Chapter Eleven
May, 1815
Brussels
Dozens of low burning fires cast a reddish glow across the encampment. Heavy clouds covered the stars and plunged the night in heavy darkness. James reclined on a bedroll beneath a canvas overhang, leafing sightlessly through a book, listening to his men laugh and carry on.
“Do ye recall the night in Spain when the colonel won fifty pounds drinking that Russian giant under the table?”
“Oh, aye!” The men roared with laughter. “The colonel was in rare form that night.”
James cringed. Rare form. He’d made a royal ass of himself more like. A role he played all too often—the royal ass. He slammed the book shut, shame roiling in his gut as Phoebe’s haunting face flashed through his head. The sight of her stricken expression, pain and betrayal brimming in her wide beautiful eyes, had permanently seared his mind. He hated himself for hurting her. Such had never been his intention. He’d gone to her home that morning with his grandmother’s wedding ring in his pocket. He’d had every intention of proposing… asking her to wait for him… making plans to elope once he came home. But her brother had been in residence after all. The duke’s rage had forced James to come to his senses. Over and again he told himself it was best for her, without doubt she could do far better than he, but… was it truly for the best? Could they have been happy together anyway?
James heaved to his feet, restless, and needing to move.
It didn’t matter what could have been. He’d severed the bond with Phoebe so severely she’d never want to see him again. The truth was he’d panicked. He’d been consumed by her. Passion… Desire… Words did not exist to describe the supreme loss of himself he’d discovered in her arms. It scared the living hell out of him. He’d selfishly taken her to bed, and devoured everything she’d offered. It wasn’t until he’d seen the smear of blood on her thigh that the full import of his actions had struck. He was such a cad.
He wended through the low-burning campfires, keeping his face down to avoid being recognized. He had no desire to speak with anyone, be offered a drink, or hear more cackling tales of his transgressions.
Since meeting Phoebe he’d scarcely taken a drink and he’d undertaken the longest span of celibacy he’d known since the age of seventeen. He’d lost all taste for other women. It would seem Phoebe had had an exceedingly good impact on James. Because of her he wanted to be more. More than the debauched man his men crowed about and made fun of. His men liked him to be sure, and they were confident in his ability to lead them in battle, but did any of them respect him?
“Colonel Witherspoon!”
Bloody hell. Shoulders hunched against the light rain, James continued moving forward, pretending not to hear.
“Colonel!” Heavy footsteps ran up behind him.
Finally James ground to a halt, grudgingly turning to face the bastard interrupting his solitude. “Nick.” James relaxed a bit as his friend and junior officer approached. He’d spent considerably more time with Nick since returning to duty than his other cronies. “What can I do for you this evening?”
“General Boland has called a meeting, sir.” Though the young captain’s expression remained grave, a small smile quirked his lips. “He bade me drag you from whatever whore’s bed you’d crawled into back to his field tent.”
James ignored the General’s insult, instead falling into step beside Captain Collins. “The general is not attending the parties in town?”
“No, sir.”
Interesting… Something significant must have occurred if Boland had skipped one of the many opulent balls taking place. A flood of English men and women had traveled to Belgium despite the waging war. Utterly ridiculous to James’s mind. Most Londoners hadn’t a clue what real war involved. “What of Wellington?”
Nick nodded. “General Boland summoned him as well.”
James’s mind spun with possibilities. He was bored with camp life and itching for a fight. Side by side he and Nick marched toward the commander’s tent.
“Where is Witherspoon!” General Boland raged from behind the canvas. “By Christ that man is the bane of my command. “If he weren’t so damned good at—”
James threw back the loose flap and entered the tent. “You were saying, General?”
Boland’s steel gray eyes flipped to James. “What took you so long? I sent Collins after you an hour ago.”
“I came the moment I learned of your summons, General.”
The general scoffed. “Your tardiness is of no consequence.” He strode across the tent to the large table littered with maps, ledgers and parchment. He scooped a sheaf of paper from the cluttered surface and raised them to eye level. The pages rattled as he shook them. The general radiated pure intensity. “Do you want to see this war ended, Colonel?”
Unwittingly Phoebe’s face flashed through James’s mind along with an intense longing to return to her. He swallowed unsure how to handle the shift in his desires. “I do, sir.”
“I have a mission for you,” General Boland continued, moving steadily forward. “You likely won’t survive it, but if you succeed, you’ll have been instrumental in ending this miserable war.”
James nodded, growing somber. Phoebe’s haunting eyes refused to give him peace, but faced with the imminence of his mortality, he resolved once again that he’d made the right decision in ending their relationship. He steeled himself for the undertaking to come. “What is the mission, sir?”
General Boland rattled the pages again. “This, Colonel, is correspondence from Napoleon himself.”
* * *
Phoebe tied the slim piece of white ribbon around the jam jar and wiggled her nose.
What was that awful smell?
She dropped the jar in the woven basket sitting atop the table and glanced around.
Had someone let a wet dog into the house?
Phoebe looked up to Sarah sitting on the opposite side of the table. “Do you smell that?”
“Hm?” Sarah paused, left hand in midair as she prepared to lower another jar into the basket. The gem in Sarah’s wedding ring glinted in the sunlight, catching Phoebe’s eye. Phoebe quashed a nasty sprig of jealousy. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault James had left her without a single promise. Sarah didn’t even know of her foiled relationship with James.
“That smell. What is it?”
Confusion marred Sarah’s brow as she dropped the jar within. “I don’t smell anything?”
“Truly?” Phoebe shuddered. “I would swear there is a wet animal under the table. A dead wet animal.” She sniffed, trying to discern the odor, and her stomach lurched instantly. “Oh, dear.” Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth and nose.
Sarah stood, rounding the table to sit beside Phoebe. “Are you well? You’re green as a goose.”
“Geese are not green,” Phoebe mumbled, closing her eyes.
“No, but that did have a nice ring to it. It almost rhymed.” Sarah pressed the back of her hand to Phoebe’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish,” she said, tone sobering, “but you don’t look well at all.”
Phoebe gave her head a slight shake. “Would you mind terribly if I went to lie down?”
“Of course not.” Sarah’s brow furrowed with concern. “Come, I’ll walk you upstairs and ring for some tea. I do hope it’s nothing catching.”
Phoebe stood and offered her friend a weak smile, looping her arm through Sarah’s. “I’m certain it’s not. A little rest is all I need. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“After some tea and a nap you’ll be right as rain. Did I tell you I received a letter from Nicholas today?”
“Oh?” Phoebe croaked. She’d received nothing from James. Foolishly she’d clung to the hope he’d see the error of his ways and write to her, begging forgiveness. “What news from Brussels?” she asked dutifully, stuffing down her heartache as Sarah began to chatter merrily.
* * *
Incessant little beams of sunlight peaked around the heavy velvet drapes in Phoebe’s bedchamber, demanding she shake off the overwhelming fatigue strapping her to the bed, and rise. It wasn’t like her to sleep late—a thing she’d done every day for the past week—and if she didn’t remedy the behavior soon everyone would begin to worry. Panic welled in the dark space behind her eyelids, dragging troubling questions out for inspection. Phoebe forced her eyes open and drew a steadying breath. She quickly suppressed the uncertainties bandying about the periphery of her mind. Surely she had nothing to fret about. Soon this overwhelming sleepiness would pass, and the unease she’d tried to ignore for the past two weeks would be but a bad memory.
Sufficiently reassured, Phoebe mustered her strength and swiftly sat, slinging her legs over the edge of the mattress.
Oh, dear!
She shouldn’t have moved. Her stomach churned, threatening to spill whatever contents lurked within. She clamped a hand over her mouth as she inadvertently heaved. Desperate, she scrambled off the bed, dropping to her hands and knees and grappling for the empty chamber pot beneath. She just barely grabbed the copper basin in time and retched until the muscles in her abdomen hurt.
The door crashed open.
Phoebe groaned as Sarah appeared.
“Phoebe? Are you all right?”
“Fine, Sarah,” she choked, gripping the copper basin in both hands.
“You certainly don’t sound fine.” Her friend strode across the room, concern lining her pretty visage. “How long have you been sick like this?”
“Lady Phoebe is sick?” Mrs. Condon was hot on Sarah’s heels. “I certainly hope it wasn’t last night’s fish. I told Cook it smelled tainted.”
“There was nothing wrong with the fish,” Phoebe muttered.
Mrs. Condon stopped dead in her tracks, glancing from Phoebe huddled on the floor in her night robe, clutching the chamber pot for dear life, to Sarah and then back to Phoebe. The older woman paled. “What’s going on?”
Phoebe’s stomach promptly began to heave again.
A knowing and thoroughly devastated expression settled across Mrs. Condon’s face. “Miss Hardy, close the door on your way out.”
“It’s Mrs. Collins, if you please, and I’m not going anywhere.” Sarah closed the door, but refused to leave.
“Lady Phoebe—” Mrs. Condon’s voice cracked. “I hate to ask this, but… are you…”
Trembling, Phoebe nodded before her servant could finish the question. “Yes.” Tears of shame and anguish flooded Phoebe’s eyes, there was no denying the fact any longer, she squeezed her lids shut to block out the hurt and disappointment pouring from her housekeeper’seyes. All the pent up fear and emotion burst from Phoebe and sobs racked her body with gale force. “I-I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t want to believe it.” Hot tears coursed unchecked down her cheeks. “What will come of me? How will I ever tell Edward?”
“Oh, my darling.” Mrs. Condon dropped to her knees beside Phoebe and gathered her in a motherly embrace. “I will speak with His Grace. All will be well.” There was a long pause, and for a while Mrs. Condon simply held her like a little girl.
Phoebe held tight to the soft arms cradling her, but they were not the arms she longed for. The arms she wished for had thoroughly used and then left her.
“There now,” Mrs. Condon crooned. “To think I’d always thought it would be my daughter, Carol, I’d be having this conversation with.”
Phoebe choked out a single wry laugh. “You may still. She’s only fifteen.”
“Now.” Mrs. Condon drew back, dabbing the corner of her sleeve at her eyes. “Who is the father?”
Phoebe shook her head, staring at the floor. Shame burned in her cheeks.
“Who, Phoebs?” Sarah crossed the room and knelt beside her. She took Phoebe’s hand and squeezed it.
Phoebe raised heavy eyes to Sarah and Mrs. Condon. “James Witherspoon.”