Page 43 of The Captive Duke
Dear Papa being the Duke of Moreland, who happened to be married to the Duchess of Moreland, who would deliver a harangue worthy of a gunnery sergeant on the topic of wasted ammunition if she learned Devlin had been offered leave and declined it.
But going home meant dealing with Devlin’s family…and feeling keenly the absence of his brother Bartholomew, and the fading presence of his brother Victor, slowly dying of consumption.
War seemed a cheerier prospect, but the Corsican, buttoned up on his island in the Mediterranean, was no longer obliging.
“I’ve my own men to see to,” St. Just said, but he understood army politics too. “Perhaps in a few weeks.”
Baldridge beamed an avuncular smile. “A few weeks, then. Word is Girard held Mercia for nearly a year, and Girard is the devil’s spawn even in the estimation of his own superiors. Damned man has turned somebody up sweet at the War Office, though—who’d have thought he came from English stock? We would give a lot to know how a soldier born to every privilege withstood Girard’s treatment, St. Just. Quite a lot.”
A promotion then, and promotions would be hard to come by in peacetime. At the very least, Devlin would have the pick of the commands available—if he could get a decent report from Mercia.
The generals wanted to know how Mercia had been abused, in detail, what torments, in what order, and how he’d withstood them. What injuries had he suffered, how had those been dealt with, or had his wounds been departures for further abuse?
St. Just knocked back two fingers of fine French brandy—he’d sent his papa a case the previous week—and excused himself from the next round of cards.
And as wearying as the prospect of dealing with his family might be, they loved him. He had no doubt of that. The alternative—shipping out for a wilderness garrison amid the Canadian winters—had no appeal whatsoever, not even in peacetime.
So he’d be the next to torture Christian Severn, this time into reliving months of hell the duke was no doubt desperately trying to forget.
The countess with the spine of steel, who’d so casually allowed Christian a scrap of passing affection last night, was disobeying his orders.
His requests, rather. Christian stepped down from Chessie’s back and leaned on the stone wall surrounding the family plot.
“I told you to leave this to the gardeners, my lady.”
“Good morning, Your Grace.” The countess—Gillian—sat on her heels and drew the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a smudge of dirt. “I don’t recall you forbidding me to tend these plots, though you asked me not to bring Lucy here.”
Christian sensed about thirteen separate rebukes in those two sentences. For failing to greet her properly, for using the imperative, for accusing her of ignoring his wishes, for not bringing Lucy to her mother’s grave, for not visiting that grave himself, and little Evan’s grave, and on and on.
She made her words count, did Lady Greendale. He resigned himself to summary court martial, tied up Chessie’s reins, and sent him off toward the stable.
And again, the sight of the horse trotting away tickled some vague recollection in the back of Christian’smind, the very elusiveness of the memory adding to his bad mood.
“Won’t the lads worry about you? Fear you’ve come to harm?” her ladyship asked.
“Not unless I can tie up my reins as I tumble into a ditch.”
He scrambled over the wall. A year ago, he would have vaulted it cleanly, but he didn’t trust himself to pull that off, and got up a little resentment of the countess as a result.
“What exactly are you doing?” He dropped to the blanket she’d spread under her knees. “I employ an army of gardeners, and they’re well paid to keep the entire estate in good trim.”
“I’m transplanting violets and lily of the valley. Here, make yourself useful.”
She passed him a clump of earth with some violets sticking out of one end, slender white roots dangling from the other. He stared at those roots, so pale and vulnerable and yet necessary to the plant for life and stability.
“I have a general notion which end goes down and which goes up, but what had you in mind for these, Countess?”
She spared him a glance, and she might have been smiling—not at him, of course, for he was out of her favor over something.
Kissing her last night?
Not kissing her last night?
“Put them in there,” she said, pointing with a hand trowel. “Along Evan’s grave.”
“Aren’t we supposed to greet the dead, say prayers as we work? Maybe sing a hymn or two?” He scratched at the dirt with some implement she passed him. The tool was like a metal claw and bit into the soft soil easily, though he hadn’t the knack of using it with his right hand.
He switched it to his left. The two fingernails Girard’s fellows had appropriated had almost grown back to a normal length, the wound to the smallest finger was nearly healed, and by virtue of riding, he’d developed some grip strength as well.
