Chapter Nine

L ieutenant Samuel Gage woke up the next morning in a foul mood. He used the piss pot beneath his bed, wiped his hands clean, and then washed his face, deciding he needed a shave. His brown hair was long, as were his sideburns, but Miss Cadough did not seem to mind. He had gone to sleep annoyed but had dreamed of Miss Cadough's smiling face, her rosy cheeks and dancing eyes. He longed to dance with her again and teach her the steps properly, perhaps with little breaks to take her in his arms and kiss her. He longed to trace his fingers along her fair skin and touch those pink lips. It had been a wonderful, charming evening, until he'd laid eyes on Walker.

He scratched his beard irritably. He did not want a beard, and the stubble on his chin was more than rough. He used some of the water from his basin and prepared a bit of shaving cream and sharpened the blade on a strop. In previous years, he would have pulled a bell pull for his valet to do this, but years of being in the military had soon disabused him of that practice, and the notion of being waited on by others.

Samuel was the third son of a baronet and was due to inherit nothing, so when he'd reached his twenties, he'd been determined to make a name for himself. His father, Sir Luke, had put in a good word and arranged for him to have a commission, so he'd been a young ensign in the army and had been shipped off to France. He'd recently earned the rank of lieutenant and had been hopeful of making captain when his accident had left him incapacitated and on the first ship home. He thought he'd seen the end of Charles Walker, until last night.

He faced a small looking glass on a writing table and grimaced at his ugly scar. He felt hideous. Then his expression softened and he blinked hard. He had almost felt like crying when Miss Cadough had removed his eyepatch yesterday in front of her uncle and Mrs. Dove-Lyon. No one had touched him for a long time like that, with tenderness—not really. Not with kindness like she had. Only the barest civility and politeness, like during dances. With her gentle words and shining smile, he had felt a part of him break down, like a crumbling wall he'd built up inside, and he had wanted to take her in his arms right here and then, polite society be damned. He smiled at the memory and began to wet the shaving brush with the cream, dabbing it on his chin and upper lip, then bordering his sideburns, as he thought about the events of the previous evening.

He had been so happy, until he'd seen Charles Walker there, chatting up a young woman.

Charles was known in the regiment for being a ladies' man, and for not having a care as to whether his quarry were single, engaged, married, or widowed. If the woman had legs, breasts, money, and a pretty smile, she was fair game.

Samuel had not paid much attention to him until they had crossed paths a year ago, not long before his accident. His best friend, Henry Dalton, had fallen in love with a French girl, a peasant, and joy of joys, Henry's love had been returned.

He'd never seen Henry so happy. All he'd done in their quiet moments had been to sing her praises. Samuel had even met Anne once, a pretty blonde with a sunny smile, and eyes only for Henry .

Or so they'd thought.

Henry had managed to offend Charles somehow. Samuel couldn't recall the matter, but he did know that Charles had made it his mission to get revenge on his friend, starting with fixing his attentions on young Anne.

Anne, an ordinary peasant girl, had been struck by her change in fortune. She now had two English soldiers paying court to her, one with sweet flowers and declarations of love and affection, the other with honeyed smiles and expensive food and wine.

Charles wasn't very wealthy, or else his family would have purchased a commission for him. But he was skilled at cards, and he'd taken more than one soldier's weekly pay over a single game of poque.

Henry had been furious when he'd discovered Charles had been paying attention to Anne as well. He'd tried telling Anne the truth, that Charles was a lover of women, and she'd mattered little to him. She had been nothing but a prize. His honest, heartfelt words had fallen flat on her ears, and she'd refused to see him outright. He'd wounded her pride.

Henry had been so despondent. Samuel had been furious. His friend had been miserable—he'd been curt and barely speaking to anyone, and the stress had begun to show. His marching in formation, which had been seen as a standard to all, was becoming sloppy. His hair had grown long and his facial hair had begun to become bushy. He'd paid little attention to the cleanliness of his uniform.

Samuel blamed it all on Charles, and on Anne herself. Why had the woman been so fickle? She'd been returning his best friend's declarations of love one day, and in the space of an afternoon had thrown him over for Charles Walker. Walker himself had declared he'd been in love with the girl and had planned to marry her as soon as they were able. In private, he'd encouraged the men to place bets on how soon he could bed her.

When Henry had heard about that, he'd slapped Charles and declared him a cheat at cards, and a cad toward women. Charles had demanded satisfaction, and even though dueling was frowned on in the regiment, the men had met at dawn the following morning.

Samuel carefully scraped the sharp blade against his rough stubble, guiding it along the facial hair that was thick and growing. He remembered that morning, for it was the day he'd lost his friend forever.

In the early hours of the morning, just as the sun had peeked over the horizon and the short, stunted trees had braced against the oncoming heat of the summer, the man in charge had called them forth, had the seconds check the pistols, and begun to count down.

Samuel had stood by, patiently waiting as Henry's second. Henry had been a good shot. Whoever drew first blood would win the duel, and be the winning party in the matter of satisfaction and the right. But Henry, as it had turned out, had not been as good a shot as usual. He had not been in good form. He'd shot first, and his shot had barely grazed Charles's upper arm, ripping the sleeve.

Charles had flinched and clapped a hand to his arm, then took aim and fired. But he had not aimed for the shoulder or arm, as Henry had. He'd aimed for the heart, and had not missed.

His bullet had sliced through Henry's stiff uniform and sailed right into his heart. Henry had died instantly.

Samuel shook and set down the blade, holding on to the desk for support. He looked in the mirror. The reflection was his own, but he could distantly see the events, almost as if he were a ghost watching from afar.

Henry had collapsed, dead on his feet. Samuel had run to him and held him in his arms as he'd died, whilst the man in charge of the duel had berated Charles for ignoring the rules. Charles had held up his hands and said he'd missed, but it no longer mattered. The duel had finished, and Henry was dead. God help him. Samuel had shaken with silent tears and impotent fury as his best friend had stared up at the morning sky, seeing nothing.

His heart had broken that day, as the doctor had taken away Henry's body. Samuel had buried Henry himself, taking his effects and preparing to send them back to his family. He'd used his own pay to post them, with a heartfelt written letter to Henry's family. He'd come to love Henry like a brother, and had promised to visit his family when he next returned to England.

His friend lay in French soil, and he'd wanted to weep that day, but he could not. He instead had gone to Anne, knocked on her cheap, wooden door, and begged to speak with her. She at first had been hesitant, but then she'd seen his face and let him in. He vaguely remembered standing in her kitchen, a spare place but one that bespoke of a home, and stood stiffly, delivering the bad news of his friend's death, like he would give a report to his commanding officers.

Anne had collapsed to her knees and stared up at him, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "Henri is dead?" she'd said in her French accent.

He'd nodded. He'd taken one last look at her tear-stained face, turned on his heel, and walked out into the French sun. He'd passed Charles walking on the way out. Charles had opened his mouth to say some nasty comment, but seeing the expression on Samuel's face, he'd wisely kept his mouth shut.

Samuel had stared at him, feeling dull and wooden, dead inside. He'd searched Charles's face for a bit of meaning, some horrid reason or explanation why. "Why?" he'd asked.

"He got in my way." Charles had left him then and entered Anne's home, where the sounds of weeping could be heard.

Samuel had gone through the next series of military engagements like a puppet, maneuvered by an unseen hand, but naught but idle machinery waiting to be employed. He'd eaten, drunk, marched, attacked. But he'd missed his friend, and until they'd marched out of town, he would spend his nights drinking and eating at Henry's gravesite.

He'd later heard that true to his word, Charles had made free and easy with Anne and had bedded her that very night. When Charles had joined their party on the next foraging mission a few days later, one man had asked him about the French girl, and Charles had laughed. "Which girl? One French girl is as good as another. She spread her legs the moment I paid her a compliment."

He'd shot a snide glance at Samuel, who'd wished with all his heart that Charles might die. He'd hoped to never see him again, and after he'd been wounded in battle and sent back home, he'd thought he never would. Until last night at the Lyon's Den.

As he dragged the blade across his bristly facial hair, Samuel thought, What would it take to destroy him? For the honor of Henry? He must devise a way to expose Charles, once and for all.

That morning once he'd finished shaving, his mind had drifted from the fickle Anne to another girl, Miss Cadough. He found himself daydreaming about her soft, brown hair, her lips, the way her eyes sparkled when they danced. He longed to take her hand again, and to press it against his heart, that she might know it beat just for her. But he must think reasonably, logically. One thing at a time. They were courting. Would it be too much of an imposition to visit her during the daytime hours to bring her a bouquet of flowers?

That day, he received a note from Mrs. Martin to join her for tea. He had no idea how she had managed to learn of his family's townhouse in the city, but he accepted her invitation and at the proper time, called at the colonel's townhouse in a respectable part of London. Whilst he suspected his family was wealthier than the colonel's, he really didn't give a whit about material wealth .

He knocked on the front door and was admitted by the butler. Mrs. Martin received him in a well-fashioned parlor of greys and ochre yellows, with fine, painted walls and some furniture, but none of it matched.

Some of it was stately, like the fine writing desk and chair in the corner, and the elegant table that sat between the sofa and visitors' chairs. But the sofa itself looked of a plain white, damask material and the chairs were of different styles. There were no pictures on the walls, so the room seemed rather bare, despite its decent size. He had been here before of course, that fateful day he'd come calling in the hope of spending a day baking with Mrs. Martin and Miss Cadough, only to learn that Miss Cadough had sent word she'd been unable to attend, after all, with apologies. Why Mrs. Martin had asked him to call now was a mystery to him.

Mrs. Martin rang for tea, and they were served quickly, although the biscuits were rock hard and not very digestible. He bit into one and spent too long trying to crunch the hard biscuit into manageable bites, then drank tea that was so steaming hot, he burned his tongue. He coughed, shedding crumbs on his uniform.

"How can I be of service, Mrs. Martin?" he asked. He'd come to like her after a time. He admired her solid friendship with Miss Cadough, and she also seemed to want the best for her.

She sipped her tea delicately and surveyed him. "There is no need to be so formal, Lieutenant. We are friends, are we not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Then I hope you will join me in a little scheme." She set down her teacup. "I think it is odd that our young friend Miss Cadeaux does not really know where she comes from, or the whereabouts of her family. It sounds like the family who took her and her uncle in are rather unwelcoming toward my countrymen."

I can't blame them , he thought.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Lieutenant Gage, when we first met, you disliked me instantly because of my nationality. Do you still feel that way?"

"I'm surprised you felt the need to ask. Of course not."

"And what if I told you that I suspect our young friend is a countrywoman of mine?" She seemed to choose her words carefully, assessing him.

He balked. "Marie? French? No. Surely not."

"And if she were? You have just started courting. Would you still feel the same way about her if she were French?"

"Why do you ask me this?" he asked.

"Because I care for Miss Cadeaux, and I think there is more to her than meets the eye. That is what you English say, is it not?"

"I care for her too."

"Do you?"

Then it hit him like a bullet. "Marie is French. That's what you're getting at." He put a hand to his forehead.

"Yes, Lieutenant. Did you just come to that conclusion now?"

He nodded. He felt like a fool. All this time, he'd gone on about how he disliked French people, and then had been charming her on the side. It was no wonder she might refuse him, or not want to see him at all. "I've been a monumental fool. I'm sorry I was so rude at our first meeting."

She laughed. "Not at all. But I do not blame Miss Cadeaux for wishing to hide her nationality from you. Ah, I see on your face that you share a similar point of view. Tut tut, Lieutenant. We are friends, and I would remind you that we both have one thing we are allied on."

"And what is that?"

"We both care about Miss Cadeaux."

He drank more tea. That was certainly true. "What are you planning?"

"I want to find out where her family are and reunite them. "

He frowned.

"You dislike my plan?"

"Mrs. Martin, may I speak frankly?"

"I would prefer it that you do."

He swallowed. "Whatever drove Miss… Cadeaux and her uncle from France, they probably had a good reason for leaving."

"Miss Cadeaux says it was before the year 1799 or so, but she was so young, she hardly remembers."

"So right around the time of the revolution and Robespierre," he said.

She nodded. The only intimation he had of her emotion was the clenching of her hands on the sofa cushions. "La Terreur."

"I can only imagine that whatever drove them from the country, that danger is still present, or else surely, her parents would have sent for her, and they would have returned home. Unless they are truly dead, as she believes."

"Maybe they did not feel they would be welcomed."

"Who knows?" He drank more tea. "Mrs. Martin, do you think it is wise for you to be looking into this matter?"

"Are you questioning my intelligence?" she asked.

"No. But I do wonder about how safe a quest like this is."

"Well, I want to find out. It is not right that she is all alone, with no one but Mrs. Dove-Lyon and her uncle to look after her. Besides… she reminds me of someone."

"Who?" His interest was piqued. He planned to look after Miss Cadeaux, even if he had to be generous to that uncle of hers.

"That is just it, I cannot recall. A woman, a great beauty, whom I had occasion to meet years ago as a girl. She too wore a locket that reminds me of Miss Cadeaux's. Something about the face and hair, and her laugh. But I can't remember her name."

"Was she a landowner, a noblewoman?" he asked.

"Something. She was not a nobody. But she and her husband were incredibly sad. We all were. It was a dangerous time." She blinked hard. "In any case, I mean to help out Miss Cadeaux and find out what happened to her parents. She deserves some happiness in her life, don't you agree?"

He nodded.

"On that note, you're not going to be like one of those English rakes and dally with my young friend, are you? Your intentions are honorable toward her?"

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "Yes, Mrs. Martin. I care for Miss Cadeaux."

"I thought so. Now will you help me or not?"

He looked at her. He still did not like this plan, but he would help Miss Cadeaux if he could. "Tell me what you would have me do."

After they had agreed to conduct their own searches, he took a carriage home, where he had a letter from his mother at their country estate in Hertfordshire. She wrote to ask if he was attending many assemblies in town, and whether he might bring home a young lady soon. He smiled as he began to pen a reply. His mother was the fourth daughter of a businessman who had gone bankrupt but who had given no small share of beauty and intelligence to his daughters. Miss Cadeaux coming from a humble background would not be so distasteful to them.

The following night, he met Mrs. Martin at the Lyon's Den. "Have you learned anything?" she asked.

"I haven't known where to start looking. I haven't your connections in French society," he said.

"True. Poor Miss Cadeaux." She paused.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Because if we keep digging into her past, I think we will find something. And if you are not up to the task, I want you to end your courtship, immediately."

"What?" He stared at her .

"Do not lie to her and lead her on, if you do not plan to care for her like a gentleman should. She deserves a good, true love. I mean a gentleman, not a lover. She does not deserve to be seduced and abandoned, like so many soldiers do to women of my country." Her mouth twisted.

She had painful memories there, he could tell.

He straightened. "I am sorry if you have experienced such rude behavior from English soldiers."

She waved a hand. "It is not you, monsieur . Out of a band of fifty men, there will be forty-nine honorable ones, and one rake. It is often the case. I think being at war makes many men act differently than they would at home toward their own country's women." She gave her head a little shake. "But never mind that. Promise me that if we do find out something about our dear Miss Cadeaux, you will not betray her trust, or break her heart."

"I promise," he said, his pulse beginning to pound at the thought of Miss Cadeaux. He wished to see her again, take her hands in his, and tell her he did not care if she were French, English, or from the other side of the world. He cared only for her. He wanted only her.

"Make sure you keep your promise, Lieutenant. Or I will have my husband call you out at dawn for a little pistol exchange in her honor, and he is a very good shot."

Samuel stiffened.

"I am sorry, Lieutenant. It was a poor joke."