Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (6 page)

Carter raised an eyebrow in dissatisfaction. “I do not require a nurse,” he said adamantly, but a small voice in his head said,
But my mother’s presence would be soothing. Why is it
, he thought,
we wish our mother’s comfort when the world sends us its worst?
He had heard more than one soldier, while lying wounded upon the battlefield, calling out for his mother.

Henderson halted his efforts. “But, Sir. You must feel the ticking clock,” he declared. “After all, this is your third encounter with death in a little more than six weeks. You cannot think to remain invincible forever.”

Lucinda had permitted the boy to choose two new books at the makeshift lending library. It was an expense she tolerated. Although but five years of age, Simon devoured books, and they had come to a routine of sorts: she read several chapters of a compelling adventure to the child at night, and the next day, the boy would reread the pages, sounding out the words he did not recognize immediately. Young Simon often carried the book to her and asked Lucinda to pronounce a difficult word. As foolish as it sounded, she believed the child memorized the passages.

She glanced down at the boy. He was an odd one–so mature and yet so innocent. Simon had never questioned why he had been deposited upon her doorstep. He had never complained about the pallet she had made for him before the fire nor of the less than palpable meals she managed to place before him. Lucinda supposed the child’s good nature was the reason she tolerated Simon’s obsession with books.
Books and the carved wooden horse, which had been among the child’s belongings when he had arrived upon her doorstep
.

Early on, she had attempted to question the boy on what he could recall of his previous life, but whoever had sent Simon to her had schooled the child well. Lucinda would not even consider the possibility Simon held no memories of what came before: the child was too intelligent.

Lucinda meant to set her key to the lock of the double rooms she let in the Peterman’s household, but the door stood ajar. Instantly, she was on alert. She knew, without a doubt, she had locked the door. She had handed the two books she meant to return to the lending library to Simon to hold while she pulled the door closed and gave the lock a solid shake before releasing it.

“Stay here,” she whispered sternly to the boy, who had gone all wide-eyed. “If you hear anything unusual, run for assistance. Do you understand me?”

Simon nodded several times.

Lucinda swallowed hard and stood slowly. She caught the latch in her trembling hand and edged the door open. Through the narrow crack, she could see
her few belongings strewn about the room. Her heart clutched in her chest. She wished she had had some sort of weapon.

Glancing back at where the boy clung to the wall opposite, she mouthed, “Be prepared. I mean to check what is inside.” Simon appeared less frightened.

Slowly, she turned to face the slender slit. With the palm of her hand, she shoved hard against the flat surface, and the door swung wide to bang against the inside wall. Both she and the child jumped with the sound. Catching at her heart with her hand, Lucinda stepped into the dimly lit space.

Whoever had entered her rooms had pulled the drapes nearly closed to block the view from the buildings across the way. Lucinda edged forward, circling the room, her back to the wall. Carefully, she sidestepped over the blocks scattered upon the floor. Without turning her head from the room, she caught the heavy drape and carried it backward to permit the late afternoon sun to invade the space before tying it off with a ribbon she had found discarded upon the floor.

She looked up to see Simon clinging to the doorframe. Motioning the boy to remain in his place, Lucinda began a more serious search. Even though she thought it foolish to do so, she knelt to peer beneath the bed. Next, she searched the wardrobe and behind the standing screen; finally, Lucinda moved through the small dressing room, which ran the width of her one large room.

Finding nothing unusual, other than the disarray, Lucinda released the pent up breath she had not known she held. “Simon, would you ask Mrs. Peterman to come to our rooms. We should speak to the constable.”

His voice wavered, but the child agreed. When the boy disappeared into the house’s passageway, Lucinda scrambled to her secret hiding place. She quickly worked the board free under the small side table to retrieve her bag of coins. Peeking inside, she was relieved to find the coins still in the cloth bag.

The sound of approaching footsteps sent her in motion. She would count the coins later, when the boy had gone to sleep. Shoving the bag into the small opening, she slid the board into place just as Simon burst through the open door, followed closely by Mrs. Peterman.

“Oh, my Girl,” the matron wailed as she clutched a handkerchief to her lips. “I have never…” The landlady braced her stance by clasping the back of a chair.

Although still shaken, her ever practical self said, “I think it best we contact the authorities.”

Mrs. Peterman frowned dramatically. “I am certain this is an anomaly; there is no reason to involve the constable.”

“Someone invaded my room,” Lucinda said incredulously. “A person climbed two flights of stairs, worked my lock free, and then shuffled through my belongings.” Her voice rose quickly as her pulse throbbed in the veins of her neck.

The landlady glanced about the room to the disarray. “Are you certain you locked the door?”

Lucinda swallowed her retort. Despite the disaster of the moment, the rooms were reasonably price. “Ask the boy.” She kept her countenance expressionless. “He held my package while I secured the door.” She caught her personal wear from a pile on the floor and shoved the items into a now empty drawer. “Someone targeted my room,” she insisted.

Mrs. Peterman waved away Lucinda’s protest. “I imagine whoever it was simply tried all the doors until he found one he could manipulate. I cannot say I am surprised. I have warned Mr. Peterman we should lock the main door to the house at all times. There are so many men without occupations roaming the streets these days.”

Lucinda’s shoulders slanted defiantly. “Then you mean to do nothing?”

The landlady pulled herself up to her full height. “I mean to send Mr. Peterman to repair the door. Unless you have lost a fortune, Mrs. Warren,” the woman said threateningly, “calling on the authorities would waste their valuable time and show poorly on my household. I shall not have word be known upon the street I do not keep a secure establishment.”

Lucinda bit the inside of her jaw to keep from speaking out against the injustice. Instead she said, “If you will ask Mr. Peterman to have a look about the place, I shall be satisfied.”

Mrs. Peterman smiled falsely. “Naturally, my Girl.” She gestured to the clutter. “When you have set the rooms aright, you and young Simon should join me for tea. I always enjoy your conversation.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Lucinda said respectfully. She had thought she had discovered a place where she and the boy could live out their middling lives. For all she knew, the culprits could easily be the Petermans, rather than an outsider. She must remind her foolish self never to trust anyone. Lucinda had trusted her parents to arrange a comfortable marriage for her, and she had trusted
Matthew Warren to act the role of husband. She would learn her lessons well: No one would know her loyalty ever again.

The nightmare had returned, only this time with a twist. As always, the blood was everywhere, and the acrid smell had filled his lungs. Screams of pain echoed in his ears, but the smoke had parted, and the boy had been there. His cheeks covered with mud, the youth had cringed behind the fallen horse. The French charged their position, and Carter had known real fear. He was not supposed to be at Waterloo; he had sold his commission to join the Realm some fifteen months prior, but when Wellesley had personally asked for his assistance, Carter had readily agreed.

“You men, form a line along the ridge!” he had shouted above the noise of the cannons.

Although he no longer wore a military uniform, the voice of authority had remained. British soldiers scrambled to do his bidding. Men limped and crawled to a defensive position with the hill at their backs. Whoever had been these men’s commanding officer had made a strategic error: They were too exposed.

“Come with me,” he had commanded as he reached for the lad, who had not moved with the others.

The youth’s cinnamon-colored eyes were the most compelling ones Carter had ever seen. “My father?” the boy’s voice had squeaked.

Carter had looked about him: Nothing but bodies and destruction everywhere. Why would any father permit his son to view the slaughter that was war? The French advanced with a flourish, and time was of an essence.

“Your father would expect you to live,” he had said defiantly. Catching the lad by the arm, he had dragged him along behind him. When they had reached the line, Carter had shoved the boy behind a tree. “Stay hidden!” he had ordered. “I will come for you when this is over.” Without looking back, he had stridden away to oversee the rag-tag group of soldiers.

They were outnumbered five to one, but as the French broke into a run, Carter had rallied the men. “No hoity toity Frenchie is to cross the line. Do you hear me? No Frenchies beyond this point. They are soft. They possess half the
heart of an Englishman. Now do your duty. For King George and Country and for your loved ones in England! Do it now, or you will see your children speaking French!”

As the squares formed, he had glanced to where he had left the boy. A bit of the youth’s shirt had shone behind the tree, and Carter had wondered if either of them would survive the day. “It was the last you saw of the boy,” he whispered in bitter regret. Carter had taken a bullet in the leg and had been removed from the field at the battle’s end. What with the blood loss and the fever, it had taken him weeks to recover. When learning of Carter’s injury, Shepherd had whisked Carter away to a safe house, where he spent countless days and nights reliving each harrowing moment of the battle. By the time he had walked away from the secret facility, he held no idea where to search for the youth.

Somehow, the unit of which he had assumed command had lost only five good Englishmen during the melee, while the French had lost over a hundred before sounding a retreat. Theirs had been but a single skirmish in a chaotic campaign, but Wellesley had proclaimed Carter a hero.

“Never felt the hero,” he grumbled as he swung his legs over the bed’s edge. “I failed the boy.”

“W
hy did the viscount not ask for my assistance?” Carter said tersely.

John Swenton smirked, “It was you who sent me to warn Lexford of Jamot’s presence in Cheshire.”

Carter jammed his fingers into his hair. “That crazy Baloch has caused us enough grief.” He stared out the window of his London office. “What did Lexford release you to say?” Swenton had returned to Town with news Aidan Kimbolt had discovered several unsavory truths regarding his family history. Despite being scandalous in nature, the realizations had reportedly discharged Lexford from his past. “I can only say being free of the guilt of his late wife’s memory, Lexford has fallen in love with a woman none of us knew existed, and I have promised Lexford I would secure a special license for the viscount’s speedy joining.”