The Enigma of a Widow Page 15

  The knight regarded her for a moment, rather stunned by her words. Why would she make marriage sound so... unreasonable? Although he had never imagined himself married, with a wife and children, he suddenly considered what that life might be like. He didn’t find the image so very awful. Indeed, he rather liked the idea of sharing a bed with Lydia. Rather liked the idea of a babe bouncing on his bent foot whilst its tiny hands were curled around his forefingers, its shrieks of delight filling a room, its giggles ...

  Adonis blinked. Where the hell had that image come from? he wondered. He had never seen a member of the ton do such a thing. Never even heard a babe giggle.

  Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, often spoke of doing such things with his cousin’s children, though, his face lit up with such delight, his audience was left wondering why it was the earl had waited so long to marry. Even now, the man hadn’t yet fathered an heir. Whenever he did, Adonis was quite sure the progeny would be spoiled rotten.

  A hand waved in front of his face, bringing him back to the here and now.

  “You’re doing it again,” Lydia complained as she stared at him.

  Adonis blinked and returned the stare.

  “Where were you?” she demanded, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

  “Imagining a babe bouncing on my boot,” he replied quickly, not having the wherewithal to consider how his words might sound to the dowager viscountess.

  Lydia blinked at the odd response. Whatever had the man thinking of babies at a time like this? “Oh,” was all she could manage in response just then. “Well, before you go off fathering bastards, we have a puzzle to solve,” she reminded him.

  Adonis nodded, his attention going to the seemingly hundreds of pieces that lay scattered before him.

  “Do you require something stronger than tea?” she wondered again, settling herself into the chair opposite from the knight. “I have some scotch on the sideboard. Brandy, too.”

  “I do not,” Adonis replied, his gaze darting over the collection of puzzle pieces. He helped himself to a hunk of cheese and took a sip of tea before he leaned closer to study the pieces.

  Lydia dared a glance at him, wondering what he was thinking. Whatever had the man imagining a babe bouncing on his boot?

  When the knight suddenly stood up, and then used his cane to climb atop the chair he had been sitting in to stare down at the tabletop, Lydia pushed away from the table and stepped back. What the hell?

  “This isn’t a map,” Adonis announced suddenly. He stepped down from the chair, his good leg and his cane providing support as he did so.

  “Words? Or a drawing?” Lydia responded. She didn’t admit she had done the same thing earlier that afternoon.

  Adonis glanced at her. “Aye, possibly to both,” he replied. He began rearranging the wood scraps, his deft fingers moving the pieces about the table until two or three formed the shapes of cursive letters. Lydia followed suit, a few more letters becoming apparent.

  Over the course of the next hour, the two worked in relative silence as the scripted words spelled out the most unexpected phrase Lydia had ever read.

  “Congratulations on your exceptional teamwork. A new assignment will be forthcoming. C.” The entire phrase was surrounded by an oval line.

  Adonis lifted his eyes to regard the viscountess. “What do you suppose he has in mind for us next?” he wondered as he helped himself to a slice of ham.

  Lydia shook her head as she pushed away from the table. “I’ve absolutely no idea, but I intend to let him know we have solved this particular puzzle.” Adonis struggled to stand as she made her way to the escritoire. He watched as she pulled out a sheet of parchment in one hand and picked up an ink pot and pen with the other. “What, pray tell, should we tell the man?” she asked as she returned and resumed her seat.

  Adonis settled back into his chair, not about to mention thanking the director for having coerced Lydia to seek his help on the puzzle. The man’s note to her made it clear she had to include Adonis in the puzzling solving. “Admonish him, of course,” he spoke as he leaned forward. “His instructions could have embroiled you in scandal—”

  “As if your midnight visits do not?” she interrupted as she took pen to paper and began writing.

  Adonis sighed. “I will not be caught entering or leaving your house, my lady,” he murmured in assurance. “So let us hope his next assignment is something we can do without being seen.”

  A frisson shot through Lydia just then. Did the man realize what he suggested? Something clandestine? Something secret? Something done in dark corners or behind closed doors?

  She had a brief moment of imagining the two of them in her bed, Adonis’ lips grazing over her body, occasionally stopping to kiss a nipple or suckle a sensitive spot. Oliver had never been able to get that part quite right, the man so eager for his own release he barely spent any time in the foreplay she found to be the best part of lovemaking.

  Jasper had been better at it. Better at the kissing and teasing, better at bringing her to a quick and sharp release before he plunged himself into her, but even he wasn’t a skilled lover.

  For some reason, Adonis struck her as a man who could be, and not just because he was a beautiful man. There was something about his eyes. Something about the way he gazed at objects, the way he studied them as his well-manicured fingers touched them. She could imagine him touching her with those fingers. Her nipples. Her womanhood. Her entire body. The shiver of delight she felt in response nearly had her gasping.

  “Where were you just then?” Adonis asked in a whisper, his words spoken exactly as Lydia had said them when they were on the banks of the Serpentine.

  Lydia blinked. And blinked again as she considered how to respond. “In my bed,” she replied with an arched eyebrow. “About to go to sleep.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie at least. She was sure Adonis could already read the tells that gave her away. Despite the long periods when he seemed to take leave of his senses, the man was still rather observant. He had to be if he had been an operative for the Foreign Office.

  Adonis still held the slice of ham between his fingers, but he finally placed it on a piece of bread and took a bite, his eyes closing as he did. “Thank you for the late supper, my lady. I find myself rather hungry given I did not join my sister and Lord Craven for their dinner this evening. I find myself rather opposed to her censure,” he whispered. “She thinks I belong in Bedlam.”

  Lydia ignored the comment about Bedlam—she was afraid she might agree with Lady Craven just to be polite. She poured him another cup of tea, the last of the pot dribbling into his cup. “It was the least I could do, given our assignment,” she finally replied. She glanced at the clock over the fireplace. “It’s nearly two. I suppose you should be taking your leave—”

  “I will not leave this house until dawn, my lady,” he interrupted.

  “The locksmith was here this morning. Before you, I have never had a thief enter the household,” she argued.

  “And you still have not.” He paused a moment, realizing her implication. “I am not a thief.”

  Angling her head to one side, Lydia sighed. “Tell me why.”

  “Please, my lady. Allow me to do what I promised,” he begged.

  Lydia furrowed her brows, wondering if the man intended to visit her house every night for the rest of her life. “Is it true? What you said about to whom you made the promise to provide protection?” she asked, hoping he would see to providing a straight answer.

  Adonis dipped his head. “Your late husband, of course,” he replied, his gaze not meeting hers.

  Not completely surprised by his answer, Lydia still gave a start. “How did you even know him?” Just because her husband had at one time taken orders from Lord Chamberlain didn’t mean that Sir Donald and Jasper knew each other from the Foreign Office.

  Jasper had been a commander in the British Army, one of the few aristocrats to serve under Wellington in the later battles against
Napoleon’s forces on the Continent. How likely was it, then, for the two men to even know one another?

  Unless Sir Donald also served under Wellington.

  “We had... similar orders... in the Netherlands, my lady,” Adonis replied in a hoarse whisper. “I will say nothing more on the matter.”

  Anger filled Lydia just then. “Similar orders?” she repeated, her voice no longer a whisper. “So, you... you knew him?”

  Adonis sighed. “I did. Well, I knew of him, of course. And then I met him... on the way to Ligny.”

  Lydia hissed. Jasper had died sometime during the Battle of Ligny, although there was a caveat that he might have died the morning after. She could never get a straight answer from the War Office on the matter, and Lord Chamberlain certainly hadn’t provided any intelligence on the matter. Until she had seen the drawing Chamberlain had showed her, she didn’t even know for certain how Jasper had died.

  “Was he a good commander?” she wondered in a strangled whisper. Jesus. It had been a year. She could hardly believe she still felt sorrow over his loss.

  Not expecting the question, Adonis furrowed his brows. “He was, as a matter of fact. He understood strategy. Understood war,” he replied in hoarse whisper. “In the event you were not informed, he died of a bayonet wound.” He didn’t add that he thought the commander had also taken a musket ball in one of his shoulders.

  Lydia stared at Adonis, wondering if he could read her mind. “I was not, at least, not until a few days ago,” she replied with a shake of her head, the catch in her voice a telltale sign she was about to cry. “Did he die alone?”

  The knight considered how to respond. “No.”

  Nodding, Lydia finally pushed away from the table and picked up the tea tray from the table. “I am tired. I’m going up to bed. Do what you must,” she managed around a sob that threatened to rob her of voice.

  Adonis watched her go, rather surprised she didn’t order him to leave her house and threaten him with a visit from a constable. Or a Bow Street Runner.

  Giving one last glance at the completed puzzle, he lifted its pasteboard box and placed it against the edge of the card table. With a few swipes of his hand, he had the pieces collected in the box and the lid placed over the top. Leaning back in his chair, he drained his tea and pondered what to do next.

  He had a promise to keep. He was already in the house. After finishing off the last of the cheese, Adonis took the tray to the kitchen and then made his way to the mistress suite by going up the main stairs.

  Adonis wasn’t surprised to find Lydia already in her bed, her discarded gown draped over a shin toaster and her petticoats, corset, chemise and stockings dribbling over the edge of the bed.

  The thought of her having undressed just the moment before his arrival had his cock hardening.

  Christ!

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to find her attractive. Beautiful. Alluring.

  Vulnerable.

  Jasper’s descriptions had suggested someone quite different. But why? Did the commander think Adonis would pursue Lady Barrymore for himself if he knew the truth?

  Not possible. He was quite sure the viscount thought Adonis would die on the very same battlefield. The man had seen the shin bone jutting from the front of his broken leg, a horse having stepped on it during the heat of the battle.

  Adonis had to jerk his head in an attempt to shake away the thought that had his leg throbbing in pain.

  Lydia. Think of Lydia.

  He had half a mind to join her in the bed, if for no other reason than to hold her. Comfort her. Kiss her hair and see her off to sleep as he had done the night before.

  She was still grieving over the loss of her husband, if he understood her quiet sobs as she left the parlor. He could understand that feeling. Understand how bereft it made a person feel to have the only person in the world for whom one felt affection taken away in an act of violence.

  Johanna had been that one for him.

  As he settled into the upholstered Greek lounging chair by the window, Adonis allowed his mind to wander, to remember those days in the Netherlands, the weeks of innocence before he had to make his way to Brussels and report for duty to Wellington.

  His favorite days.

  Tears were streaming down his face when he finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 22

  In the Still of the Night

  An hour later

  Lydia held her breath for a moment, swallowing the last of a sob as she listened intently. She was sure Adonis was in the bedchamber, but if so, his entrance had been so quiet, she wasn’t completely sure he was there.

  Turning over so she faced him, she barely opened her eyes. His silhouette was evident in front of the window—the embers from the fireplace still lit the room in a golden-red glow—as was the barely audible sound of his labored breathing. Alarmed, she lifted herself onto one elbow and listened intently. She could swear she heard the man sniffling, heard the evidence of a sob or two.

  Lydia stepped out of the bed and moved to stand before him, much like she had done the few nights before. Knowing she had nothing to fear from the man, she left the gun behind this time.

  Although his eyes were closed, she could see the evidence of tears streaming down his cheeks. Lowering herself to the cushion next to his, Lydia reached out with a hand and used a thumb to brush away the moisture from one temple. When he didn’t react nor move to indicate he was aware of her presence, she lifted her other hand and swept away the tears from the other cheek.

  His hand suddenly gripped her wrist as his eyes flew open. “Johanna?” he said in a rather loud voice, his body straightening on the Greek lounging chair.

  Lydia let out a slight shriek at his sudden movement, her body jerking in response. “Oh, my God, you scared me,” she murmured, the words sounding breathless in the near-dark.

  Adonis gulped and regarded her with wide eyes. When he glanced about the bedchamber, he finally dared a breath and relaxed a bit. “I... I apologize. I...” He allowed the sentence to trail off, his face betraying his disappointment at discovering he wasn’t where he thought he was.

  “Who is Johanna?” The words were spoken in a whisper, and Lydia struggled to keep a hiccup from sounding in her query. She didn’t know why she felt the sudden pang of jealousy just then. Adonis meant nothing to her. Not in that way, at least.

  His gaze having come to rest on Lydia’s wrist—he still held it quite firmly—Adonis considered how to respond. “A woman I once knew,” he finally whispered. “She’s of no consequence now,” he added as he let go of Lydia. “I fear I may have left a bruise.”

  Lydia used her other hand to rub the ring around her wrist where his fingers had gripped her. “I’ll be fine.” She paused a moment. “What do you mean she’s of no consequence?”

  Adonis pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his nose. “She’s... she’s dead,” he managed to get out without his voice breaking.

  The image of Johanna had been so vivid in his mind’s eye, he was sure she was real. Alive. Smiling at him as she did those few days when the two of them had made the best of what must have been a terrifying ordeal for her.

  And then she was gone.

  I loved her, Adonis thought then, blinking as he felt the tears return. He had never before cried over the loss of Johanna. Had he been ten minutes earlier in arriving at the hovel she had called home, he would have been dead, too. But then he would have been spared from the Battle of Ligny. Spared from the agony of his leg wound and the months spent in a hospital in Brussels. Spared from having made the promise that had him spending his nights in the company of a woman who did not want his protection.

  Probably didn’t need it.

  A hand waved in front of his face, and he frowned. “I was dreaming,” he murmured with a shake of his head.

  “Having a nightmare is more like it,” Lydia countered, disappointed when he didn’t offer more information about Johanna. “Wher
e were you?”

  Weary, Adonis allowed a sigh. “The Kingdom of the Netherlands. Or whatever they’re calling it these days,” he replied with another sigh. “Somewhere north of Antwerp.”

  Lydia tried to imagine a map of the area. North of Brussels. Not far from where Jasper had died. “Did Lord Chamberlain assign you there?”

  Adonis shook his head. “No. I had just arrived on a ship and was making my way to a rendezvous point near Brussels... I had some time, though. I couldn’t get there too early or I might be caught by the enemy, and...” He sighed again.

  “Who was she?”

  Tears nearly threatened again, but Adonis swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “A young widow. Quite beautiful. From what I could gather, her husband’s family had always been the caretakers of a windmill. When he died during one of the early battles with France, she was left there alone.” He sniffled before using his handkerchief again. “She lived in the base of the windmill. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Lydia hissed, quite sure she could guess what might have happened to the poor woman. “Did you have to... save her... from the French?”

  Adonis dipped his head. “I dispatched two with bullets and the third with a bayonet,” he whispered after a time. “She couldn’t manage on her own, of course—there was far too much to do to keep the damn windmill running—so I did what I could. The French forces were so scattered, but I truly thought they would head farther south. Go back to be closer to their own border. But while I was in Antwerp to locate some parts...” He paused, struggling to catch his breath. “And to meet my contact—I knew I needed to meet up with Wellington’s man at some point—they shot a cannon ball into the windmill.”

  Oliver Preston had been there. The man had as much as admitted that he had helped the French that day.