Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel (16 page)

Whereas he had led his men to slaughter.

“Were you taken to Brussels, then?”

Gabriel nodded. “Apparently, I was found three or four days after the battle ended. I never knew where.” He could only imagine what horror that must have been. The battlefield had been littered with the decomposing bodies of men and beasts—all made worse by the mud and humidity. “It is likely a blessing I cannot recall anything of that.”

“Yes. But once you woke, could no one fill in the gaps for you? What about the person who found you alive?”

“No one knows who found me. I simply arrived at a church near Waterloo in an ambulance cart with a few lucky others, clinging to life. I was transferred on to a hospital in Brussels after they were unable to wake me. Since I’d removed my jacket and hat—and the insignia that would have identified me as a British officer—no one even knew who I was until I was able to tell them. Everything that happened between when I set off on my mission and when I awoke is lost to me.”

The men rode side by side, each lost in their own reflection for a time.

Finally, Stratford broke the silence. “I didn’t wake properly for weeks. Fever, you see. I was quite delirious for some time. But when I did awaken, I remembered all,” he said, his voice low. “Every terrifying, excruciating moment.” He turned his gaze to Gabriel, and Gabriel recognized the haunted look in the earl’s eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know which is better.”

Gabriel nodded, and Stratford turned his face back toward the horizon.

Strangely, Gabriel felt lighter after that morose conversation. Perhaps Pen was right. Talking to someone who had experienced some of what he had did make him feel better. Stronger somehow.

Several thoughts struck him with that realization. When he’d first met Penelope, he remembered wondering if she had understood him so well because her cousin’s husband had suffered from the same things he did. It would make sense. After all, Stratford had been campaigning for twelve years, nearly four years longer than Gabriel had. And he’d suffered a grievous injury and painful recovery—if that wasn’t traumatic, Gabriel didn’t know what was.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Stratford had funded the hospital for ex-soldiers that he and his wife ran, and where Penelope worked—because he knew firsthand what men back from the wars struggled with. If the earl had suffered from battle fatigue and made it through, maybe there was hope for him.

He should just ask the man. And yet the very idea made his tongue taste of dust, much like those damned mustaches once had. Men didn’t talk about such things, particularly not with other men.

Still, Penelope seemed to think the talking was helpful.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but may I ask you a rather personal question?”

Stratford turned his face to him. “Of course.”

“I assume—” The damned lump in his throat remained, so he cleared it again. “I assume, what with the hospital and all, you are familiar with battle fatigue.”

The earl dipped his head in a nod.

Gabriel held his gaze, but it took effort. Damn. It was harder to ask the bloody question than it had been to take on the French infantry. “Did you ever suffer from it?”

A kind sympathy clouded Stratford’s eyes. “No. At least not in the way Penelope has described it to me. My war wounds were strictly physical.”

Gabriel looked away from him, his cheeks heating with embarrassment. And anger. What the hell was wrong with him, then? What flaw in his character did he harbor that made him susceptible to this weakness and not Stratford? God damn it.

“Well,
mostly
physical,” Stratford amended after a moment’s thought. “I will admit that I returned to England a changed man. Things that had once seemed so important were now foolish to me. I had difficulty picking up the reins of my old life. It no longer seemed to fit me.”

Gabriel grunted his agreement. Yes—to all of that. But Stratford hadn’t gone mad because of it.

“The people in my life no longer fit, either. Had I not met Liliana . . . Well, she’s truly the one who healed me. I don’t mean physically, though she did help there. She is brilliant that way. But more important, she healed my
soul
. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her,” he said quietly.

Gabriel looked over at him. Men didn’t talk of these things, either. Stratford gave him a half shrug and a wry smile before turning back to the path ahead.

Stratford hadn’t had to make himself vulnerable to him, and Gabriel suspected he’d done so to make him feel at less of a disadvantage. He liked the earl all the more for it.

Only short minutes later, they reached the edge of a wide valley. “Ah, here we are.” Stratford tapped his heel and led his horse onto the narrow path that descended into the small village below.

Gabriel followed behind, coming beside Stratford again when they reached the bottom.

“I thought we were visiting your mining operation,” Gabriel said, his eyes scanning what looked to be the beginnings of an estate village instead. A tidy row of houses seemed to have sprung up from the ground only very recently, their architecture uniform and attractive, mimicking the Palladian styling of Somerton Park’s manor home. The homes had grand mullioned windows that opened onto one side of a small village green, and each of the front doors was painted a muted green that contrasted pleasingly with the red brick.

There was also a larger building that looked a bit older and more temporary in nature, as well as a squat building boasting a sign that declared it a small tavern. A line of what looked to be shops skirted the other side of the green, with a large stone gazebo completing the square at the far end.

“We are,” Stratford said, pointing several yards into the distance, where indeed Gabriel could see a stone façade built unobtrusively into the hill on the far side of the valley. “That’s the entrance to shaft one.”

A squat arch lay in the center of the wall, the black entrance to the tunnel covered with metal bars. Somewhere deep within that hill, miners worked to drag wagons of lead ore back to the surface. Gabriel’s throat tightened just thinking about it.

“Two is over there.” Stratford pointed to another hill farther on, with a similar entrance cut into it. “And we plan to sink three next year. I’d hoped to have it in operation this year, but splitting my time and funds between this and the soldiers’ hospital has slowed things down a bit.”

“And this village?” Gabriel asked, intrigued.

“Is where the men who work here live. I opened my land to mining only so that I could employ ex-soldiers, you see. They’ve come from all over England to settle here, and we put the profits into building housing and such first, and then once we’re solvent, we hope to fund more employment projects.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, looking around at the small village with renewed interest. He’d known that Stratford had fought tirelessly in Parliament the past years to better the plight of the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who’d returned to England without prospects. His admiration for the man grew when he realized that Stratford had put his own personal fortune where his mouth was, as well.

“Most of the men live in the barracks there, as they have no families,” he said, pointing to the more temporary barnlike building Gabriel had noticed. “However, as they marry, we are working on building homes suited for wives and children. Already there are several wives, a few infants and even the occasional toddler. I imagine we’ll have a right village before we know it.”

Stratford exhaled with what seemed to be satisfaction as he surveyed what he had created. Gabriel felt a stab of envy. The earl was doing something of meaning with his life and with his resources. He had
purpose.

The restlessness that had gnawed at Gabriel these past years bit viciously now, the pain of it—of the utter uselessness he’d been reduced to—streaked through his chest.

Stratford brought his mount to a stop near the barracks and dismounted, tying his horse off. Gabriel slipped off of his own mount, securing the chestnut next to Stratford’s.

The earl pulled a timepiece from his breeches pocket by its fob and checked it. “My foreman should be meeting us here any moment.” He glanced toward the mine entrance, squinting. “And right on time.”

Slipping the watch back into its pocket, he nodded to a stocky man who emerged from the entrance of shaft one. The foreman looked to be no older than they and carried himself with the swift, confident stride of a military man.

The two shook hand like old friends. “Tom,” Stratford greeted.

“Major,” the man returned with a smile, confirming Gabriel’s impression.

Stratford made the introductions, and then the foreman asked, “Are you ready to inspect the new section of tunnel?”

“Indeed,” Stratford answered, and followed the foreman toward the gaping black hole in the earth. He glanced over his shoulder. “Coming, Bromwich?”

Like hell. “I prefer to remain aboveground, if it’s all the same,” he said as nonchalantly as he could around his tightening throat.

“Suit yourself,” Stratford said amiably. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Feel free to look around. Pop into the tavern, if you like.”

Gabriel gave a nod of assent. He turned away, unable even to watch the black hole swallow the two men.

He didn’t go straight to the tavern, though the need for a drink was strong after all he’d revealed to Stratford earlier. Instead he wandered around the small village, marveling at what the earl had created here. He walked the line of shops first. Some were empty, waiting for the village to grow to fit them. However, a baker was hard at work, as was a smithy and a combination draper/tailor. As Gabriel walked along, the shopkeepers gave him curious but friendly nods.

On the other side of the green were the cottages. Gabriel stopped at one on the far end and peered inside through a window. It looked to be empty. He decided to try the door and found it unlocked. “Anyone here?” he called into the cottage before opening the door fully.

When no one answered, he walked in. Feeble though the winter sunlight was, it cast enough light through the windows for him to appreciate the fine aspects of the cottage. Though not overly large, the design made good use of the space. It was far nicer than any of the tenant cottages on his own estate in Birminghamshire.

Gabriel imagined the men who lived and worked here counted themselves lucky, and not just because of the fine accommodations. The plight of too many ex-soldiers was perilous indeed, and Stratford had saved them from an uncertain future. It seemed the earl was a hero on and off the battlefield, whereas he was struggling to manage even his own life—his very sanity. What good was
he
to anyone?

After a half hour or so, he found his way to the pub. The pleasant earthy scents of wood smoke, roasting meats and ale greeted him as he pushed into the tavern. Like everything else in the village, the taproom was clean and new with bright, airy windows. It was also empty, save for one barmaid who was wiping down tables. She didn’t even glance up when she heard the bell, only said, “You lot are early today. Well, you know the drill. Sit anywhere you like. Luncheon will be ready soon.”

Gabriel chose a chair near one of the large windows and stared out over the green, still thinking of the power of purpose in one’s life. Stratford had it in spades, and it seemed to bring him great satisfaction. Penelope had spoken of it, as well. About how her work had given her life meaning after Michael’s suicide. Had given her a reason to go on.

The gnawing in his chest had settled into a dull ache, but now it flared up again. He had been ambitious once. A leader of men. But his illness had stripped him, laid him bare, and he despaired of ever being that man again. After all, who in their right mind would ever follow a madman?

Who even had need of one?

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the barmaid said. He turned away from the window to face her. “What can I get for y—”

The girl’s eyes widened with recognition, much the same as his must have.

“Major Devereaux?” she said wonderingly. “Is it really you?”

T
he young woman’s eyes went even wider as she slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, a pox on it. I mean Lord Bromwich, o’course.”

Gabriel couldn’t resist a grin at her salty language. You could take the girl off of the battlefield . . . “Mary Finley,” he said warmly, coming to his feet to greet her. “Is that really you?”

As she bobbed her head, he marveled at the changes in her. She might still sound like the woman he’d known, but everything else had changed—and for the better. When he’d last seen Mary, she’d been gaunt and sallow skinned, her blue eyes dull and haunted. The woman who stood before him now looked as healthy as a country milkmaid, her cheeks full and rosy, and her eyes twinkled in a way that turned her rather plain features quite lovely.

She flashed him a happy smile. “Hard to believe, in’it?”

It was. Not that he was being uncharitable, but Mary had not lived an easy life as an unofficial camp follower, living, working—and sometimes fighting—alongside the army as they battled their way across the Continent.

She’d been a very young peasant girl who’d followed her beloved to Spain, but he’d fallen at Badajoz. Gabriel didn’t like to think of the things she must have done to survive unprotected. It was only several months later that Gabriel had come to know her, when she’d attached herself to his regiment and had become a regular fixture around their campfire. Eventually, she and one of his lieutenants had grown quite close.

“Whatever are you doing
here?
” he asked, still trying to reconcile the Mary of his mind with the girl before him.

Her cheeks flushed, and she twisted her apron between her fingers. “You’re not angry with me, are you, m’lord? I know you went out of your way to get me that position at the Silver Swan, and I appreciated it, I did. But I met a nice man there, and then he got on here at the mine and—” She shrugged ruefully.

So that explained how she’d gone from working at the inn in Birmingham where he’d placed her to a pub on the Earl of Stratford’s private estate in Shropshire.

“But I would hate it if you thought me ungrateful,” she finished, her face scrunched with worry.

“Don’t even think it,” he assured her. “I only ever wanted to make certain you had a roof over your head and decent prospects after . . .”

Mary pressed her lips together and nodded, neither of them having to finish the sentence: after Lieutenant Baker had fallen during that fateful mission at Waterloo and left her once again alone.

She breathed in and put a smile back on her face, even if her eyes had saddened with memory. “Well, I got a right fine roof over my head now.” She pointed out of the window at the row of cottages. “That third door is me and my husband’s. And by summer’s end, our baby’s, too,” she said, settling her hands over her middle.

“That’s wonderful, Mary—er,
Mrs. . . . ?
”

Her smile widened then, revealing a dimple in her cheek he’d never noticed before. “It’s Mary Landings, now, m’lord,” she said proudly.

“Well, my felicitations on both counts, Mrs. Landings.” Gabriel heard the distant tinkling of a bell behind him—the door opening, most likely. It seemed as if the lunch crowd was arriving.

Mary reached out and took both of his hands, her eyes bright with suspicious moisture. “I’m only glad I got to see you again so I could thank you proper. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” She squeezed his hands to emphasize her point. “And don’t think I’ll ever be forgetting it. You didn’t have to do what you done, not even for the
real
widows you helped—much less a girl like me. You’re an
angel
, m’lord—just like your namesake,” she finished, her face flushing red.

Then she reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek before dropping his hands and skirting past him to greet the incoming patrons.

Gabriel stood there a long moment, a bemused smile on his face. He’d been called many things in his life, but despite his given name,
angel
had never been one of them. Michael had always been the one who’d drawn that comparison, with his blond good looks, Byronesque features and charm. Whereas Gabriel had always been considered raw boned and earthy, not to mention brooding—even before the war changed him.

Nor did he think he deserved to be called angelic now. What he’d done for Mary Landings had cost him nothing but some coin, of which he had plenty to spare. Sure, it had taken some time and effort on his part to track her down, but he’d owed her that after sending Baker to his death.

The familiar guilt twinged, but curiously, not as strongly as usual. Seeing Mary happy, healthy and well settled filled him with a deep sense of reward that seemed to push out the guilt—or at least not allow it as much space in his chest. The gratitude that had shone in her eyes had both humbled him and honored him.

He had made a difference in her life. And small though it was, just knowing that made a difference in
his
. He’d forgotten what that felt like.

“The service is quite friendly here, I see.”

Gabriel started at Penelope’s voice, turning to find her standing a few feet behind him. He blinked and looked again. She was dressed in her customary black, with some sort of small bonnet tied on at a jaunty angle. As always, despite its dour color, her ensemble was quite proper and fashionable. But that wasn’t the reason he’d had to look twice.

No, it was that Penelope looked far from proper in it. Her color was high and her hair decidedly mussed. And she was windblown, judging from all that and the slight chafing on her cheeks. She must have ridden here like the devil. Blond ringlets had pulled away from their pins and now clung to her face much as he imagined they would if a lover were to run his fingers through her locks and let them fall where they may.

It was all too reminiscent of how she’d looked last night in the carriage—save that last night, her lips had been red and swollen from his kisses. His blood heated, even as his eyes dropped to her mouth.

Christ, he certainly felt anything but angelic now.

“Pen,” he said, his voice gruff with sudden arousal. “What a lovely surprise.” He stepped closer, delighted when her flush deepened. Was she, too, remembering their kiss?

But the look she gave him was not one of desire. Instead, curiosity and—could it be jealousy?—narrowed her eyes. “Do you know that barmaid?”

He glanced over to where Mary was laughing with a table of patrons as she served them their ale. Then he returned his gaze to Pen. Oh yes, her eyes had a little more green to them right now, did they? The fact pleased him. Very much. “Yes.”

Pen narrowed her eyes on him expectantly, and he took pity on her.

“From the wars. She was the”—he thought how to put it delicately—“
inamorata
of one of my lieutenants.”

Understanding lit her face. “I see,” she murmured. And she likely did. It was a little-discussed reality of military life—never mentioned in polite circles, of course. But having worked so closely with soldiers, Penelope had to have heard of the camp followers.

While each company allowed four to six wives to travel with their husbands, the army tended to turn a blind eye to the other women who followed along. Many soldiers picked up companions along the way, sometimes from amongst the local populations, sometimes taking on the lover of a fallen comrade.

The women were expected to earn their keep by cooking, washing and, all too often, nursing the wounded—among other duties.

“She seemed to very much appreciate some service you did her,” Penelope said, not even trying to disguise her interest.

She’d been listening to their conversation? His humor fled. He’d been prepared to tell her how he knew Mary, but nothing more. “I—”

The tavern door slammed open, cracking against the wall as a boisterous group of miners piled in, their laughter loud and jarring. The small room was filling quickly, and soon it would be rather crowded.

Gabriel took Penelope by the shoulders and gently turned her, placing an arm behind her back to usher her toward the door. “Let us walk outside,” he suggested.

Penelope allowed Gabriel to escort her out of the tavern. She’d noticed him startle at the sudden noise, but he’d hidden it well. He’d obviously not gone down into the mine with Geoffrey, either, so she really had nothing to be concerned about.

Except for her own feelings.
They
were certainly cause for alarm. She cared for Gabriel much more than was wise. She’d acknowledged that fact as she’d demanded Geoffrey’s dog cart be made ready in the stables. What else could explain the reckless disregard for her own safety as she’d raced the two-wheeled conveyance over dangerously hilly countryside, just to make sure Gabriel was well? To be here in case he’d needed her?

It was ridiculous, really.

What was
more
ridiculous was the burst of jealousy that had torn through her when that barmaid had taken Gabriel’s hands and kissed him so familiarly. He had responded warmly to the woman, as well. There was some sort of deep connection between them, and it left Penelope feeling, well, protective.

She snorted. Who was she kidding? She didn’t feel protective. She felt possessive.

And that was not good, either.

That didn’t stop her from wanting an explanation, though. She slipped her arm through his as he led her down the steps and into a stroll along the green.

“You were saying?” she prodded.

They walked along the green in silence for a few moments, until Penelope began to wonder if he planned to answer her at all.

Then he cleared his throat. “Mary, ah, accompanied my regiment for the better part of two years.”

The maid had been a camp follower?

Penelope glanced up at him and saw that a spot of color dotted his cheek. Was he embarrassed? He shouldn’t be. She’d known the moment his lips had taken hers yesterday that Gabriel was a man of strong appetites. She would hardly expect him not to have taken his ease where he could during his years away from England.

Not that his celibacy or lack thereof was any of her business, of course.

“Mary was a game girl. Always willing to work hard and do her part in camp with a cheerful attitude. During the six months or so before Waterloo, she and one of my lieutenants developed a more exclusive arrangement.”

They tipped their heads to a shopkeeper who was sweeping his entrance.

“I have no way of knowing what Lieutenant Baker’s intentions toward Mary were after the war, nor will I ever. He died at Waterloo.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wondering where this was leading. He could have stopped his explanation at “camp follower,” but she sensed there was more to the story.

“Did you know that when our armies departed Belgium and France, scores of women and children were left on the bloody battlefields to fend for themselves, without the protection of a man?” he went on.

Penelope felt herself blanch. “Alone?”

“Yes.” Gabriel’s voice had gone gruff with emotion. “And not just widows and camp followers whose men had fallen. The army only took responsibility for officers’ wives and four to six officially sanctioned wives per hundred enlisted men. They were the only women allowed on the transport back to England. The rest of the men’s wives and children were stranded with no provisions and no way home. It is one of the uglier realities of war.”

“How awful,” she whispered, her heart squeezing. She’d felt stranded without Michael. Adrift, without mooring. But even as badly as things had ended, at least she’d been safe in England, with a home and an income and the support of her family. Tears pricked her eyes. Those poor women and children.

And then she just knew.
“You found Mary and brought her home with you, didn’t you?”

By this time, they had reached the large rectangular gazebo anchored at the rear of the green. Gabriel assisted her up the two steps and through the middle arch of the entrance. He led her to one of the stone benches in the center and released her arm then, stepping back from her.

“I did. And when we arrived in England, I helped her find stable employment and a place to live. That is all.”

“That is all? Gabriel, that was”—that was more than even their own country had done; it was kind and noble and—“heroic.”

He flinched at the word. What an odd reaction. There were yet more revelations roiling under the surface; she was sure of it.

Then she remembered something else Mary had said, something about
real
widows.

“You helped more than just Mary, didn’t you?”

He tipped his head dismissively. “Yes.”

After a moment, she realized he meant not to say anything more. Well, she wasn’t going to let him get away with that. Whatever he wasn’t saying had to be an important clue as to why he suffered so. “Why?” she challenged.

A great heaving breath left his lungs as he scrubbed his hands over his face, and she knew she’d been right to push him. He pivoted away from her, walking a few steps to drop onto one of the ornately carved benches nearby. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “It was the only decent thing I could do, since it was my fault their husbands were dead.”

Penelope caught her breath. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she murmured as she followed him to the bench and sat beside him.

“Oh, it is.” He lifted his head just a little, turning his face to her. His eyebrow was raised with a cocksure tilt, and he huffed. “I suppose this is one of those moments when you will say that I must talk it out for my own good.” His lips turned up in a half smile that was both boyish and wounded, and that tugged at her heart.

She simply lifted an eyebrow in answer.

“I knew you were going to say that,” he grumbled lightly. Gabriel straightened in his seat, leaning back now with his hands clasped over his stomach. He didn’t look at her but fixed his gaze out over the green. “It was late in the afternoon and the battle had been raging for nearly seven hours . . .”

Penelope sat in silence, listening as Gabriel told her a story of messages between Wellington and a Prussian general, of skirmishes that threatened a planned rendezvous point, of a dangerous mission across enemy lines for which he’d handpicked men who had all gone to their deaths. He spoke haltingly, and though she longed to reach over and soothe him, she did not wish to stop the flow of words.