The Lily Brand (15 page)

Tiredness lent weight to his bones until his whole body ached, until he walked like an old man, bent over by life. Around him, all was silent. These days the spacious study on the second floor felt like a tomb, with the walls pressing down on him, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Troy dug the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. His fingers clenched on the flesh of his face. How he longed to mold these bones and blood into a new form. How he longed to wipe away all traces of the last few years.

Sometimes his throat was still raw from the acrid smoke of gunfire; his ears still rang from the roar of the cannons; sometimes his nose still quivered from the smell of sweat and fear, leather and horses, from the smell of death and of gunpowder, threatening to choke him. And then there were the other memories. Of the stench of that prison, the shuffling of bodies, the crack of a whip and the sting on his skin. Memories of humiliation and pain and utter helplessness. He did not dwell long on those memories, for they made his hands shake with anger. They made him want to roar and drive his fist against the wall.

And they made him fear to break down as he had on his wedding night.

He drew in a shuddering breath. He had buried himself in his work to forget. Yet it seemed that the memories would never leave, would never cease to torment him. They were there, night and day, each hour and each minute. There was no escape.

A shudder wracked his body. God, how tired he was. So tired.

In the distance a dog barked. Troy lifted his head.

He had not owned a dog since he was sixteen and buried Luned. At first, he had not wanted a new dog after Luned. And later, on the battlefields of Europe, he had not needed a dog. There had only been Brueberry the Horrible.

Troy sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Linking his fingers at his neck, he leaned his head back. On top of everything else, he was now suffering from hallucinations— ghosts of the past calling for him, a dog, a friend long dead. “What a mess,” he muttered. “What a bloody, bloody mess.”

Another bark sounded, closer this time, and now it seemed to him that he could also hear the distant pounding of hooves. He shook his head, then stood and leaned forward to open the window. His study overlooked the drive and the entrance to the Hall, yet the thick foliage of the old oak trees prevented him from discerning anything on the path beneath. However, the thunder of hooves carried clearly up to the house, and soon it was joined by the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel and joyful canine barks once more.

Obviously, he was about to have visitors.

Troy sighed.

You would expect that the north of England was far enough removed from London to prevent anybody from getting it into his head to come for an impromptu country house party.

He scratched his left eyebrow.

At least it was not his grandmother. She detested animals. And it could not be his aunt and uncle either, for even though the Marquis of Waldron kept a few pointers at his country estate, the marchioness was mortally afraid of dogs. She was mortally afraid of quite a lot of things. One time, when Troy had still been a boy, she had nearly screamed the house down upon finding a teeny-weeny spider in her chamberpot.

Troy grinned at the memory.

He had been twelve, and it had taken him hours to find and catch that particular spider. And his seven-year-old cousin, trying to outshine him, had fallen into the fishpond the next day in an effort to catch a frog.

Troy’s grin faded. Alex had been a featherbrain even at that young age.

Troy sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. Of course, he was doing Alex an injustice. His cousin was no worse than the other young bucks around town—irresponsible, vain, and generally scatterbrained.

He looked back out the window just as the first pair of dusty black horses came into view. Now he could also discern male laughter among the excited barks. Soon the black barouche, drawn by six horses and looking a bit the worse for wear, pulled up into the forecourt. The top of the barouche was folded back so that the three sleek, silver gray dogs with floppy ears could thrust their heads over the side of the carriage and herald their excitement to the world. The rims of dusty high hats screened the faces of the two men lounging on the seats of the carriage, yet Troy knew the timbre of their voices and the coat of arms painted on the side of the barouche, and his knees went weak with relief.

Leaning forward and supporting his weight with one hand on the windowpane, he put two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.

Coachman, dogs, barouche-drivers, and footmen—his and theirs—all looked up.

“Hey, you pair of rascals,” he shouted, “have you lost your way, or what?”

The dogs jumped out of the carriage, wildly barking, and chased each other around the vehicle, causing the horses to neigh and snort in disdain. One of the men in the carriage, his white teeth flashing in a grin, nudged his companion and hollered over the din: “Look, Justin, the rumors have been quite wrong: He has
not
gone and moved to a cave in the woods.”

“A cave in the woods?” Troy infused his voice with mock dismay before he laughed. “Hold on, boys. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He gladly abandoned his desk and hurried through his study to throw the door to the hallway open. As he dashed toward the main staircase, he could already hear the jumble in the hall below, and it seemed to him that his heart must surely start to sing in his chest. He skipped down the stairs, taking two at a time, and rushed through the big hall, past his butler, who attempted to straighten tufty gray hair and direct the footmen at the same time. In truth, they needed little direction, for they had already begun to carry the luggage inside and upstairs.

Troy pressed past them outside, where next to the carriage curious canine noses and outstretched arms awaited him.

“Troy, my boy!” Drake, tall, athletic and with an ever-merry twinkle in his green eyes, pulled him into a tight embrace. “God, it’s good to see you!” His voice wavered slightly. As if to make up for it, he thumped Troy’s back a few times before he pulled back in order to have a better look at him. His hand gripped the back of Troy’s neck and shook him lightly. “Look at you!
Look
at you!” Suddenly there were tears in his eyes and once again, he enveloped Troy in a tight hug.

“Sweeting,” a nasal drawl was to be heard, “it will not really do to crush the poor fellow to death, you know.”

“Jus, you can be a pest at times,” Drake mumbled into Troy’s shoulder.

“Shut up and give him to me,” came the affectionate reply, and then Troy found himself within the circle of another pair of strong arms. “Hello, my boy.” Troy was rocked from side to side in a slow motion. “I see you’ve gained a bit of flesh on your ribs in the past few months.”

“I have.” Troy smiled against Justin’s dusty greatcoat.

“Good. Good.” After a last tightening of his arms, Justin finally released him. “And here we are.” He threw his arms wide. “Tweedledee and Tweedledum, complete with bag and baggage.”

“And dogs.” Drake grinned. “Sit, girls.” Three silver-gray doggie bottoms hit the gravel with a crunch. “Troy, meet Anna, Sophie and Marie, our wonderfully wicked Weimaraners, a present from our dear friend Ludwig von Müffert.”

“Our wonderfully wicked Weimaraners, which are finally and thankfully free of worms and fleas and thus fit for civilized company,” Justin added. Even though his voice did not lose its normal nasal twang, the softening of his features betrayed his affection for the dogs.

Troy smiled. A hard nut, Justin de la Mere, at least on the outside, with his façade of polite boredom, but all mushy and soft inside.

He watched how Justin’s eyes lifted from the dogs to Drake and how the man’s features softened even more. Troy’s smile widened. He had known these two since his first week at Eton, when the three of them had banded together to prevent being bullied by the older boys. They were not really like the twins from the old song, Justin and Drake, more like night and day in coloring. Where Drake Bainbridge, Viscount Allenbright, was all pale English skin, sparkling green eyes and shiny, golden hair, Justin de la Mere had inherited the olive-hued skin of his southern French ancestors, Huguenot immigrants of two centuries past, as well as the chocolate brown eyes and the black curls, which he kept cropped short. He was of slighter build than Drake, yet his agility and his wiry strength made him a deadly opponent with both
épée
and rapier.

Troy slung his arms over Drake’s and Justin’s shoulders. “I am damn glad to see you and to have you here. You, too, girls.” Grinning, he inclined his head toward the three dogs. “Let’s go inside. You must want to freshen up, and if I’m not mistaken there’s a mighty good old port hidden somewhere in my cellars.”

“Indeed.” Justin whistled to the dogs to follow them. Tails wagging and floppy ears flying, Anna, Sophie and Marie scrambled off and darted past the men. “I guess we’ve got some catching up to do, too.”

“Do we?” Troy raised his brows.

“London news might take a while to reach the outposts of civilization in Cornwall,” Drake remarked dryly, “but even there we eventually heard that you’ve gone and got yourself a wife.”

His friend’s last words acted like a needle to Troy’s bubble of joy. He gave a harsh laugh and let go of their shoulders. “So you’ve come all the way from Cornwall to find out whether it’s true?” He could not prevent his voice from taking on a bitter tone.

He noticed how his two friends exchanged a look.

“No,” Drake said lightly. “In fact we’ve come to drink the cellars of Bair Hall dry since you haven’t invited us to the wedding.”

Troy’s answer came out harsher than he intended. “That might be because there was no wedding feast.”

“No wedding feast?” Justin’s brows rose high. “My dear chap, this sounds as if you’ve got yourself into a bloody scrape.”

Sighing, Troy rubbed his temple. “I apologize for sounding clipped. I…” He rolled his shoulders, then shrugged.

Drake reached up to grab Troy’s shoulder. He searched Troy’s face, undoubtedly noticing the dark rings under his friend’s eyes. “Never mind, old friend,” he said softly. “We’re here now and we’re here to stay for a while. As Jus has said, we’re here with bag and baggage.” His teeth flashed in a quick smile.

“And dogs.” Troy smiled back. “And I’m glad for it. Really. Let’s meet in the library after you two have restored your natural beauty.”

Drake lightly nudged Troy’s chin with his fist. “That’s my boy.”

“My lord!” An agitated Hill descended the stairs to the entrance of the Hall. “My lord!” His face beet red, he came to a skittering halt in front of his master. “My lord…” He took a deep breath.

Troy raised his brows. “Yes?”

“My lord,” Hill informed him in his best butler-voice, “the dogs have hunted down the Bear.”

Troy blinked. “The bear,” he echoed.

“No, no, my lord,
the
Bear.” Hill looked at him expectantly, then obviously felt compelled to elaborate: “The first Earl of Ravenhurst’s bear, my lord. It fell down.”

“Oh dear,” Drake said. “Weimaraners are bred to hunt bears and deer.”

“Then they’ll probably enjoy their stay at the Hall.” Troy felt his lips twitch. “Let’s hope they’ll leave great-great-grandfather’s deer heads on the wall.” The weariness lifted from his shoulders.

It was good to have friends.

~*~

The chill of the evening had settled on the land by the time Lillian slipped into the Hall through a side entrance. Her curls, liberally dotted with wilting daisies, whirled around her head like a cloud made of sunshine and the perfume of flowers. Smiling, Lillian twirled a brown lock around her finger. After a day spent out in the open, she felt strong and healthy as if all darkness had been wiped away from her world. Her feet hardly touched the stone stairs as she danced up to the little room under the roof. But when she threw open the door, she skittered to an abrupt halt, nearly colliding with the imposing figure of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the housekeeper, fists on her rounded hips.

“There you are!” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s nose quivered with indignation. “My Lord Ravenhurst has enquired for you.” Lillian’s eyes darted past the housekeeper to the comer where Nanette sat with her knitting needles. The old woman gave her a reassuring smile.

“…scandalous behavior! You are awaited in the drawing room. Well, in the dining room, now, more likely. Where have you been? Have you any idea what you look like? Is that a grass stain there on your skirt? And what’s that? Daisies?”

Lillian stood very still. She felt the warmth of happiness fade, while the outside world pressed into her little haven, reality intruding into her happy dream.

“Really, this is no fit behavior for the Countess of Ravenhurst! And no proper dress, no proper wardrobe at hand! Everything packed away! I had Millie go through the trunks and iron that green dress over there.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick waved her hand, pointing in the general direction of the bed, where a pale green evening gown was laid out. “As if the maids didn’t have enough to do with all the excitement and the guests.”

“Guests?” Lillian asked.

“Of course, guests. That’s why his lordship wishes for your presence in the dining room. Immediately!” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s small, pale-lashed eyes narrowed. “And no proper dress ready! A shame this! A—”

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I think this is quite enough,” Nanette’s soft voice interrupted.

“Enough?
Enough?
” The housekeeper rounded on her. “The family is going to ruins. I wonder what the Dowager Countess would have to say to the behavior of your ward. Ashamed, she would be. I—”

“Leave.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, Lillian interrupted the tirade in an icy-quiet voice. How dare this woman talk to Nanette like that? This woman would not bring back the darkness into their lives.

“What?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned to gape at her, her thin lips slightly opened.

Standing straight, her head raised, Lillian looked at the woman while anger flowed through her veins. She reveled in its heady power. “If I remember correctly, it was you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who assigned this room to me after Lord Ravenhurst made it clear that he does not want me in the family apartments.” Her lips lifted to form a chilly little smile. At Château du Marais she had had opportunity enough to study the fine art of demanding respect from the servants. “You must have known that the room lacks a proper wardrobe for my clothes. So it would appear this is entirely
your
fault.”