Library

Chapter 4

Captain Simon Lyndon ducked as he stepped into the low hovel on the edge of the sea, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Inside, a table had been drawn into the center of the room and the hut's other rustic furniture pushed aside to make room for a handful of high-ranking officers clustered around and peering at a map spread on the table between them.

The orderly leading him into the room stepped aside and introduced him.

"Captain Lyndon at your service, gentlemen."

"Ah, Captain." An older gentleman with generous grey whiskers nodded curtly at Simon, summoning him over to the table. "We've been waiting for you."

It felt strange to be there, in the room with so much brass, when Simon's usual place was far away from the uniforms of his countrymen. He was a purveyor of secrets, a spy for the English army whose time was spent in smoky French dance halls or with back-alley informants.

This hut, nondescript enough from the outside, was still far more regimented than his usual fare. It reminded him of his early enlistment, before his skill behind enemy lines had become well-known and put into prompt practice.

"Have you a message for me?" he asked, cautious. "I had not expected to hear from England for another fortnight or so. I have made a little progress with the Count, but he is guarded."

"Count?" a scrawny man Simon did not recognize interjected.

A lower-ranking official at his side explained in a low voice, "DeVilliers. Lyndon here has wormed his way into the man's inner circle. Heaven knows how."

The older whiskered man, who Simon had by now identified as General Martin, tapped his hand impatiently against the table-top before him. "It is precisely regarding DeVilliers that you are here today, Captain Lyndon. I am aware that you have been putting quite a bit of effort into turning him to our cause."

"Not exactly," Simon said, hiding a smile. None of these men, with their official titles and strategies of open battle, would understand how humorous this suggestion was. Count DeVilliers would never turn to the English cause.

He was staunchly loyal to France and had none of the vices or hidden strains of bitterness that made a man susceptible to bribery. "My time with DeVilliers is a prerequisite to gaining a closeness with his companions. I don't believe the Count himself will turn, but I have my eye on a few of his compatriots. At the very least, I have been able to procure a few helpful documents—"

"Yes, well…" General Martin cleared his throat by way of interruption. "I'm afraid all that has rather gone to seed. You clearly have not heard, but Count DeVilliers was killed in a duel last evening. A matter of a woman, if my informants are correct." He held up a slip of paper in front of him. "We heard this very morning. I know you've been out in the country for the last few days chasing the Kellion lead, and I thought someone should tell you before you wandered back onto the dead man's estate."

Simon winced. He had not been particularly fond of the Count, but it had taken him some time to build a sturdy connection. If he hung around after his supposed friend had passed, clinging to the next compatriot like a barnacle, people would grow suspicious. "He is—was—a bit hot-headed about dalliances."

"You are a valuable asset, Captain," Martin said quietly, stepping away from the table. Simon couldn't help noticing that there was a high concentration of troops in one particularly strategic portion of the map. There would be bloodshed soon.

"I'm glad you feel thusly, sir," Simon said. "Although I shall be considerably less valuable until we find someone to replace DeVilliers."

"It will take us some time to do so," the general explained. "Until that time, I think you should return to England."

Simon was taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

The general's voice was low, fatherly, keeping their conversation out of earshot of the other men. "You're a good man to fight beside, Captain, but you've been over here longer than most of my men put together. You have got to be tired, and weary of all this intrigue. Go home, rest, and when we have another assignment, we will send for you."

Simon could not deny that he was tired. Sometimes, playing so many different parts, he fell into bed hardly knowing who he really was. He longed for England, and yet dreaded leaving the excitement of France.

Here, with the battle waged all around him, he could forget about a certain young lady. He could put her from his mind and press into the intrigue and adrenaline of his job. Then she only haunted him at night, and dreams were easily forgotten.

"The loss of DeVilliers is sudden," he agreed slowly, "but I can still be of use to you here."

"And you will, after you've had some time back home." Martin drew back, a sparkle in his eyes. "It's good for a soldier to go home every now and then, Captain. Dance with a few pretty girls, lose your heart in London, and remember what it is we are fighting for over here in this god-forsaken land."

Simon bowed stiffly. "As you command, sir."

As he walked back to the beach outside to make arrangements for his channel crossing, he couldn't help thinking of Grace and his family back home. It would be good to see them. What are you so afraid of, returning to London? He thought. Memories, that is all. It's not as though she is even there.

***

The crossing was rough, but Simon was tired enough to sleep through it. He arrived in London aching from the stress of travel, wearing a pair of brown trousers and a plain wool coat, as non-descript as he could manage. His uniform lay untouched in a chest in the back.

He had picked it up upon landing on English shores—it did him little good in the halls of French noblemen, after all. Grace would likely demand he wear it to some ball or other, and he would comply only if pressed. It felt foreign to him. What he did for his country, he did in the shadows.

His family townhouse in London looked much as he remembered, stately and coiffed and perched in the fashionable part of town. He climbed out of the carriage and directed the valet who greeted him to take his chests upstairs before climbing the steps two at a time and striding confidently into his parents' parlor.

"Simon!" His mother, the viscountess, stood abruptly to greet him, her cheeks flushed with delight. "You should have sent word! I had no idea you would be back—"

Before she could finish, Grace, who had been demurely stitching needlepoint in the corner upon his arrival, had flung herself into his arms. "You're home!"

He hugged her back, only releasing her when she pulled back. He looked around. "Father is out?"

"On business, but he will be back soon." Grace beamed at him. "He will be as surprised as we are, let me assure you. We had no word…" her voice trailed off and she added nervously, "we feared the worst, you know."

"Oh, sister," he teased her. "I am not that easy to kill."

She looked a little ill. "That's what all big brothers say, I imagine."

He winced. She was referencing James. He had been easier to kill than any of them had ever thought, and the loss of his companionship still haunted Simon. He turned to his mother. "I meant to write, truly I did, but I found it rather difficult to get letters out from my last post. Hopefully future appointments will be more lenient."

"You must return?" his mother said, biting her lip. "How soon?"

"Not for a bit, I believe," he reassured her.

"Then you are here for the Season," Grace said. Her eyes sparkled, and the former sobriety slipped away from her girlish features. "My Season."

"Are you already old enough for all that?" he teased, winking at her. "I would hardly have thought it possible. Have you already suitors clamoring at your door?"

"No!" She blushed and nudged him in faux annoyance. "We haven't even had the opening ball of the Season yet. That would be Lady Ellory's masked ball tomorrow evening. It is said to be a grand affair, and I am beside myself with excitement."

"I'm so pleased for you," Simon said, meaning it. Grace was loyal and steady in all her relationships, and it made him happy to see her giddy about something that related to her own life for once. "You'll have to tell me all about it."

"Tell you?" his mother said, coming between them and laying a hand on Simon's arm. "Why, you'll see for yourself, of course. You should attend with us."

Simon shook his head. "I've only just returned. I doubt my name was even included on Lady Ellory's invitation."

"You were not included," his mother answered, "but only because no one knows you're back in London. I'm certain that her invitation, is extended to you as well. If you like, I'll write her and ask directly."

"I am still settling in," Simon said, uncomfortable. He wasn't ready for the crush of London society, not yet.

"Nonsense," his mother interjected, apparently overlooking his discomfort. "How much settling in does a gentleman need to do, anyway? Just wear your uniform. The ladies will be swept away by you, I'm certain. Besides, it's a masquerade ball—you can hide your face and identity all evening, if you choose."

Simon looked at his mother and sister, their faces beaming hopefully up at him, and relented at last. "Very well," he said. "I suppose I can accompany you. I wouldn't want to miss out on Grace's opening night, after all."

He left to see that his things were properly unloaded in his chambers, but Grace followed him out of the parlor and into the hall beyond. Catching up with him, she laid a hand on his arm and asked gently, "Are you sure you're all right to attend tomorrow? You seem hesitant. Mother is just excited to have you so recently returned. I'm sure she'd understand if you need to rest."

He smiled down at her. "You are thinking of others as always, little sister. I'm sure I can attend. I confess it is bittersweet to step back into the whirl of society parties when…" he trailed off, but Grace understood what he meant at once.

"When you used to go everywhere with James," she acknowledged with a sigh.

"He would tease me, if he were still here, for mourning him still after all these years." Simon smiled at the thought. "He would say that I am using him as an excuse to avoid high society."

"I'm not so sure," Grace said gently. "He knew you well, just as you knew him. Perhaps he would understand your reticence better than you think." Her eyes lit up, as though a thought had only just occurred to her. "But you will have the next best thing to James this Season—I nearly forgot to tell you—Bella's returning. Did you hear?"

Bella's name hit Simon like a shock of cold water, and it was only with great effort that he managed to keep his composure. "Oh?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded more disinterested than he felt. "Is she? From Ireland?"

"Well, I'm not sure when exactly, but her letter indicated that she would come as soon as her aunt could get away." Grace grinned. "She'll be here within the fortnight to be sure. It will be just like old times."

Well, not exactly. "Old times" had seen Grace, Simon, James, and Isabella playing together as children and, when the boys grew older, teasing one another and engaging in long rambles through Hyde Park side by side. "Old times" had been before the letters exchanged between Simon and Bella, before James' death, and before five years of separation had tugged relentlessly at Simon's heart. Nothing would be the same now, but Grace didn't know all of that.

At times, Simon had wondered if Bella had written to her best friend about all that had passed between himself and her. It would have been normal and expected for a young girl to confide such things in a friend, even if that friend was the sister of the gentleman in question, but as Simon looked at Grace's open and earnest expression, he could see the truth plainly written there: Bella had told Grace nothing.

Perhaps she wanted to protect my dignity, Simon pondered. Or perhaps it simply didn't mean as much to her as it meant to me. Perhaps she didn't think it worth Grace's time.

"Is she… well?" he asked, forcing the words out.

"Enough," Grace acknowledged. Her face sobered. "I suspect it will be as strange for her to return to a London without James as it is for you."

"Did she never come back in my absence?" he asked. In all his time spent on the Continent, he had assumed she would have visited at least once or twice.

"No," Grace answered, looking sour. "And her parents didn't visit her either. It was rather poorly done, if you ask me. I have been to her aunt's house in Ireland once, but that was two years ago. Mother and Father were concerned about me making the trip too often on my own, and before I'd officially come out."

"How did she seem, when you saw her?" Simon asked.

"Subdued," Grace said, shrugging. "Older."

"Well, I hope she finds London everything she wishes it to be," he managed, turning to go. "I should retire now and see to my belongings. I'll be back down for the evening meal. Will they still strike the gong?"

Grace nodded. "As always." A look of confusion had crept into her eyes during their conversation, and now she added uncertainly, "You ask a lot about Bella, but didn't you write her a few letters yourself? Surely you are as updated as I."

"That was a long time ago," Simon said stiffly, trying to push the memory from his mind. "A very long time ago."

Comments

0 Comments
Best Newest

Contents
Settings
  • T
  • T
  • T
  • T
Font

Welcome to FullEpub

Create or log into your account to access terrific novels and protect your data

Don’t Have an account?
Click above to create an account.

lf you continue, you are agreeing to the
Terms Of Use and Privacy Policy.