However hard he tried, John couldn’t recall any more. He must have passed out cold. The ghouls had arrived and stripped him. As well he hadn’t come to when that was happening, because they would have killed him in case he recognised them later.
Then someone had taken him to the medic’s tent. There he’d woken with no recollection of who he was. If he knew then what he knew now he’d have considered himself blessed, but his memory had returned completely. He’d remembered his identity almost immediately, but once he assured himself of the outcome of the battle and that Wellington would not need his services, he’d decided to remain silent while he worked out his options.
Most of John’s remaining memory had returned over the following month in patches, dreams, nightmares of the battles he’d fought.
He decided to become anonymous John Smith for a while, long enough to get away to a new place. Start again and perhaps kill the bad dreams and the sense of futility that had dogged him in the first few months after Waterloo.
If he’d told them his real name, they’d have dragged him back to Britain, killed him with kindness, and then he’d be back fighting the family, no doubt ending by marrying one of the dowager’s daughters. His personal fortune was mostly liquid, in funds he could access anywhere with nobody any the wiser. So he’d opted for peace and a chance to live his life his way. Once he’d reached Canada, he’d sent the letter back home to assuage his conscience, then considered his duty done.
Now he’d do anything, as long as he had Faith with him. Face any number of dowagers, all the disapproval society had to throw at him, as long as he didn’t drag her down with him. He smiled at the woman in his arms, who was snoring slightly, probably because she had half her face mashed against his chest. He couldn’t let her go. It would kill him.
Selfish, considering what might lie ahead, but he couldn’t help that. He wouldn’t let her go yet, not until he knew she was safe.
That attack worried him enough to keep him awake nights. He needed to counter it, discover if it was safer for her to live with him or without him.
How could he tell her that her husband had tried to kill him?
She’d leave for sure, overwhelmed with guilt or shame or some other emotion. Stupid, but he knew his Faith by now. He bared his teeth to the unseeing moon, now fading in the face of the sun. He needed to track down this Cockfosters bastard, discover if he was acting on his own, or if anyone was paying him. Taking a lady with connections into a house of ill-repute was asking for trouble, especially when there were poverty-stricken girls for the taking. He had to keep Faith until then. Relief filled him when he followed instinct with rationality, and realised he had a reason to keep her with him. Not just his desire to hold her close and never let her go.
He could think of no reason for John Smith to want him dead—except one. He had to link the attempt with the visit to Smith’s tent the night before the battle. The same man, who’d probably wanted more than gambling debts. He might well have lured Smith with promises of cancelling his debts, a promise to wipe them out if Smith killed his commanding officer.
Cockfosters was the link, no doubt about that. He knew John Smith, probably instigated the otherwise senseless attack on him, and now he returned to threaten Faith. John had to find him.
An unknown heir, maybe, waiting in the wings to claim his prize. With the earl and his brother dead, only John lay between him and the title. John could no longer trust Roker to instigate enquiries on his own. True, he’d arranged for a few advertisements in newspapers around the country, a common occurrence, but he needed to increase his search. Ensure no heir existed, or identify one.
Or someone might want the title defunct. Someone wanting revenge for an unspecified act, or someone with another motive.
That begged for close inspection of the earldom’s accounts and holdings, something he was doing in any case. Even the dowager stood to gain from his death, with her income reverting to her and her daughters inheriting the unentailed parts of the estate, but he had no concerns on that score, merely because of her strong pride in the family and title. Charlotte and Louise? They couldn’t say boo to a goose. No, not them.
A cold hand clutched his heart when he realised something else.
He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.
By taking Faith into his bed, by sleeping with her every night, he’d put her in danger. Servants gossiped, and if anyone asked they’d find out easily enough. Claiming her as his wife had been bad enough, but showing her such partiality was worse. Whoever wanted him dead must know Faith might quicken. If she announced a pregnancy, then she was dead too.
Potential enemies crowded in from all sides, but he suspected they all coalesced into one person. Whoever it was would have to get to her over him. So he had to live too.
Later that day, John drummed his fingers on his desk. “If Roker doesn’t arrive in five minutes, we’ll start without him.” He cast David Carlisle a hard glance. “Feeling better?”
“Thank you, yes.” David Carlisle gave a bleak smile. “My lord.”
That must have choked him, to use the title.
John returned the smile. “’Sir’ will do.”
“Of course.”
John exchanged a glance with Thomas Pilkington, sitting at his ease, coffee cup in hand, one lanky ankle crossed over his other knee. Thomas raised a brow, but showed no other sign of response.
John knew him well enough to interpret that as gentle amusement.
Carlisle had delayed his arrival in town because of a severe bout of influenza that had grown from the chill he’d laid claim to last week. John saw no signs of the illness in the healthy features and clear blue eyes. Carlisle was a handsome devil, if a woman happened to prefer mid-brown hair and pale eyes, with a face of Classical proportions. Not forgetting the superior attitude that went with the knowledge he was employed by one of the premier families in the country, of course.
John didn’t have to wonder how Carlisle had taken the news he’d inherited the title. He could see it in every line of the hard, condemning face.
Just as he was about to begin his meeting, a tap on the door heralded the entrance of Roker. He apologised profusely for his late arrival, claiming the traffic as an excuse.
“You’ve lived in London a long time,” John observed mildly, as a footman furnished Roker with a seat and a cup of coffee. “Could you not have adjusted for that?”
Roker didn’t answer, but took his seat and refreshment. John nodded dismissal to the footman. He knew how much gossip travelled from house to house—it was how the world knew he habitually shared a bed with his wife. At this stage in his investigations he couldn’t afford for anyone to know what he planned to do in this room in the immediate future.
He began the meeting.
“I’ll travel to Graywood as soon as I can to inspect the estate, then I’ll visit the other sites.” He tapped the ledger Roker had given him with his forefinger. “This shows a few failings recently. The income from the farms is down, and rents are up. Is there any reason for that?”
Roker and Carlisle exchanged a glance, but John couldn’t tell from the quick glance what they meant. Collaboration? He and Pilkington had come to some conclusions in the last few days, and both agreed bringing the steward and the man of business together might prove interesting.
“Times were hard in the war years,” Carlisle said, “And a couple of poor harvests hit our earnings badly.”
“Did the mines flood?” At Carlisle’s stare of incomprehension, John added, “The coal mines. You do supervise those as part of the holdings, don’t you?”