Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (5 page)

L
ucinda wiped at the moisture accumulating on the inside of the thin windowpane. For nearly two months, she had explored every resource at her disposal in determining what she might do to survive her nightmare. “It would have proved more profitable if I could have explained why I wished to know more of Mr. Warren’s service in Spain,” she grumbled under her breath. She wore several layers to keep warm. Coal cost more than Lucinda could afford, and she and the boy had come to wear much of their respective wardrobes to ward off the chill and the dampness. Turning to the child, she announced, “The rain has stopped. We should see to our errands and a bit of air while we might.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” The boy obediently retrieved his jacket. It was already too small for the lad. She wondered how she was to provide for the child. Of course, Lucinda could always turn Simon over to the authorities, but the thought of the sensitive, frail boy in one of the orphanages fortified her resolve to find a means to save him. She had considered swallowing her pride and begging her uncle for assistance, but Lucinda doubted the Earl of Charleton would take kindly to her asking for funds to raise a Jewish child belonging to her late husband. No, Lucinda would avoid the rumor of ruin awaiting her on the earl’s steps for as long as she could.

Thirty minutes saw her approaching the small park she and the boy frequented when the weather permitted. Mrs. Peterman had presented Simon with a small ball, and the boy enjoyed working it up and down a low hill with intricate footwork. Lucinda brushed off a bench with a handkerchief. “You must stay where I may see you,” she cautioned. She always worried on how other children might treat the child. “I shall rest here while you enjoy yourself.”

Simon smiled largely. The boy’s spontaneity surprised her. He was usually so serious-faced. The gesture made him more childlike. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

Lucinda watched him go. The well-worn ball twirling through the brown grass. There were days she cursed the boy’s appearance in her life, but she had never cursed the child. It was no fault on Simon’s part for what had occurred. “Likely someone would have discovered Captain Warren’s perfidy before long,” she murmured. Lucinda had taken to thinking and speaking of her late husband as either “Mr.” or “Captain” Warren. She meant to distance herself from everything for which Matthew Warren stood.

“Mrs. Warren?” Lucinda looked up to see a freckled-faced young man standing before her. Hat in hand, he bowed awkwardly to her.

A familiar face, Lucinda laughed easily. “Lieutenant Worsley? My goodness. To think we have met again after all these years.” She patted the bench beside her. “If you have a few moments, please join me.” After Matthew’s death and that of her father, Lucinda had quickly come to the conclusion she had no true friends, only a string of acquaintances, who had waltzed in and out of her life. The man standing before her was one such acquaintance.

“I would be honored, Ma’am.” With a blush of color on his cheeks, the young lieutenant sat stiffly on the other end of the bench. “I could not believe my eyes when I crossed the street and spotted you upon this very bench,” he said on a nervous exhalation.

The man was likely several years older than she, but his actions said otherwise. The former lieutenant was quite discomfited. “How long have you been in London?” she asked in politeness.

“We only arrived this week.” He nervously ran his finger along the line of his cravat.

Lucinda nearly felt sorry for him. She had not known Lieutenant Worsley well, but she had always noted how he stumbled over his words when he was in the presence of a woman. She assumed him quite naïve, but that had been years prior. Should not the war have given the man more confidence? “We?” she inquired. “With your family or your betrothed perhaps?” She could not erase the teasing tone from her words. Since coming to London, she had known very little company, and it was good to speak to a familiar face.

Worsley fingered his hat. “Oh, no, Ma’am. I am not the one betrothed, but my sister has made a fine match with Sir Robert O’Dell. Mother insisted we come up from Surrey to have a proper dress made for the nuptials. Mama seems to think I should take in some of the entertainments. She believes I
require a wife to ease my way into Society.” Lucinda doubted a wife would cure the man’s bashfulness. He swallowed deeply. “Is Captain Warren in London also? I would enjoy an evening with someone who speaks of all I have seen. It is sometimes difficult for others to accept honesty in my responses.”

Lucinda knew immediate regret. Perhaps, more than shyness plagued the man. Those who served had suffered, even if they had survived the devastation. “I fear Captain Warren met his Maker a year before Waterloo. I am alone in the City. I have only recently left behind my mourning weeds for Mr. Warren and for the colonel.” In reality, she wished she had never mourned Matthew’s passing.

“Your father also?” Worsley said incredulously.

“Yes, at Waterloo.” Lucinda would not tell him how foolishly she had responded when the French approached. Sometimes, she wondered if her father would have survived if she had not acted so uncharacteristically.

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before the lieutenant said, “You must pardon my familiarity, Ma’am, but I do not understand how you could be permitted to live without the guidance of a man.”

Lucinda knew many males would not approve of her actions. “As you have said, Lieutenant Worsley, those who were not on the Continent cannot understand the conditions under which we lived. Even the women who followed the drum hold a different perspective of what is important in life. I fear an afternoon tea with companions speaking of frills and lace holds no attraction for me.”

“Are you one of those bluestockings?” Worsley snarled with displeasure. The man must learn to curb his tongue if he meant to find a wife. Where had the lieutenant’s timidity gone? Had it all been an act? Or was it she who had erred? Her experience with men had always been related to the war. She had no means of knowing when to speak her mind and when to temper her words.

She said calmly, “I have always been a reader, but I am far from advocating universal suffrage. Moreover, I must insist my life is my own concern.” Lucinda reached for her gloves.

The lieutenant stood quickly. “Please forgive me, Ma’am. I have spoken out of turn.”

Lucinda noted the remorse upon the man’s countenance. “I am not annoyed with you, Lieutenant,” she said dutifully, although she was embarrassed to admit how she had come to this moment.

Worsley’s Adam’s apple worked hard. “I truly meant no disrespect, Mrs. Warren. England has changed much in the decade I was away. I am often at sixes and sevens it seems.”

“As are we all,” she said compliantly.

He shuffled his feet in place. “Would it be?” Tentativeness had returned. “Would it be acceptable for me to call upon you while I am in London?”

Lucinda stood also. “Your offer is greatly appreciated, Lieutenant, but we should each find a means to return to English society. It would be wrong of us to seek comfort in each other.” Her words sounded foolish, but Mr. Worsley nodded his agreement.

“You speak with reason, Mrs. Warren. The captain would have been proud to call you his wife,” he declared.

Lucinda kept the scorn from her expression, but not totally from her tone. “I am certain Captain Warren rewarded his wife with his devotion,” she said enigmatically. She spoke the truth: Mr. Warren had devoted himself to his wife; the only exception was she was not that woman. She extended her hand to the lieutenant. “I wish you well, Mr. Worsley. Find your happiness and seize it tightly to you.”

A look of confusion crossed the man’s countenance He accepted her hand and bent to kiss her glove. “I pray I know the happiness you did with Captain Warren, Ma’am.”

Lucinda withdrew her fingers from the man’s grasp. As a squire’s son, Mr. Worsley would do well among the genteel sect. “I pray you know happiness beyond what you observed in my stead.”

Carter frowned as he read the missive. Much had happened since he had seen his parents aboard
The Northern Star
. First, he had led an operation, which had confiscated a large supply of opium entering England: then he had set about dismantling the vessel to search for clues to the whereabouts of Murhad Jamot, a known enemy of the Realm. Gabriel Crowden had reported seeing Jamot aboard
The Sea Spray
when they had staged their take over, and although Carter had initially declared his disbelief in the marquis’s account, he knew the Marquis of Godown would never have said as such if it were not true.

Thinking on the marquis’s report brought Carter a moment of regret, and he prayed he had not permanently damaged his relationship with Lord Godown. His actions had been a great mistake. Carter had fished Lady Godown from the water. The woman and the marquis’s elderly aunts had been taken captive; when the marquise had escaped, Godown’s wife had attempted an impossible swim for shore in the icy waters off England’s coast. As he carried Lady Godown to her husband’s waiting arms, an unusual loneliness had invaded Carter’s heart.

He had lifted the marquise into his arms before light-footing his way from the small boat to the lower planking. “You do that very well, Sir Carter,” Lady Godown had murmured from where her head rested below his chin. “I imagine you are an excellent dancer.”

The woman’s words had brought a smile to Carter’s lips. It had felt a lifetime since he had experienced the teasing tone of a handsome woman. He had admitted, if only to himself, to enjoying the warmth of Lady Godown’s breath against the base of his neck. At the time, he had wondered how it would feel to carry his own wife into his bedroom and to know the happiness the other of his unit had discovered. Without thinking, he had kissed the soft fuzz at the crown of Lady Godown’s head. “I will not fail you,” he had whispered hoarsely as he climbed the irregular steps leading to the main docks. “In truth, I will prove myself an excellent partner. Promise you will save me a dance at the first ball of the Season.” A gnawing longing had caught in his chest. Carter had looked up from where his lips grazed Lady Godown’s hair to see Crowden’s approach.

He gave his head a mighty shake. “Almost as great an error as that fiasco at Waterloo,” he chastised. The missive he held in his hand would only add to the chaos of late. It was from his assistant at the Home Office: Rumors of “Shepherd’s” leaving his post sooner than expected had spread quickly among Lord Sid mouth’s staff. Carter frowned. Unlike many of those not of the “inner circle,” he was well aware of Shepherd’s, whose real name was Aristotle Pennington, interest in the Marquis of Godown’s Aunt Bel: Rosabel Murdoch, the Dowager Duchess of Granville. He even held hopes that those in power might consider him for Pennington’s replacement. Carter wondered how Pennington’s leaving would affect the Realm. If he did not earn the post, he was not certain he wished to follow another’s orders. “How would someone else know as much as Shepherd?” he murmured. “Shepherd has knowledge beyond the field. He has defined the Realm’s role in the world.”

He stared out the window at the harbor. Carter had been in Liverpool since before Twelfth Night, and he was exhausted by the tedium. It was odd: he was the youngest of their band, but it was he who had assumed the duties of King and country. The remainder of his group had sought relief in home and family, while he had looked to his occupation to fill the long hours. “Somehow, Kerrington, Fowler, and Wellston have proved more successful than I,” he told the empty room. “I thought I had the right of it…”

The sound of the explosion sent Carter diving for protection. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. Splinters of wood flew past as he instinctively covered the back of his head with his hands. He landed face down on the dirt floor of the warehouse, which the Realm had procured as his headquarters while in Liverpool. A whish of hot air brushed his scalp.

“Sir Carter!” Symington Henderson called as he rushed into the room. Carter did not move, mentally checking each of his limbs for injury. The young lord knelt beside him. “Sir Carter?” Henderson said anxiously. “Are you injured, Sir?”

Carter slowly lowered his hands and pushed upward to sit on his knees. His ears still rang from the impact, and the smell of heated smoke brought back images he had worked hard to squelch. He retrieved his handkerchief to wipe his face and hands. Over his shoulder was a gaping hole in the side of the building, which looked out upon the busy dock. “I appear to be in one piece.” Carter’s voice trembled, and his breath came in short bursts. A crowd had gathered on the other side of the opening to peer into the small office.

Henderson supported Carter to his feet. He swatted away the dust on Carter’s shoulders. “I have sent agents to investigate,” Henderson assured.

Carter nodded his gratitude. “Have them ask if anyone saw a stranger in the area.” His voice held more authority than he expected.

“I will see to everything, Sir.” Henderson began to gather the papers strewn about the room. “Perhaps you should call in at the Golden Apple and refresh your things,” Henderson suggested cautiously.