The Heiress and the Spy (The Friendship Series Book 2) Page 2

  Before Devon’s death, Peregrine nurtured Mrs. Shelton’s comforting image to keep the evils of war at bay. She later evolved from a source of speculation and hope to one of inviting possibility. Now that he stood in her presence, he doubted she was the sort of female who enjoyed affairs. A hint of restraint marked her as a person of virtue and this revelation sent his physical and intellectual responses into a conflicting jumble of respect and regret. Admiration for her morals warred with the fact that he had no time for dalliance. He’d come here to honor a promise but had also been sent by those in power who needed her help.

  Eager to touch her, Peregrine stepped away from the window to accept her extended hand. He adjusted his stiff expression into a smile, knowing her hand would feel at home in his. And it did and more. He actually felt a tingle ripple up his arm. How gratifying. His instincts and neglected libido remained intact. He’d begun to wonder after the last bout of injuries.

  He bowed, and when he looked up, encountered hazel eyes glowing with a warmth no portrait could duplicate. He reminded himself to release her hand and step back.

  “Mrs. Shelton, how good it is to finally meet you in person. I believe your husband may have mentioned me in his letters.”

  “Yes, he often did. How do you do, Lord Asterly? You’ve gotten wet from the recent shower. Would you like something warm to drink?”

  “Yes, please.” Peregrine waited until she returned from pulling the bell rope to say, “Over at the window, I watched your groom walk my mare. Good man you have there. I wish you would thank him for me. He rubbed her down with a dry cloth and threw a blanket over her. I have a particular fondness for that bit of bone—Ramona by name. Please express my gratitude.”

  “I shall be most glad to do so. Will you be seated, Lord Asterly?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He waited for her to settle on an emerald, damask sofa across from him.

  A low tray table separated them. She clasped her hands in her lap in a tight grasp. Had he done something to put her on edge? Then she relaxed her grip, holding her hands loosely folded.

  “My lord, isn’t it unusual to use a mare for a war mount?”

  “Indeed, ma’am, but I’ve lost a gelding and two studs since the onset of the war. I bought Ramona from a Spaniard farmer, who had intentions of using her as a draft animal. She is too fine for that, Andalusian bloodline, and I was in desperate need of a horse. Afraid it was a bit of love at first sight for both of us.”

  A discreet blush brightened her cheeks. He suspected she would move to a less personal subject. Gaze lowered, she asked, “Is it a ride of some duration from your residence, my lord?”

  “I’ve come only as far as St. James Street. My intention was to give Ramona a gallop down Bayswater Road and finish up with a walk through Hyde. We didn’t expect this filthy weather when we set out. It came down quite relentlessly for a few moments.”

  A tap on the door interrupted the innocuous topics society dictated as necessary during the initial moments of a visit. The butler entered with two footmen. One carried a silver refreshment tray apparently prepared before Elizabeth could ask.

  Peregrine paused to watch her staff’s seamless efficiency. He knew all of her servants by name; he never entered an environment without gleaning pertinent facts. He covertly studied her major domo, Crimm, who had a peculiar past and reputation for a man in his position.

  While Crimm scanned the tray to confirm that everything was as it should be, a footman knelt at the Italian pink marble fireplace to replenish the fire. Peregrine suppressed a smile. The wealthy Mrs. Shelton could well afford wood instead of the caustic smell of coal.

  Crimm waited for the footman to sweep up the fallen bits from the hearth, then made a final visual inventory of the room. Assured that all was in order, an almost imperceptible nod sent the footmen from the room. Since his mistress hadn’t indicated that he should remain, Crimm dipped his chin in a slight bow and followed them out.

  Peregrine studied the closed door. “Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Shelton, but is your butler hovering out there in the passage? Does he suspect me to shortly perform some sort of nefarious deed?”

  One side of her mouth curved up in a deliciously wry smirk. “I expect that he is, my lord. I have long since accepted Crimm’s affectionate despotism. In truth, his precise management of my life and establishment is a source of amusement and comfort. What do you take in your tea?”

  “Lemon, if you have it. He has a bit of vegetation growing on one ear. Makes him look more like a pugilist than a butler.”

  “That’s because he was. My father tended to be overprotective. He lived in constant fear of my becoming an object of ransom.”

  Peregrine thought about that while she poured tea with the easy grace of a lady used to entertaining. He finally allowed himself to relax and look around the comfortable surroundings. Narrow-striped, green-and-ecru silk covered the walls, which complemented gleaming cherry wood furniture. A large, crystal bowl of forced roses—heads the size of small cabbages—sat on a marble-topped table to the right of his hostess, who maintained a slight smile with her head tipped to one side as she prepared their tea.

  Peregrine wasn’t fooled by her demure pose. He could almost see her clever mind at work. A long, dark curl nestled on bare, creamy skin where her neck and shoulder met, an eminently kissable spot. Calm down, old fellow. Have to win her over first.

  He closed his eyes and soaked up the restful quality of Elizabeth Shelton’s company. The warmth and cheer of his surroundings seemed a haven of verdant spring in the depressing gloom of late autumn. Outside, the world was dreary and wet, a dismal place where rotting leaves littered the streets in sodden clumps and the damp air reeked the acrid scent of decomposing foliage. The smell reminded him of the death and decay he’d seen throughout endless years of war.

  But here, in this cozy, elegant room, a crackling fire emitted the sweet tang of burning fruitwood instead of coal’s bitter tinge. The perfume of scones and cakes direct from the oven laced the air.

  The comforting sound of liquid being poured resurrected childhood memories of idyllic afternoons, sipping tea or hot chocolate, while he and his brother told their mother about their adventures, pranks, and silly games. When Peregrine opened his eyes, Elizabeth watched him, her gaze uncomfortably knowing. She extended a steaming cup.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shelton. This is all so very pleasant after coming in from such filthy weather. Forgive me for closing my eyes to appreciate the moment.”

  “And your tea?” she asked after she lifted her cup for a pretend sip.

  “Excellent!” He draped a glowing white serviette over his knee. “This is a shamefully belated call, ma’am, to offer you my sympathy for the loss of your husband.”

  She looked down at her cup. “How very good of you to remember your comrade’s widow. I am persuaded to believe that you must not be held at fault. I won’t accuse you of tardiness, sir. We must remember that the war has controlled our lives for so long.”

  He hadn’t eaten anything since the day before and glanced at the tray. She lifted a plate, and he accepted a scone. The texture was buttery light and dotted with plump raisins. She said nothing while he ate, seeming to understand how a soldier learns to appreciate the simplest of luxuries.

  She offered him a cake next. “These are especially delicious. Cook makes them with saffron.” She set down the cake plate and dropped a lump of sugar into her cup. “Your recent promotion was mentioned in the newspapers.”

  “How odd that anyone should consider it newsworthy.” He took a sip of lemon-laced tea and welcomed its searing path down through his body. He wondered if he would ever get enough of liquid heat. Her next comment washed away the memory of years being forced to shave with cold, sometimes half-frozen water.

  “We are interested in every aspect of the war, my lord. Perhaps, starving for any report is a more apt description. I’m surprised you’re not with Wellington for the Congress in Vienna.”

  “
I requested leave to come home. My lengthy absence has left my lands in a state of neglect.”

  “How unfortunate that it must be so for many officers. Devon wrote that you bought your commission after Austerlitz. You’ve been at war for seven years, sir. A very long time, indeed.”

  “I must say, Mrs. Shelton, you have an excellent memory to recall that sort of detail about your husband’s friend.”

  “More than a friend, I think. When Crimm mentioned your style this morning, I didn’t immediately make the connection. Devon hero-worshipped his ‘Captain Perry’.”

  “Can’t think of a more unworthy object.” He studied her arrested expression. When she glanced away, he asked, “What is it?”

  “I do not wish to cause you any discomfort, my lord, but were you there when…could you perhaps tell me if my husband suffered any pain? I have always wondered, you see, and prayed every night that if he should fall, he would not linger in pain.”

  A telltale gleam behind her level gaze prompted his swift answer. “I was told it was over in an instant, ma’am. He would’ve felt nothing, and it is quite normal that you should wonder. I came here today with the express hope of settling your mind on that score, even though it’s been a few years since the engagement. Certain events delayed my return.”

  Her lips trembled for a moment before she humbled him with an expression of beaming gratitude. “Oh, thank you for telling me! How thoughtful and kind you are.”

  Peregrine swallowed. He firmed his grip on the fragile teacup so it wouldn’t rattle against the saucer. The appreciation shining in her eyes shot his heart into an irregular rhythm.

  He made a discreet noise in his throat to find his voice. “I’ve always had the impression you knew the particulars. I was deeply shocked when I recently learned that no one attended to you on this matter.”

  “You were not his superior officer and cannot be blamed. In any event, a letter was sent to my husband’s parents. This was done according to Devon’s specific wish that I not be informed of his death by letter or coming across a notice in the papers.”

  “Ah! Then, his parents told you.”

  Elizabeth set down the tea she hadn’t actually tasted. She wasn’t entirely successful keeping the bitterness from her reply. “Devon’s family and I do not share an understanding. I learned from an overheard, quite by chance remark, that he fell at Ciudad Rodrigo.”

  Asterly tamped down a hot rush of outrage. Luckily, Elizabeth reached for the teapot to cover her feelings. With her head bowed, she wouldn’t see the flare of his anger. When she did glance up, he made sure that she only saw the shadow of his indignation. Even so, her attention immediately returned to the unnecessary task of rearranging the tea tray.

  Peregrine stared across the low table at the top of her head, appalled she’d been treated so cruelly and horrified by the treatment dealt to a war hero’s widow. He struggled to calm his outrage and get his emotions in hand before she raised her head.

  He could never tell her that he’d been present at his friend’s death. To do so would necessitate an explanation of Devon taking a direct hit from cannon fire of grape and chain in a reflexive attempt to protect the men behind him.

  Peregrine had also been wounded and bed-bound for a full month after the horrific carnage at Ciudad Rodrigo. As soon as he was able, he had Devon’s remains exhumed and sent home. There wasn’t much left to be found for return. He felt grateful that the coffin contents couldn’t be investigated after so long a time. In respect for Devon’s brave but useless sacrifice, he wanted to spare his widow that unpleasantness.

  The image of the nightmare assault burst to life in his memory. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The frail cup in his hand rattled, prompting him to open his eyes.

  Elizabeth watched, her gaze wise and understanding. She smiled. Her mouth, so soft and sweetly curved, asked if he wanted his tea freshened. Unable to speak, he nodded.

  She didn’t comment on the unexpected intensity of his sudden lapse, and Peregrine couldn’t tell if he’d been quick enough to mask his response. After so many years of intrigue, hiding behind a facade had become habitual. The violence and swiftness of his unguarded reaction proved his fatigue and urgent need for a break from war.

  She gestured for his cup, her hands long-fingered and graceful. She must not be vain about them. Any other woman would’ve worn rings to bring attention to such loveliness. She only wore a plain wedding band, and Peregrine recalled Devon telling him that the simple ring had been all he could afford. He’d always wondered about the hasty affair, if the young couple had anticipated their vows. To banish that image and create a more agreeable atmosphere, he altered the direction of the conversation.

  “Devon often regaled us with stories about you and your wedding. You were married at your father’s house in Manchester, an abbey, I believe.”

  “Yes, huge portions of it fallen down and anything left standing in want of repair. We married in the chapel, which is in fairly good condition.”

  “You preferred a quiet ceremony?” he prompted, wheedling for details.

  Her lips formed a reminiscent smile. “Devon insisted that we marry before he had to leave for Portugal with the Light Division.”

  When she didn’t continue, he said, “He delighted in telling stories about the abbey’s many inconveniences.”

  “Did he? I never knew he liked the place. I sold the monstrosity not long after Father died and bought a more comfortable house nearby. I was born in Manchester.”

  “Yes. Dev mentioned that.”

  Her expression softened and saddened. He knew she thought of Devon, perhaps their wedding. Until this visit, Peregrine never fully understood his friend’s adoration of this quiet, resilient woman and his troubling concern for his parents’ envy of her fortune. Devon never shared their avarice and professed to have no skill at managing the finances of the stupendously rich Elizabeth Bradley, at the time, the most sought after heiress in England. Her tradesman father could have bought a duke. Why had he settled for Devon, an impoverished second son of a baronet?

  He devised a string of innocuous questions that would supply answers. “If I may say, Mrs. Shelton, you seem to have a unique understanding of battlefield conditions. How did that come about?”

  “From Devon’s letters, for the most part.”

  “Wellington believes in keeping his men well supplied, but what he requisitions and what gets delivered is not always what he wants or needs. And yet, your deliveries to Devon arrived on schedule, not a bottle broken or crust disturbed, as I once teased him.”

  Peregrine sampled his freshened tea, thinking, what supplies they had been: crates of joints of beef, succulent hams, vegetables, jams, carefully boxed cakes, jars of wine, and kegs of ale that made Devon the most popular officer on the Peninsula. Peregrine thought it prudent not to mention that the tissue paper that protected the fruits had been more prized than the woolen socks and underclothing. The friendly squabbling over fruit wrappers, instead of the use of leaves, kept Devon laughing for days.

  Since she stayed silent, he said, “Wellington mentioned that he wrote to you, specifically to inquire as to how your shipments got through when his didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did write to me, back when he was yet a field marshal.”

  “May I ask how those timely deliveries were accomplished?”

  “My lord, it is a distressing and yet fortuitous fact that there is very little that cannot be accomplished with money. In addition, my father had banking connections all over the continent. It was a simple matter of sending an emissary with a list.”

  He had a thorough understanding of those banking connections, and even though he doubted it could have been in any way simple, moved on. “Those provisions were always sorely needed. We were forever short of medicinal supplies. The men were particularly grateful for the items deemed luxuries, the soap and writing materials. How did you become so wise to the precise needs of soldiers on the march?”

  “I
asked. Everywhere one looks there is a maimed veteran.”

  Peregrine’s heart had twisted at the sight of the neglected wounded. There would be many more as time passed and they trickled home from the endless battles and war that had kept him from his friend’s wedding. Even if he had been able to attend the ceremony, he had nothing to give but his physical presence. All he owned was his title and a falling-down house in Kent. The home farm profits and rents supplied a frugal lifestyle for him and maintained only the direst of the tenants’ repairs. He teetered on the edge of mortgaging to stay afloat.

  A log in the fireplace popped up a shower of sparks and brought him back to the present. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shelton. I strayed a bit again, thinking of the past.”

  She smoothed over the awkward moment with another lovely smile. “You’re not to worry. I was rather caught up with thoughts of Devon’s letters.”

  “So was I, and wonder, did he ever mention how much his men thought of you? I doubt you can understand how highly you were held in their esteem. No blushes, if you please. It was well deserved. You made the miserable chore of staying alive for one more day much easier.”

  She demurred, uncomfortable. Sensing that she hadn’t completely finished grieving for her husband, Peregrine began to speak of how Devon had been admired and liked. She brightened and talked about how they had met and their simple wedding.

  Peregrine listened, while musing at the irony of feeling grateful that he hadn’t been present for the ceremony. Now that he’d met her, watching her get married to someone else wouldn’t have been a pleasant memory to carry with him throughout the following years of war. He’d always considered himself half in love with her. Now that he’d met her, he realized that there was nothing halfway about it. Holding someone in affection was one thing, lusting after her was something else. What came as a surprise was the strength of the temptation without provocation.

  He studied his reaction to her as she spoke of Devon. She had a fine figure, well hidden, but not completely, under the frock’s loose fit. Her features couldn’t be designated as pretty—her nose, mouth, and chin were too precise. As she slipped into sadder thoughts, her face became firmer and more resolute with the strain of appearing unmoved in front of a stranger. Eager to change that impression, he offered her consolation.