The Soldier's Dark Secret

Chapter Eight

‘Why did you say that he was not stable?’ Celeste turned furiously on Sir Charles. ‘You could not have said anything more damaging had you tried. Jack has not lost his mind, but a part of him is afraid he might. Eh, bien, he asks his only brother for a little reassurance and what does he get?’

Sir Charles looked shocked to the core. ‘I did not intend— I would never— With respect, Mademoiselle, you have been here a matter of days. Eleanor and I have been living with this situation for months. We have tried ignoring him, we have tried pretending nothing is wrong, and now we have tried confronting him. You saw the effect. I am most—most— I am extremely concerned about my brother.’

Lady Eleanor put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Sir Charles has only his brother’s best interests at heart. This has been a terrible strain for all of us. I am as shaken as my husband by Jack’s decline. We have the advantage over you, Mademoiselle, of knowing Jack before this—this change. You must believe me when I tell you it is drastic. And then there is our son.’

‘Jack loves Robert, Madame—Lady Eleanor. That is precisely why he doesn’t want to fill his head with the barbarity of war. You asked me how I found Jack. Well, I will tell you, for what it is worth. I think he is a deeply unhappy man, and also a very brave one. I think that he has seen and done things that none of us can even imagine. Things so horrific he cannot sleep for thinking of it. All this, he has done unquestioningly in the name of you and your country and your little boy. I think he deserves better than to be told by his own flesh and blood that he is mad. That is what I think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find him.’

‘But, Mademoiselle, Jack made it very clear he wanted to be left alone, I don’t think...’

Ignoring Sir Charles, Celeste made her way out of the French window, and quickly across the stretch of lawn. She wondered if she had managed for the first time ever to get herself dismissed from a commission, but she could not, at this moment, bring herself to care. She did not know where Jack had gone but she had a pretty good idea where to start looking.

* * *

He was sitting on a rock, casting pebbles into the lake, his expression forbidding. Celeste was tempted, for a moment, to turn tail. Perhaps Sir Charles was right, and it would be best to leave him alone. She had no idea what to say. She had no idea what was wrong with Jack, but she had missed the chance once before, to try to comfort a person in torment, and she was not going to repeat the mistake by running away from a similar situation.

‘Did Charlie send you to check on me?’ he demanded as she sat down cautiously on the boulder beside him. ‘Not brave enough to come himself, I suppose.’

‘He thought you would be best left alone.’

Jack threw another pebble into the water. ‘He was right.’

Celeste forced herself to remain seated.

Jack threw another pebble forcefully into the water. ‘I won’t harm myself, if that’s what you’re worried about. I would not inflict that on Charlie, on top of everything else, so you can leave with a clear conscience.’

He was angry. He was embarrassed, no doubt. He was obviously much more hurt than he cared to let on. He didn’t mean it. Still, his barb hit painfully home. Celeste flinched.

Jack swore. ‘I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. That was a foul thing to say to you, of all people.’

‘Yes, it was.’

Jack cast another pebble. ‘Is that why you’re here? Do you think I would...?’

‘No. And nor does Sir Charles, before you ask.’

‘Small compensation, when my own brother thinks I need to be locked up in Bedlam.’

‘Your brother is worried about you. He doesn’t know how best to help you.’

Jack threw the small bundle of remaining pebbles he had into the lake and jumped to his feet. ‘Do you not think that if I knew of some cure for what ails me I’d have taken it by now? Do you think I enjoy being like this? Have you any idea what it’s like for me to be so—so at the whim of emotions I can’t control? Me! Discipline and order is what my life’s been about until now. Men and information, that’s what I deal in. I turn men into soldiers. I turn meaningless jumbles of letters and numbers into sequences and patterns. That’s what I do, Celeste—that’s what I did. Not any more. Now I can’t make sense of anything.’

He turned away from her, pinching the bridge of his nose viciously between his thumb and forefinger. What he said resonated so strongly with her, she was tempted to tell him so, but what good would it do, to tell him that she too felt as if the world made no sense any more? ‘I think you do understand some things, though,’ she said. ‘Whatever it was at dinner that made you sick, you knew it would. That’s why you avoid dinner.’

‘And would have avoided it again last night were it not for you.’ He turned on her, his eyes flashing fury.

‘That’s not fair. I did not know you...’

‘No, you didn’t, but you smiled that winsome smile of yours, and you looked at me with those big brown eyes and you made it impossible for me to say no.’

She knew he was simply trying to hurt her, lashing out like a wounded animal, but the injustice of this was too much. ‘I did no such thing!’ Celeste jumped to her feet. ‘I don’t have a winsome smile. I am not a fool. I look in the mirror, and I see I have the kind of face men find attractive, but I am not— I have never, ever, been one of those women who use a mere quirk of nature to manipulate people. Never.’

Jack swore again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he snapped, sounding anything but. ‘Very well, you did not force me into that damned dinner, but if it had not been that, it would have been something else.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Celeste folded her arms and glared at him.

‘You,’ Jack said. ‘From the moment I first saw you, you’ve tormented me. Spying on me. Kissing me. Goading me. Tempting me. As if I didn’t have enough to keep me awake at nights without torturing myself with visions of you, of us. I can barely keep my hands off you. I’ve never been that sort of man before. I’ve never lost my temper with Robert before. I’ve never come so near to spilling my guts on the dinner table before. And what is the common factor in all this? You.’

‘That is completely outrageous! I could say the exact same thing of you. You make me feel as if I am some sort of—of insatiable temptress,’ Celeste exclaimed. ‘And look at me now, screeching like a fishwife. I never shout. I never cry. I never have any difficulty whatsoever in keeping my hands and my lips and my body to myself. I am a calm person, I am a cold person, even, and yet with you...’ She threw her hands into the air.

‘You realise how ridiculous you sound,’ Jack said.

Even through her temper, she did. Celeste bit her lip and tried to glower.

He sighed. ‘How ridiculous we both sound.’

She took a tentative step towards him. ‘I didn’t come here to harangue you. I’m sorry.’

‘I deserved it.’ Jack managed a wry smile. ‘You are most definitely not the kind of woman who uses her charms to get her own way. I went to dinner last night of my own accord. It was a sort of test. Which I failed rather spectacularly.’

Celeste took another step towards him. ‘What happened, Jack?’

He stared out over the lake. He picked up a stone, then let if fall. ‘It’s just— There are smells. Certain smells.’

‘The blood! You mean the blood from the meat?’

‘No. No, it’s not the blood. I’ve seen too much blood for it to be— Not on its own.’ He picked up another stone and began to turn it over and over in his hands. ‘I thought it might be. Eleanor is very fond of serving up roast beef, charred and bloody in the English tradition, so I do tend to avoid that, just in case...’ He closed his eyes momentarily. ‘But I would have been fine last night, I think, if it hadn’t been for the stew she had specially made for you.’

‘The Provençal dish?’ Celeste’s face fell. ‘So it was my fault?’

‘No. I did blame you, but I wasn’t exactly rational. Don’t ask me, I can’t explain. Given my spectacular outburst back there. I’m not surprised Charlie thinks I’m mad.’

Celeste caught his hand. ‘Jack, you know you are not.’

‘I do know that much, actually.’ He gently disengaged himself. ‘You know, if Robert is hoping to catch a trout here, I reckon he’ll be disappointed. I saw a heron take one this morning. If it’s been here awhile, there will be precious little left.’

‘I think they will be draining it very soon. You will have to find somewhere else to swim.’

‘I’m thinking of going to London.’

Celeste swallowed hard. ‘London?’

‘I’m sick of kicking my heels here, and I’m becoming an embarrassment to Charlie and Eleanor—they didn’t even feel they could risk inviting their friends to dinner, for God’s sake. And as it turns out, they were right.’

‘Jack...’

‘Celeste, I need to get away from here. And from you. You are far too much of a distraction—as I fear I am, for you. You need to concentrate on your painting, and I need to be doing something. I will take your locket and ring with me, if I may, do some digging, lean on my contacts a bit,’ Jack said with a tight smile, ‘I do still have some.’

‘But you will be coming back?’ she could not stop herself from asking.

‘In a week or so. I promised I’d do my best to help you find answers. I have no intention of breaking that promise.’

‘And I will be here. My commission will take me several more weeks.’ Unless Sir Charles had her bags packed. Or more likely his wife had, Celeste thought, wearily contemplating the necessity for an apology.

‘Good. That’s settled then. So, if you could hand it over—the locket? I’ve still got the signet ring.’

‘You mean right now?’

‘I’m heading off first thing in the morning,’ he said briskly. ‘Turn around.’

She did as he asked. It was a good thing, Jack’s wanting to go to London, she told herself. She did need to work. And he was right, he was too much of a distraction. She still, more than ever, wanted to resolve the issue of her mother’s letter. She would not miss him at all. Not a bit.

His fingers were cool on the nape of her neck as he undid the clasp. If she leaned back only a fraction, she would feel his chest on her back, his legs against hers.

He turned her around, tucking the necklace into his waistcoat pocket.

‘I am very grateful for all your help.’

‘There’s no need. I am glad to have a purpose again.’

‘Still, I am grateful.’

Jack nodded. ‘I should go.’

‘Yes.’

‘Early start.’

‘Yes.’

He leaned forward to brush her cheek with his lips just as she stepped towards him to do the same. He caught her as she stumbled, his arms tight around her waist, her body pressed firmly to his chest. He looked down into her eyes, and she raised her mouth to his. Their lips brushed for the merest second. Enough for her to close her eyes. Enough for the attraction between them to spark to life and send them jumping awkwardly apart. For the second time in the space of a few days, they walked back together from the lake in silence.

London—two weeks later

Jack completed what had become his daily circuit of Hyde Park, then decided on impulse to walk through Green Park to St James’s. He found a bench at the opposite end from Horse Guards, and sat back, closing his eyes and enjoying the early-evening sunshine on his face. The change of scene seemed to be having a positive effect on his melancholia. Only three times had he woken in the last two weeks after enduring the nightmare, though a good many of the other nights had been spent awake, his brain churning in an endless circle of questions.

Here in London, Jack could have easily stayed out on the town, but he’d never been a carouser, not even when he was a young colt. Instead, he took the opportunity to catch up on his reading. There was a German mathematician called Gauss who had published several fascinating papers, which Jack was methodically working his way through. Complex stuff, and much of it in Latin, which kept him occupied through the long hours of darkness. He was having to pay extra for candles at his lodgings, and the piles of paper covered in scribbled equations were most likely interpreted by his landlord as evidence he dabbled in the black arts.

A barked order issued from the direction of Horse Guards shattered the silence of the park. Jack smiled wryly to himself. Someone was getting a rollicking. One thing he did not miss, the army’s obsession with spit and polish. His slapdash approach to his own appearance, after all those years of having to appear immaculate, surprised him. He’d had his hair cut here in London, but he had felt no temptation to blow any of the considerable wealth he had amassed over the years on anything other than a couple of pairs of boots and some new breeches. To be bang up to the mark interested him not one jot.

Nor had he felt any urge to blow his cash on wine, women or any other vice for that matter. London, even out of Season, offered many opportunities to do so. He’d attended far too many parties and balls in Wellington’s entourage to find them anything other than a duty call. And women—Jack had always liked women, but for that reason, he’d never been interested in bawdy houses. Not that he condemned them, or judged the men and women who frequented them—a combination of war and absence made such places necessary to an army. But for Jack, the notion of sexual congress with a woman he did not know was repugnant.

Until he met Celeste, in the two years since that fateful day, all thoughts of intimacy were repugnant. His celibacy hadn’t been a conscious decision at first. He had barely noticed the complete absence of desire, because he had at the time been between affairs. It was only later, when the opportunity arose and he—literally—did not. He’d dismissed it on that occasion as exhaustion. It was only now, thinking back, that he could see he’d simply—and without any regrets—taken to avoiding any social occasions where he would be confronted with his apathy.

He sat up on the bench, rubbing his eyes. Away from Trestain Manor, alone in the city, awake during the long night hours, he had had plenty of time to think. He had no name for it, his condition, he doubted that any medical doctor would recognise it, but he could no longer deny its existence. Army life had kept it at bay. The pressure, especially after Napoleon escaped from Elba, to find ever more clever ways to keep one step ahead of the French, had forced him to work ever longer hours, deep into the night, not sleeping so much as passing out from exhaustion. It had been there, catching him unawares in his rare moments of inactivity, but only then.

Finding a new occupation was surely the key to containing his melancholia again. This mystery of Celeste’s was merely a stop-gap, though it was a useful one, if only because it had been the kick up the backside he needed to stop putting up and start getting on with life.

Though it had been Celeste, rather than her unanswered questions, who had done the kicking, Jack thought ruefully. Celeste, with her sharp mind and her determination not to be cowed, as Charlie and Eleanor had been, by Jack’s inexplicable behaviour. She was the reason he’d finally admitted to the problem. She was the reason the admission had led to action. She was the reason he was determined to find a way out of the morass he’d been sinking in.

He was grateful to Celeste. He was missing her like hell. He wanted her more than ever. Absence, instead of dulling his desire, had made it impossible to ignore. Well then, he must do the impossible.

Jack checked his watch and got to his feet. He was due to meet Finlay in an hour at a tavern over near Covent Garden for a spot of dinner. He wondered how she was faring with her painting. He pictured her in her studio, in that paint-stained smock, gazing critically at her day’s work. Her hair would be coming out of its chignon by now. He pictured her, putting a hand to her throat, missing her mother’s locket, and perhaps thinking about him.

He gave himself a mental shake, as he strode out of the park and made his way on to the Mall. Aside from the fact that Celeste had made it very clear she was not interested in any future but an independent one without ties and aside from the fact that admitting he had a problem did not necessarily mean there was a cure, there was one basic and fundamental reason why Jack had no right at all to dream of happiness. He might be able to manage his symptoms, but he could never rid himself of their cause, and he had no right to try. Like Blythe Marmion, he would carry his burden of guilt to the grave. And like Blythe Marmion, Jack believed her daughter deserved a lot better. Celeste was better off without either of them. What he needed to focus on was proving that.

* * *

Finlay had reserved a private room in the tavern, and was waiting for Jack when he arrived. ‘Claret,’ he said, pouring them each a glass. ‘Not a particularly fine vintage, but not the worst we’ve had either. Dear God, man, we’ve drunk some awful gut-rot in our time.’

‘Most of it that illicit whisky you insist on bringing back after every visit home to Scotland,’ Jack said with a broad smile.

‘I’ll have you know my father is very proud of his wee home-made still,’ Finley replied with mock indignation. ‘Although I’m not so sure the excise man is quite so enamoured.’

‘Still no uniform, I see,’ Jack said.

Finlay laughed. ‘Do you have any idea how curious these Sassenachs are about what a good Scot wears under the kilt? And to add to it, this mane of mine,’ he said, referring to his distinctive auburn hair, ‘makes them stare at me like I’m a specimen in the menagerie at the Tower.’

‘More likely they’re wondering how best to get you home and into their bed, if you’re talking about the females of this city. And every other city we’ve visited, come to think of it.’

‘Spare my blushes, man. You draw them in and I pick up the scraps is the truth of it. Used be, at any rate.’ Finlay’s smile faded. ‘If only it was still that easy, to lose yourself in a lass—any lass. But we’ve both of us always been picky. A mite too picky, in my case.’

‘Good God, don’t tell me that you’ve finally met the one woman on this earth who isn’t taken in by that Gaelic charm of yours?’

Finlay shook his head, the teasing glint gone from his dark-blue eyes. ‘I know, it’s unbelievable. And it is also of no consequence.’

Obviously, it mattered a good deal, but Jack knew his friend of old and forbore from questioning him. They were alike in that way, the pair of them, preferring always to keep what mattered most close to their chests.

‘Any road,’ Finlay said, picking up his glass, ‘I’m on leave, and unlike some, I prefer to walk the streets of London without being accosted by all and sundry begging me to tell them what it was really like, the great triumph of Waterloo, and whether this was true or that, and have I ever met the great Duke. I leave the swaggering to the man himself. Though Wellington will need to get a bigger hat if his head swells any more.’

‘You realise you’re mocking England’s saviour.’

‘You realise that we fought at Waterloo for Scotland and Wales as well as England,’ Finlay retorted.

Jack raised his glass. ‘As you never fail to remind him at every opportunity.’

‘The more he dislikes it the more I am minded to do it.’ Finlay grimaced. ‘Strictly speaking, my next opportunity should arise next Saturday. He’s hosting some grand dinner before he goes back to Paris, and I’m expected along with a lady friend, and I’ve other much more important plans. I’ve tried excusing myself on the grounds I’ve no lady friend—or at least none fit for that company—but I’m getting pelters for not attending, let me tell you.’

‘What are these other plans of yours, then?’

Finlay looked uncomfortable. ‘They’ll likely come to nought.’

But they were clearly very important, for Finlay, much as he might mock the pomp and ceremony of regimental life, was also very much aware of its importance to a career he’d worked bloody hard to forge. The parlour maid arrived with a loaded tray, before Jack had the chance to pursue this interesting train of thought.

* * *

The food was very good, and very much to Jack’s taste, with roasted squab, game pie and a dish of celery. He made a better fist of it than Finlay, he was surprised to notice. His friend was distinctly out of sorts. Were they all, Wellington’s men, changed utterly?

‘So, to business.’ Finlay pushed his half-empty plate aside. ‘This ring that you asked me to investigate. I have to tell you, the ownership of it caused quite a stramash.’ He placed Celeste’s signet ring on the table. ‘As you suspected, it’s a regimental crest, though the dragon is misleading. Not Welsh, but the Buffs, from Kent.’

‘The Third Foot.’ Jack frowned. ‘Do you happen to know where they were while the French were slaughtering each other in the Terror?’

Finlay pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Here you are,’ he said, ‘the official deployment records, though you won’t be needing them.’

‘You’ve found something of interest,’ Jack said, recognising the familiar gleam in his friend’s eye.

‘Ach, did you expect any less of me?’ Finlay picked up the signet ring. ‘You see here, what looks like part of the marking of the dragon’s wing? Take a closer look.’

Jack went over to the window, but the light had faded. ‘No, I can’t make it out.’

Finlay shook his head, grinning. ‘Tut tut, Wellington’s favourite code-breaker, and you’ve overlooked something vital. You should be ashamed of yourself, laddie.’

‘Haud your wheesht, as my own Scots mother would say, and don’t talk to your superior officer like that or I’ll have you up on a charge.’

‘Aye, you would an’ all, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re not actually wearing the colours any more. Give it here.’ Finlay lit a candle and held the ring close to the flame. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing to the tip of the dragon’s wing. ‘You have to know what to look for, but once you do, it’s obvious. It looks a wee bit like that Egyptian writing we saw on the pharaoh’s tombs, remember?’

Jack frowned, screwing up his eyes to examine the ring more closely. ‘You’re right. I see it now. What does it signify?’

‘Aye, well, here’s the thing.’ Finlay put the candle down and took a sip of wine. ‘I had to do quite a bit of digging on that one, and pull in a good few favours. Your man here,’ he said, tapping the ring, ‘was assigned to the Buffs as a cover. He wasn’t your run-of-the-mill infantry man at all. He was a spy. A real spy, not your kind, that works out what to do with the secrets that are uncovered, but the kind that uncovers the secrets. An infiltrator, if you like.’

‘Hell and damnation!’ Jack stared at his friend in disbelief. ‘Are you sure?’

Finlay nodded. ‘Certain. If I wasn’t a persistent bugger, I’d have hit a brick wall. Honestly, it’s a whole other world that these boys inhabit. Makes yours look like an open book.’

‘I had a bad feeling about this,’ Jack said, picking up the ring and turning it over in his hand. ‘How the devil did it end up hidden away at the back of a painting in the south of France?’

Finlay whistled. ‘Is that where she found it, this wee painter lassie of yours?’

‘She’s not my wee painter lassie, she’s my brother’s landscape artist.’

‘Mmm-hmm. You’re going to an awful lot of bother for her.’

It was Jack’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘You know me. I can’t resist a mystery.’

‘I do know you, a mite too well for your own comfort, I reckon.’

Jack snorted. ‘I could say the exact same thing to you, Finlay Urquhart.’

Finlay lifted his glass. ‘Well, here’s to the bonds of friendship keeping both our traps shut.’

‘I’ll gladly drink to that.’ Jack sipped his wine, then picked up the signet ring once again. ‘Another dead end. I’m almost relieved. I’ll just have to hope that Rundell and Bridge turn up something on the locket.’

‘It’s not quite a dead end, actually, though if you would rather...’

‘Finlay, you devil, what else...?’

His friend grinned. ‘Did I not say I’m a persistent bugger, and are you not the oldest friend I have in the world! Each ring issued to this elite squad was unique. The hieroglyph denotes a serial number assigned to each man. I’ve established that this ring belonged to one Arthur Derwent. Born 1773 to Lord and Lady Derwent, youngest of four sons. Commissioned aged sixteen. Served two years with the Buffs. And then, in 1791, his military record becomes a complete blank. Other than to record his death.’

‘How did he die?’

‘That, I can’t tell you, Jack. There’s nothing. Well, no, that’s not true, the full story will be there, but I couldn’t get at it. That’s the strangest thing. Any time I tried to find out more, the door was slammed in my face. It’s as if this chap never existed and the army wants to make sure it stays that way. All I know is that he died on active service. Don’t know where, but I take it the date means something.’

‘I don’t know. Possibly, but without proof I’d be loath to speculate. Celeste—Mademoiselle Marmion—she’s had enough unpleasant truths to deal with as it is without adding this to the mix. I can’t talk about it, she only confided in me out of desperation—and to be honest, because I pushed her just a bit. She would be mortified if—’

‘No, there’s no need,’ Finlay interrupted. ‘I’ve enough on my plate myself without— Never mind. I just wish I could have been of more help.’

‘You have been an enormous help and I’m very grateful.’

‘Nothing you couldn’t have done yourself, if you’d wanted. You know that, Jack, this is much more up your street than mine. I know you feel you’re not one of us any more, but that feeling, I promise you, is entirely one-sided. The powers that be would welcome you back with open arms.’

‘No,’ Jack said firmly. ‘Those days really are behind me.’

Finlay picked up the claret bottle and poured the dregs of it into their glasses. ‘Be that as it may, there is one way of unlocking the key to what it was the mysterious Arthur Derwent was involved in when he died,’ he said diffidently.

‘You mean Wellington?’

‘He’s the one man in England with enough clout to provide you with that information, Jack. And I reckon he would if he thought there was the slightest chance of you coming back into the fold. In fact, knowing the man’s eye for the long game, he’d pull strings for you just in the hope of it. But as I mentioned, he’s away back abroad next week so you’d have to be quick off the mark. Did I mention that I have an invitation to his dinner party going a-begging?’

‘Which would also conveniently get you off the hook.’

Finlay laughed. ‘A fortuitous side-benefit, nothing more. Anyway, I’m bloody certain Wellington would rather have you there than “Urquhart the Jock Upstart”, as he never fails to call me. Seriously, Jack, if you want to unravel this puzzle any further, you’re going to have to take the bull by the horns. Shall we get another bottle while you mull it over?’

Jack nodded abstractedly. Finlay embarked on one of his infamous anecdotes about life in the Highlands. His friend, who had had to fight harder than anyone to attain his current rank of major, took great pleasure in spinning fantastic tales of his ‘wee Highland hame’. He recounted them in the officers’ mess with the purely malicious purpose of insulting those who considered their blood too blue to mix with a commoner, but he was in the habit of recounting them to Jack first, in order to refine them for maximum effect.

Jack listened with half an ear. Though he was utterly appalled by the notion of facing not only Wellington but any number of his former comrades, part of him was already working out a strategy. Having failed what he’d come to think of as the venison test, part of him was still deeply ashamed. Dinner with Wellington would be the antidote he needed, and this time, he would make sure he could not fail. He would prepare properly. He would plan this like a campaign, with not one but two objectives, Celeste’s and his own. It would be quite a coup to persuade the Duke to grant him access to this Derwent’s file without making any actual promises. He’d need to think his tactics through very carefully. He found he relished the challenge.

‘I’ll do it!’

‘You know you’ll have to wear your regimentals?’ Finlay cautioned him.

He had not thought of that. Jack swore, then braced himself. One more test. ‘So be it.’

Only now did Finlay let his relief show on his face. ‘I owe you, Jack,’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘I really do need to be somewhere else.’

Jack tilted his own glass and took a small sip, torn between anxiety and excitement. He had forgotten that tingling feeling, of being on the brink of something, of all the pieces of a complex puzzle not quite forming into a pattern, but promising that they might. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it.

He couldn’t quite believe what he’d agreed to, but he had no option now, and he was glad. No more enduring, he was ready to fight. For Celeste, and for himself. He’d better make bloody sure he didn’t fail this time.