"Me, too," Edward agreed.
"Then the least I can do is offer you breakfast," Sylvester said cheerfully, putting aside his unease. He clapped Edward on his good shoulder as he turned back toward the house. "I'll send someone to get rid of these things. Come along, Theo."
"I'm still interested in doing some shooting," she said.
"Not on your own, you're not," he retorted, stung out of patience by such obstinacy.
"Why not?" She looked genuinely surprised. "I've hunted here on my own many times."
"That was before some bright spark started planting a minefield," he pointed out.
"But they weren't supposed to catch me."
"Maybe not, but something's not right around here. Don't be obtuse, Theo."
And whose fault is it that nothing's right at Stoneridge anymore? Edward's presence forced her to bite back the bitter accusation. What should have belonged to her had been snatched from her. The familiar places had changed, become hazardous and unpleasant. Would she next begin to see threat in the faces of the people who'd been a part of her life since she could remember?
Edward stepped back toward her. He could sense her distress, just as he could sense the jangled emotions flowing between Theo and her husband.
"Come on, Theo, I'm famished," he said. "And if you insist on staying here, I'll have to stay with you."
She managed a smile of disclaimer and joined him on the path.
Sylvester hesitated, then walked on ahead of them, an outsider to this long-standing friendship. It wasn't lost on him that where he dictated, her friend cajoled.
He walked on, deep in frowning thought, hearing their voices on the path behind him. A leisurely breakfast would give him the opportunity to get to know Lieutenant Fairfax. Did he know anything at all of Vimiera?
At that moment Edward was remembering his colonel's description of the military scandal attached to Sylvester Gilbraith. In his own agonies of the last weeks he'd forgotten all about it, but now it came back to him. Theo had her arm in his as they walked back to the house, but she was distracted, thinking of the peddler without a pack, and responded only briefly to Edward's occasional observations.
Theo probably didn't know of Vimiera, Edward reflected. Such a history bore no relation to sleepy Lulworth life and was so much in the past that there'd be no reason for her husband to have revealed such a humiliating personal fact. He couldn't imagine doing so himself except in the most compelling of circumstances. But something was causing the hostility he could feel in her whenever she addressed her husband.
He looked at the broad back of the Earl of Stoneridge, preceding them on the narrow path. He had taken to the man immediately, as one sometimes does on a first meeting. There was an ease to him, a comradely acceptance. Not once had he referred to Edward's amputation, but neither had he deliberately ignored it. His eyes had encompassed the empty sleeve in the same way they'd taken note of his eye color and his physique.
If he'd ever reflected on the kind of man who would appeal to Theo, Edward realized that he would have come up with a description of someone like Sylvester Gilbraith. Some young sprig would never do. Theo needed a man of substance, someone who would appreciate her straightforward nature, who would not be threatened by her unusual competencies and her fiery spirit. She needed a husband experienced in the ways of the world, who could match her and, when necessary, curb her wilder flights. Someone, in short, like the earl. And yet he knew he had not imagined the antagonism that morning – at least on Theo's part.
The man securely concealed in the crotch of a massive oak tree on the far side of the pond clambered down as the wildlife on the pond settled back into its customary pattern once the three noisy, trampling humans had departed. Of all the cursed ill luck. His daily dawn vigil had been on the verge of being rewarded, and then that damn cripple had interfered. He'd been ready to stroll around the pond and administer the coup de grace as his victim struggled in the trap. He would have used the earl's own gun, and it would have appeared that in his violent struggles he'd accidentally shot himself… or maybe intentionally ended his sufferings in this deserted spot. No one would look too hard for a motive in such a case.
And then he would have returned to London to collect the final payment that would enable him to buy that little tavern on Cheapside.
Now, he'd have to return and report failure. He'd hung around the area too long already. Accidents took too damn long to arrange.
In the breakfast room the earl was all affability and proved himself an entertaining and sympathetic conversationalist. Edward warmed to him even more. It was only toward the end of the meal that he realized they'd talked only of his own experiences of the Peninsular campaign. Stoneridge made political and military observations aplenty, but he offered no reminiscences of his own, although he had been in this war and its two preceding ones, and Edward had little more than a year under his belt.
The man couldn't be a coward. It seemed impossible. Edward had an image of a man who'd do what Major Gilbraith was said to have done, and this man before him, filling his tankard with ale, tactfully encouraging him to talk of his wound, of how he felt about being crippled in this way, didn't fit that image.
Theo said little throughout the meal. She could see how Edward was responding to Sylvester, how he needed to talk to someone who would really understand what it was like out there. His parents would want him to talk, but he'd have to edit the tale. His father would want to hear only of successes, of valor and glory; his mother only of the comfortable billets and the kindness of the villagers and the brave support of the partisans. Neither of them could endure to imagine the reality of battle, the terror and the noise, the heat and the thirst and the screams of the wounded.
They seemed to have forgotten her presence, but she was glad to be forgotten. Unlike Edward, she didn't notice how little Sylvester said of his own experiences. All she could think was how little she knew of the man who was her husband and how little he was prepared to reveal. He'd given her only the skeleton of a barren childhood that she assumed was responsible for the barriers he'd erected around himself. Was the packless peddler the accomplice of someone who wished to hurt him, someone the earl had wronged in the past? He'd wronged her, after all; why shouldn't he have harmed someone else?
Theo put down her coffee cup and suddenly pushed back her chair. "If you'll excuse me, I have some things to do. Edward, will you and your parents dine with us tomorrow? I'll ask Mama and the girls, and we can have a family dinner just like the old days."
"Rosie's bound to insist I reveal my fascinating scars," Edward said with a mock groan.
"Just box her ears," Theo responded with a grin. "You always used to."
"She's rather less of a scrubby brat now," he observed, chuckling. "I'll check with my mother, but I'm certain she'll be delighted."
"I'll see you tomorrow, then." She moved to the door as both men rose politely.
"Theo?"
"Stoneridge?" She paused, her hand on the latch.
"There are a few matters I'd like to discuss. Would you join me in the library in half an hour?"
She hesitated, wanting to say that she had another appointment. But what good would that do? "If you wish it, sir."
"I do." He resumed his seat as the door closed on her departure.
"Forgive me, my lord, but…" Edward stopped, flushing slightly.
"No, please continue," Sylvester said, taking a deep draft of ale, leaning back in his chair, his eyes sharp as they rested on his visitor's face, his body as taut as a bowstring as he waited.
"It's none of my affair," Edward said awkwardly. "Forget I spoke."