Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage]

“Oh, but your talents are particularly suited to this mission, Dunn,” Major General Henry Horace replied, seemingly not at all put out. Yet, two high spots of color tinged his pale, craggy face and his stormy hazel eyes were bright, indicating some discomfort at Marcus’s refusal. “Proof of guilt must be ironclad, in this instance, and if what we suspect is true, then Wellington wants the nails hammered in the bastard’s coffin.”

“An excursion to London
is
a much-sought-after assignment these days.” Marcus scratched his chin, pretending to consider it. “Say, Lieutenant Geoffrey’s mother’s been ill. I’m sure he’d jump at the chance for a visit home and it would be most appreciated by his family.”
Espe
cially by his older brother, the influential Lord Derbyshire.

In his seven years of serving in the King’s army against Napoleon, Marcus had learned to be firm but to deliver any refusals with a coating of honey and an alternative. That, and he’d mastered the task of procuring difficult-to-come-by items for the officers, ensuring that at one point or another a gentleman found himself in Marcus’s debt. It made for a much smoother jaunt through the war.

“But you’ve such a talent for securing confessions,” Horace replied cheerily, as if he were describing a gentlemanly sport.

Looking down, Marcus toyed with the white plum on his crimson shako. Once a mission was over, he tried not to reflect upon the lies, murder and treachery he’d faced. It was enough to make one feel soiled to the soul if you let it.

“And,” Horace continued, “we’re dealing with a certain peer of your acquaintance—”

Marcus looked up. “Willoughby’s the officer you want, then. He knows every noble, their lineage, their connections—”

Horace frowned. “We don’t need a diatribe on pedigree—”

“Then Kirkland’s your man. In polite circles he harvests acquaintances like a dog collects fleas—”

“Yes and likes the tipple for breakfast—”

“Everyone knows that I’m not exactly one of the club, sir.” Marcus tried to make his voice sound regretful that he wasn’t born with a sterling pedigree. “I don’t hunt—”

“But you deal well with targets of influence,” Horace interrupted, raising a bent bony finger. “You don’t let them browbeat you, and likewise don’t try to bully them.” Turning, the major general eased his wiry frame into the canvas chair behind his brown wooden desk.

The airless tent smelled of mold and damp and Marcus
wished they could open the flap. But Horace did not like the mountain air; he said it made his mind empty when he needed it full.

The major general scowled. “I still take grief over that Marquis Valdez disaster. Major Redstone was like a raging bull at a soiree.” His brows lifted. “Remember that business with Viscount Brent’s son, the shamming bugger? You managed that handily without a hint of the nasty affair tainting his innocent family. Stunningly well-done.”

Marcus knew that he was being buttered for toast, but a gratifying swell of satisfaction rushed through him just the same.

“Then that foul Spanish lord. What was his name?” Horace scratched his head. “You know of whom I speak. The one who you ensured kept up his correspondence for Napoleon long after you’d turned him into our informer.” His rheumy eyes twinkled as he nodded approvingly. “Capital win there, Major. I still say that misinformation is the most untried soldier in this war.”

Marcus had to agree that was one of his better successes. But that didn’t mean he was going to let Horace shuffle him off to the city of sycophants and timeservers. He was a field man who relished his freedom. Marcus tried not ruminating on his other reasons for avoiding London.

“What was that Spanish lord’s name?” Horace’s slate gray brows knotted in concentration as he stared at the far corner of the tent. The man often had the air of an absentminded academic, with his thoughtful gazes and tendency to mutter to himself, but under that wiry gray hair was one of the sharpest minds Marcus had ever encountered. He would recognize sense in this matter, Marcus was sure.

“Was it Leone? Larose?”

Lorenz
, Marcus provided, but only in his mind. Without even trying he could recall the face and charge of every
last traitor who he’d helped experience Lady Justice. The nightmares didn’t bother him much, not really. It was only the ones with the relatives demanding to know
why
that stole his slumber.
Ask your father, or brother,
he would say to those apparitions when he found himself awake in a chilly sweat.
I am only the blade; they laid their own heads on the guillotine.

“Lorenz!” Horace smiled, deepening the rivers lining his mouth. “Knew I’d remember it eventually.” His eyes scanned the multitude of papers scattered across his desk. “No, Major, you’re the perfect man for this job. Especially since your father is the headmaster of Andersen Hall.”

Marcus felt as if the world was shifting beneath his feet. “What the hell does my father…or a lousy orphanage have to do with the war?” He hated the pitch he heard in his voice.

“I’m sure you’ll do your usual bang-up job, Major,” Horace declared, reaching for a folded piece of paper. “Ah, here are your orders.”

Marcus had spent seven years separating himself from the hornet’s nest of his past; he wasn’t about to get dragged back now. His mind raced almost as fast as his heartbeat, as he desperately scrambled for a way to dodge this bullet. Devastatingly, nothing came to him.

Reaching for the void he used in battle, the one that got him through the cannonball volleys, the musket shots and the screams, Marcus gritted his teeth. Dear Lord, he was going to have to explain. He hated having to explain. “There’s something you need to know, sir—”

“You leave on the next ship.” Horace picked up his gold-rimmed spectacles and a sheaf of papers. “Good day, Major.”

Marcus’s face burned, almost as much as his indignation at being dismissed. “If I could only enlighten—”

Horace kept reading. “You have your orders.”

“But there are complications.” Marcus barely kept the panic from his voice. “I’m the worst possible man for this assignment—”

“Nothing that you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

“But I can’t go back there!”

“You will go where we determine it’s best to send you. Dismissed, Major.” Horace resumed reading once more, pointedly ignoring Marcus.

Marcus gripped his shako so tightly, the plume shook. “Please, sir.” He swallowed. “I’m begging you, sir. Please listen—”

Looking up, the major general whipped off his glasses. “I’ve no more patience for your excuses, Major—”

“Please don’t send me back to Andersen Hall!” Marcus hated begging, he hated explaining, and at this moment, he hated having to answer to someone who clearly didn’t understand or even want to understand him. “I don’t care if Wellington himself orders me to, I can’t—”

“If I’m reading you right, Major,” a deep aristocratic voice drawled from behind Marcus’s shoulder, “then you are being insolent to a superior officer.”

General Wellesley stood on the threshold of the tent, his black-winged eyebrow raised in inquiry. “The only question is: to which officer?”

“My lord!” Marcus snapped to attention, whipping his crumpled hat upon his head. His face burned hot and his heart hammered in his chest. He felt as if he’d been sucked into a macabre nightmare and couldn’t figure out how to claw his way out.

“Major General.” Wellington nodded.

Horace stood. “Good day, General Wellesley.”

As usual, Wellington’s uniform bespoke impeccable elegance, from the tips of his tall black riding boots, to the
shining brass-buttoned red uniform coat, to his lofty gold-fringed red shako.

Wellington fixed his penetrating blue-gray gaze on Marcus. Marcus felt frozen, like a mouse caught in a hawk’s sights. And a hawk is exactly what Wellington reminded Marcus of at that moment, with his sharp beak of a nose, blue-gray icy stare and predatory air. “Well, Major Dunn, what have you to say for yourself?” Wellington drawled.

Marcus began to sweat. If he was lucky, he might get off with a lashing. On the other hand, they couldn’t send him to London if he was impaired. Staring at the far corner of the stained ivory tent, Marcus declared, “I apologize for any impertinence, sir.”

“Apologizing is very good of you, Major Dunn,” Wellington replied, waving for Horace to sit. “Given that a court-martial could be the alternative.” He strode to the canvas chair next to the major general and sat. His shiny leather riding boots crinkled as he crossed his long legs. “And I wouldn’t want you joining your friend Captain Hayes.”

Marcus felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Hayes?”

An inscrutable look seemed to flash between the men. “I wasn’t intending to tell him about it, my lord,” Horace supplied.

“Well he’s soon to find out anyway. Can’t keep a blasted thing under wraps in this army.”

Marcus reached for that abyss, but it remained appallingly out of reach. “What, exactly, happened to Captain Hayes?” His voice was thin.

“Well, first he struck a superior officer,” Wellington replied.

“That was the challenge.” Horace shook his head sadly. “The glove cuff across the face.”

Marcus’s mouth went dry as sand. Wellington strictly
prohibited dueling. Anyone caught was to face a court-martial, or worse if there was a fatality. “Who was it?”

“Blackstone,” Horace explained. “No one likes the bugger but he
is
a major.”

Months ago, Blackstone had wanted a Portuguese beauty named Paloma, but Paloma had preferred Captain Hayes. Ever since then, Blackstone had tried to make Luke Hayes’s life a living hell. Marcus had thought that matters would have eased once Hayes had been transferred to Colonel Courtland’s regiment, but apparently not.

“Courtland?” Marcus asked, reaching for any hope.

“Nothing for him to do. Captain Hayes was caught right in the middle of it.”

Marcus distantly wondered if it was swords or pistols, but it didn’t matter. “And how was Blackstone punished?”

The men exchanged a resigned glance. “He’s been reassigned.”

So Blackstone had used his connections to save his hide. Not surprising since the man was a prig of the first order. His father was the Earl of Kenterling.

“But Hayes was the one to issue the challenge,” Horace added, as if it made a difference. “So arguably he was…more culpable.”

“Blackstone could have apologized,” Marcus countered, knowing that it was futile. An apology would have ended the matter then and there. But Blackstone would have known that he’d likely get off.

“Blackstone apparently decided that an apology was not in order,” Horace proclaimed. “Said that the lightskirt deserved what she got.”

Something inside Marcus chilled. “What did Blackstone do?”

“We’ve wasted enough time on that matter.” Wellington scowled. “I want to hear about Major Dunn’s assignment.”

“About that, sir—” Marcus began.

“At ease, Major.” Horace shot him a quelling glance.

Marcus took the hint. He needed to settle down. His military career, if not his life, could be in jeopardy. He repositioned himself and turned, standing before both men but not relaxing by a hair. Somehow he needed to get Wellington to help him negotiate out of Horace’s trap. But the general was not a man easily swayed. “If I may—”

“I just received a new shipment of Scotch whiskey, my lord,” Horace interjected, reaching inside his desk and pulling out a snifter and three glasses.

Marcus couldn’t decipher the major general’s actions as a warning not to cross him or as a caveat to be circumspect with Wellington. Or both.

After giving a glass to Wellington, Horace pushed one across the desk. “Here, Major. You look a bit parched.”

Woodenly, Marcus gulped the tipple. It tasted like sawdust, even though it was some of the finest Scotch whiskey one could buy this side of the Channel. He knew, since he was the one who’d procured it.

Sipping from his glass, Wellington watched Marcus over the rim. The man could take your measure in a half second and at the moment, Marcus felt as if his assessment was wanting. “Odd turn of event, you serving on the board of trustees of the orphanage from where you hail?”

On the Board of Trustees!
Marcus almost dropped his glass. “That requires a vacancy, my lord. And a vote of the full board.”

“Can you believe our luck?” Horace nodded. “A board member dropped dead a few months ago and they’ve yet to replace him. Fancy that.”

The men smiled at each other and Marcus broke out in a sweat. They couldn’t have manipulated that vacancy, could they? Marcus pushed away the notion; these were men of
honor, not so brutally cold-hearted as to murder an innocent Englishman for their own ends. The thought bolstered his confidence.

“I am a good officer, my lord.” Marcus kept his gaze fixed above Wellington’s hat. “I’ve never forsaken a mission.”
Stepped around one or two, but never disobeyed a direct order.
“And in this instance, there are facts that, once you know them, will make you reconsider my suitability for this mission.”

“Then inform us,” Wellington intoned, setting his glass aside. He rested his elbows on the canvas chair and steepled his hands before him. “Why our good judgment is in error, if you would.”

Marcus heard the “our” and realized that this was Wellington’s trap, not Horace’s.

He was in the jakes for sure. Distantly, he wondered if they’d expected his protests. That Horace was to load the cannonball and Wellington to light the fuse. Problem was, Marcus didn’t like explosions in his face. He worked to get his mounting anger under control; this skirmish wasn’t over yet.

Marcus cleared his throat. “I left London on
exceedingly
bad terms, sir. My return would raise undue suspicion and imperil any chance an agent had of securing information.” Not half-bad, he allowed himself, knowing in his heart he was not the man they needed. “Moreover, I was known as a hotheaded lad—”

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