him in the chest. “Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard arrived late last night. I think it would be best—”

“
Amelia’s parents.” His new in-laws.

“
The very ones. That’s why I stopped to see you this morning. Mr. Pritchard isn’t in the best mood and I had thought—”

“
That you’d give him time to adjust to his daughter being married before they met me?”

She sighed. “I just think it would be best.”

She was always thinking something. Trying to find the best way to craft any situation to her liking. Philip smiled at her. “What’s done is done, Cordie. They’ll either like and approve of me, or they won’t. Delaying the inevitable only makes it more painful.”

“
They’ve accepted that Amelia has married you. They did so while you were…”

“
Dying,” he supplied.

“
I wish you wouldn’t say it like that.” Then she shook her head. “It isn’t as though they don’t approve of the match, it’s just that…”

Dear God, he hated it whenever she beat around the bush. “It’s just what?” he prodded, with more bite than he meant. But, damn it to hell, she could frustrate a saint.

“
Well, Amelia hasn’t had the chance to divulge the particulars about Mr. Mason to her parents and…”

“
She’s continuing to let them believe Mason is a trusted neighbor?”

Cordie winced. “Mr. Pritchard isn’t in the best health.”

Women and their sensibilities. Philip shook his head. “And it would be better for the man to be lied to? I hardly think he would appreciate that. I hardly think he would want to aid the man who murdered his son—”

A gasp sounded behind Philip, and Cordie’s face turned to ash. “Mr. Pritchard, have you finished your breakfast?” She brushed past Philip towards the breakfast room. “Is there anything else—”

Philip turned on his heel to find an aged man with wild white hair and brows hunched forwards as though standing straight would be too much of a chore. “What did he say?”

One would have thought with a man as old as Mr. Pritchard appeared, that his hearing would be poor as well. But it seemed as though that faculty was in perfect working order as the man glowered at Philip.

“
Please, Mr. Pritchard, let us retire to the parlor and wait for Amelia to join us.”

But the man glanced past her at Philip. “What is this about murder?”

Amelia sucked in a breath as she heard her father utter the word
murder
. What in the world was going on in the hallway?

Across the breakfast table, her mother’s eyes widened in shock. “What’s all this?”

Amelia shook her head. “Nothing to worry about, Mama,” she said as she rose from her seat. “Stay here.” Then Amelia hastened into the corridor after Papa. Just a few feet away, Cordie stood with… “Philip!” she chastised, stepping further into the hallway. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“
This….” Papa pointed a knobby finger in Philip’s direction. “This is your husband?”

This wasn’t exactly the way she’d planned on introducing Philip to her parents. Of course, she hadn’t planned on seeing her parents at all this morning. Their arrival had been a complete surprise. Still, she found herself nodding as she breezed past her father to Philip’s side. “Papa, this is my husband, Major Philip Moore. Philip, my father, Aldwyn Pritchard.”

“
Let us retire to the parlor, shall we?” Cordie said with feigned brightness and gestured closer to the front of the house with her hand.

“
I want to know,” Papa grumbled, “what you said, young man.”

Heavens! What
had
Philip said? Amelia glanced up at her husband, who looked his usual stoic self, as though he lost every bit of warmth and gentleness he possessed when he left his bedchamber.

Mama took that moment to step into the corridor. “Are we entertaining in the hallway?”

“
We really should adjourn to my green parlor,” Cordie insisted.

“
I think that’s a delightful suggestion, Lady Clayworth,” Mama agreed. “Come along, Al.”

But Papa stubbornly shook his head as he glowered in Philip’s direction. “I’m not moving one step until you tell me what you said.”

“
Philip, what did you say?” Amelia muttered under her breath.

Philip heaved a sigh. “You know I was shot in the back—” he pointed towards the front of the house “—right out there?”

Papa nodded. “Amelia said as much.”

“
But she didn’t tell you the name of my assailant? Or the fact that—”

“
Philip!” Amelia hissed as the ground beneath her feet shifted. He couldn’t tell Papa about Mason or her suspicions about Alan’s death. Not now, not here, not like this. Papa couldn’t possibly understand. “Please,” she begged.