The Earl's Honorable Intentions Page 6

  “But…?” The earl prompted her. “I sense one coming. Out with it. I would rather have an open disagreement than silent hostility seething beneath a polite surface.”

  Was that how he viewed her attitude toward him? Hannah wished she could deny it, but her conscience would not let her. “Very well, then. I cannot pretend I agreed with your decision to return to your regiment the last time troops were called up. Your wife and son needed you.”

  The earl looked as if he regretted urging her to speak freely. “You needn’t remind me that I was a poor excuse for a husband and father, Miss Fletcher. No one knows it better than I. But I had a duty I felt obliged to see through.”

  Then, more to himself than to her, he added, “And I am not finished yet.”

  What on earth had made him think it would be a good idea to have Miss Fletcher as a companion while he was forcibly bedridden? Gavin asked himself that question as they played a game of backgammon. The rattle of the dice sounded like a mocking chuckle at his folly.

  He had been so busy anticipating her discomfort and wanting to punish her… for what? For caring more about his well-being than he did? For thinking ill of him when he knew she was perfectly justified? For being right and seeing him proven wrong?

  His resentment of the lady was unfair and his wish to penalize her quite unworthy. Now he was getting his just deserts.

  The black-and-white marble disks made a sound like a clicking tongue as they struck one another while being moved across the board. They seemed to reproach him, as he deserved.

  If he’d thought that sparring with Miss Fletcher and needling her would make the time pass more quickly, he’d been wrong. For the lady had not hesitated to tell him a few unpalatable truths about himself. He hesitated to provoke her again for fear she would unleash more on him. Tiresome as it might be to lie in bed for days on end with only his painful conscience for company, it was even worse to pass the time with a person whose presence was a continual unspoken reproach.

  Miss Fletcher counted up her final moves under her breath, bringing the last of her counters to their destination.

  “Gammon,” she announced. The softly spoken word betrayed a faint ring of triumph. She had beaten him quite handily. Only backgammon would have been a more humiliating defeat.

  “Congratulations,” Gavin replied in a flat, hollow tone. “You win more than you might have guessed, Miss Fletcher.”

  Her head snapped up. “I beg your pardon? What have I won?”

  Her blue-gray eyes glittered with suspicion at his riddle. Gavin could not deny she had good reason to mistrust him.

  “Your freedom.” He swept the backgammon disks back into the hinged box that served as a playing board. “This imprisonment is tiresome enough for a man like me to bear. Forcing you to suffer with me does not make it easier. Go about your usual duties and leave me to my own miserable devices. It is no worse than I deserve.”

  He expected the lady to greet his announcement with relief. Instead her eyes widened in a look of distress. “Give me another chance. Please, sir. I know I have not been good company for you today, but I promise I will do better.”

  Gavin shook his head. “You mistake me. I am offering you a reward, not a penalty. It takes two to make good company. When I am one of those two, I fear it is a lost cause from the beginning.”

  She pondered his words for a moment, then one corner of her lips inched upward. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  Why did she not simply accept his offer and make her escape? “If you relish attempting the impossible.”

  “Does a good soldier accept defeat before the battle has been properly joined?” That certainly sounded like a challenge—one he was hard-pressed to resist.

  “I would rather fight a battle every day for the next fortnight than this.” Gavin barely stifled a sigh. “There I go falling into self-pity again. You were right to chide me for it. It is as contemptible as it is tiresome.”

  Though she must surely agree, Miss Fletcher refrained from saying so. “You could not have fought a battle every day of that long war. How did you occupy yourself between times?”

  “There was never any difficulty to pass the time.” Gavin thought back to his recent weeks in Nivelle and his years in Portugal and Spain. “There were scarcely enough hours in the day between drilling my regiment and meeting with the senior officers to discuss strategy. Dispatches to write and scouting patrols to assign. Making certain my men were properly fed and supplied, our horses well cared for. Breaking camp, riding to the next one and making camp again.”

  As he recited the litany of his duties, Miss Fletcher began to nod her head slowly. “No wonder you could find little time for writing to your wife.”

  Gavin winced, though his wound was giving him little pain at the moment. “You need not remind me of my deficiencies as a husband, Miss Fletcher. My difficulty was not a matter of finding time to write as of finding anything to say that might have interested Clarissa. She had no patience for military news. It was almost as if she were…”

  He searched for the word, not certain what he was trying to say.

  “Jealous?” Miss Fletcher suggested. “I believe she may have been.”

  “Jealous?” Gavin dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. “Of what? The army? The war?”

  “Of something that took you away from her.” The governess sought to explain what perhaps only another woman could understand. “Something she thought you cared about more than her. Something with which she could not compete.”

  “Must we talk about this?” Gavin squirmed. Suddenly his position on the bed did not feel so comfortable. “There is nothing to be done about it now.”

  “I suppose not.” A shadow of sorrow darkened Hannah Fletcher’s eyes. Almost as if she had been to blame for his wife’s unhappiness rather than he. “Forgive me for raising the subject, after I promised to be a more agreeable companion. I believe I may have thought of a way to make the coming days pass more quickly, if you would care to hear it.”

  Gavin doubted anything could accomplish that, but he strove not to concede defeat too soon. “By all means, speak. If anyone can devise a solution, it might be the incomparable Miss Fletcher.”

  “Must you mock me, sir?” She lowered her gaze. “You may not think well of me, but I have endeavored to do my best for your family since I came to Edgecombe.”

  He had never expected to hear such an injured tone in the voice of his son’s cool, capable governess. She tensed, as if preparing to spring up and hurry away. If she did, Gavin feared she might never come back.

  His hand shot out to clasp hers. “I did not mean to mock you, Miss Fletcher. In the past, I may not have valued your service as highly as you deserved, but I am beginning to see my error.”

  Another thought occurred to him. Though discretion urged him to keep it to himself, he felt compelled to offer Miss Fletcher a token of atonement. “Perhaps I was a trifle jealous of… you.”

  “Of me?” She still looked dubious of his sincerity.

  “Of your pivotal place in my household.” Suddenly conscious of the impropriety of holding her hand, he released it. “Of how well you succeeded in a role I could never properly fill.”

  “I am certain you could have succeeded if you had tried harder.”

  Could he? The possibility skewered Gavin’s conscience as surely as that shot had pierced his side. He hastened to change the subject. “Tell me about this idea of yours to pass the time. I would welcome any hope, however slight.”

  “As you wish.” Miss Fletcher inhaled deeply, whether to compose herself or to master her annoyance with him, Gavin could not be certain. “I thought the time might not stretch so long ahead of you if it were divided into shorter units.”

  She looked so deadly serious, Gavin could not resist rallying her a little. “I believe it already is. Those divisions are called hours and minutes. When I am obliged to lie about doing nothing, each minute seems as long as an hour and an hour as long as
a day.”

  “That is not what I meant,” Miss Fletcher replied tartly, though Gavin glimpsed a faint twinkle in her eyes. “I propose dividing the day into units of activity, none of more than an hour’s duration. Frequent changes of activity might make the time pass more quickly for you.”

  “Like a schedule?” The notion intrigued him. “That does sound promising. What sort of activities do you propose to fill my time?”

  “Necessary ones to begin with. Your meals. Time in the morning for grooming. Then…” Her eager words trailed off.

  No doubt she had grasped the flaw in her fine plan. There would still be many blanks to fill in this schedule she proposed and very few activities suitable for a bedridden patient.

  Just as Miss Fletcher’s hesitation stretched into an awkward pause, she was rescued by the sudden appearance of Edgecombe’s elderly butler. “The newspapers, my lord.”

  News! Gavin’s spirits bounded. No one at Edgecombe could tell him more than that the Allies had been victorious at Waterloo and Wellington was pursuing Bonaparte toward Paris.

  Miss Fletcher sprang from her chair. “I will take those, Mr. Owens, and read them to his lordship if he wishes.”

  “Very good, miss.” The butler handed the papers over with an air of deference, as if she were Gavin’s sister or…

  “Thank you, Owens,” Gavin said. “I am most anxious for news from the Continent.”

  “I trust the reports will be to your liking, my lord.” The butler bowed and withdrew.

  Miss Fletcher resumed her seat. “Are you sure you want to hear all this? I am afraid the news may only upset you and hinder your recovery.”

  “Of course I want to hear.” In fact, he could hardly wait. “Are there any reports from the French or Flemish papers?”

  It occurred to him that perhaps he could put the coming fortnight to productive use after all, gathering information, laying plans and making preparations for his mission once he was fit to undertake it.

  “After we are finished with these—” he gestured toward the newspapers “—I have thought of a number of activities with which we might fill that schedule of yours.”

  The following day, Hannah once again scanned the newspapers for reports from the Continent. She was not certain how she felt about this activity. Reading the newspapers to his lordship certainly helped to pass the time. No other activity seemed to occupy his attention quite so well. Once they’d finished reading all of yesterday’s news, the earl had ordered her to fetch writing materials and compose a letter to the Foreign Office. Then he had asked her to fetch a map of the Continent and mount it on a board for him to examine.

  Though she welcomed any diversion that would occupy him, his obsession with the war troubled her. She hoped he did not plan on returning to active duty as soon as the doctor let him leave his bed.

  But how could she stop him if he was determined to go?

  “Here it is.” She focused on one particular news item. “A report from the French Chamber of Representatives when it sat six days ago.”

  “Six days?” The earl plowed his fingers through his thick black hair. “Do you know how much the situation could have changed in that time? Is there nothing more current?”

  “I will check, sir, if you will calm yourself. It does no good to fret about any of this. There is nothing you can do about it.”

  The earl muttered something under his breath that sounded like “not yet.”

  “Here is the latest news from London,” Hannah began to read. “There was a report current upon the Exchange yesterday morning that Bonaparte had surrendered himself into the hands of the Duke of Wellington at Compiègne. But no authentic advice of any such event was received by Ministers, though the fact is mentioned in the Brussels papers.”

  As she read, Hannah lifted a silent prayer of thanks. “That is excellent news! If Bonaparte has surrendered, the war must be over for good.”

  “If he has surrendered.” Lord Hawkehurst gave that first word the most doubtful emphasis. “I would not credit a rumor from the Exchange that assured me the sky is blue.”

  “But the Brussels papers…” Hannah protested, wanting the report to be true quite as much as the earl seemed to wish it proven false.

  “Even if the report is correct—” the earl drummed his fingers on the bedclothes “—that is no guarantee Bonaparte will not be sent into comfortable exile once again, long enough to lay plans for his next return to power. I cannot allow that to happen!”

  His fingers ceased their drumming and clenched into a tight fist. “Week-old news and unsubstantiated rumors—I must have more accurate information! Has there been any reply from my letter to the Foreign Ministry?”

  “Not yet.” Hannah spoke in a soothing tone she might have used with young Peter when he was upset. “But it has only been one day, and I daresay the Ministry has plenty of business to occupy it at the moment.”

  Her words seemed to ease the worst of his agitation. The earl’s fingers unclenched, and he exhaled a deep, slow breath. “You are right, of course. Perhaps we will receive an answer on Monday. In the meantime, put a pin in the map at Compiègne.”

  Hannah laid down the newspapers and did as he’d bidden her.

  “Are you only following the doctor’s orders so you can recover enough health to return to your regiment?” Hard as she tried to keep her tone neutral, notes of challenge and accusation crept in.

  The earl must have heard them, for he responded accordingly. “What if I am? I owe a duty to my country.”

  “You have a duty to your children.” Hannah wanted to throw up her hands in exasperation. “Or do you care nothing for them?”

  Discretion warned her it was not her place to question her employer’s feelings toward his family. But beneath that insistent warning, a quiet insight dawned on her. How could his children mean more to him than his military career? He had lived with it night and day for years. But he had spent very little time with Peter, and he had never even seen the babies.

  If she hoped to make the earl’s obligation to his children something more than an abstract concept, he would need to get to know them. What better time to do that than this fortnight while he recovered?

  “Of course I care for them!” The earl bridled. Clearly her question made him defensive. “They are my children, after all. Besides, I know what it is like to grow up without a mother.”

  He did? Hannah’s gaze flitted toward the portrait above the mantel, which showed a dark-haired young woman dressed in an elaborate brocade gown of the past century. She had never thought to inquire how long ago the previous countess had died. History seemed to be repeating itself at Edgecombe.

  “I am relieved to hear that you appreciate your paternal responsibilities, sir. For the children’s sake, I urge you to give up any idea of returning to your regiment. It is clear General Wellington will vanquish Bonaparte. And surely the Allies will have learned their lesson about the folly of leaving such a man at liberty. Let others deal with him. He is not your responsibility, but your children are. You cannot risk your life while they need you.”

  Lord Hawkehurst flinched at her words as if each one had dealt him a blow. “I appreciate your concern for my children, Miss Fletcher, but you must understand that I cannot rest until I am certain there is no possible way Napoleon Bonaparte will ever return to power. I made a vow to a dying comrade, and I must honor it.”

  A dying vow? Hannah folded the newspaper with trembling fingers. How could she ask his lordship to abandon such a sacred promise when she had made a vow of her own—one that ran contrary to his?

  Chapter Five

  HAD HE MANAGED to get through to Miss Fletcher at last?

  Gavin marked the change that came over her expression when he’d mentioned his vow to Molesworth. The resolute thrust of her chin faltered, and the challenging flash of silver in her blue-gray eyes muted. Had she assumed his determination to return to duty was only a headstrong whim? A love of war? Perhaps a selfish effort to av
oid his parental responsibilities?

  Much as he resented her doubts, Gavin could not entirely suppress his own. And they sickened him.

  While he had been fretting about having nothing to do, he could have been getting to know his young son at last. Perhaps even comforting the boy after the death of his mother. Not that he had any idea where to begin. Miss Fletcher would be better suited to that task, yet he had robbed the poor little fellow of his governess just when he needed her most.

  Gavin wished he could blame his thoughtlessness on the tremendous upheaval in his life. He had been wounded in a great battle, lost his wife and closest friend as well as becoming a father to two more children all in a matter of days. It was no excuse for thinking so little about his children.

  “Major Molesworth,” Miss Fletcher murmured. “Was he the comrade to whom you made your vow?”

  Gavin’s first impulse was to wonder how she knew. Then he remembered her saying that he had called out for his friend.

  “I take it you were close comrades.” Miss Fletcher seemed to forget he had refused to answer her earlier question about Molesworth.

  Somehow he could not refuse her this time. “The closest. We met at school when we were only little chaps. He was deadly homesick at first.”

  “But you were not?” Miss Fletcher’s question pursued Gavin as he sank into his memories.

  He shook his head. “I got on much better at school than at home. I was not terribly studious, but I excelled at games and got on well enough with the masters and the other boys. I looked out for Molesworth until he settled in, fought some bigger lads who tried to bully him. Over time he became more like a brother to me than… When I purchased my commission in the cavalry, he followed my lead and we rose through the ranks together.”

  “It must have been very hard for you to lose him.” The sympathy in Miss Fletcher’s voice surprised Gavin. “It would grieve me to the heart to lose any of my dear friends from school, even though we have not set eyes on each other for years.”