The Soldier's Dark Secret

Chapter Nine

Celeste stepped back and assessed the completed painting of the Topiary Garden with a critical eye. She was still not completely happy with the quality of light, but the sun had moved from the top-floor room where she had set up her easel and she would be foolish to do any further tinkering until the morning.

She was drained and a little bit edgy, the way she always was when one of her paintings refused to be finished. The view from this window was one Jack had suggested to her the very first day she arrived here at Trestain Manor. Down there, and depicted on the canvas behind her, was the stone bench where they had first kissed. Sir Charles and Lady Eleanor would be shocked to their very respectable cores if she included that in her painting.

Though perhaps they saw more than they revealed. Perhaps the notion of his French artist kissing his soldier brother was one of those things which Sir Charles knew all about, but chose not to mention. Not because it was shocking, but because it was unimportant. A French artist could have no role to play in the future of a baronet’s brother, save the obvious one as his mistress. Celeste perched on the windowsill. Why was it that being a mistress seemed so much more demeaning than being a lover? ‘Bien, it is obvious,’ she muttered. ‘A question of property, bought and paid for. Always, it comes to this, in France and in England. I will never be anyone’s mistress.’

She would, however, very much like to be Jack’s lover. In the two weeks that had passed since he had left for London, Celeste had been forced to accept that her feelings for him were a great deal stronger than she had ever experienced before. She missed him. The problem was, she missed him a great deal too much. She longed to make love to him. She knew he felt the same. One of the reasons he’d gone to London was because he was determined not to let that happen. Not that either of them had acknowledged the depth of their attraction, but they had not had to. That kiss in the lake had been evidence enough.

Sir Charles had made no reference to her intemperate outburst the day before Jack’s departure. Another thing swept under the carpet, no doubt because the opinion of the hired artisan meant as little as the fact that the hired artisan had been kissing her patron’s brother. Perhaps she was being unfair. Perhaps.

Jack had left his brother a note. It had been handed to Sir Charles at breakfast the morning of his departure, and the peer had been so surprised, he had read it aloud, quite forgetting Celeste’s presence.

‘So you see, my dear,’ Sir Charles had said to his wife, ‘he knows full well that his behaviour was somewhat extreme. I think we must take comfort in the fact that he feels well enough to venture alone to the metropolis.’

‘I am not entirely convinced,’ Lady Eleanor had replied, ‘that he ought to be let loose in London in his fragile state of mind.’

Sir Charles however had fully recovered his optimistic spirit. ‘We must regard that as a positive sign. He is no doubt looking to take up the reins of his life again. A cause for rejoicing, not worry.’

Turning away from the window, Celeste hoped that he was right. She wondered if Jack had made any progress with her locket or with that strange ring. She wondered how he was occupying his time. She could not imagine him shopping, or drinking in taverns or going to the theatre. Were there parks in London where he could walk? Was there a lake where he could swim? It was not only for the sake of his injured arm that he swam. His muscular body was testament to his love of exercise.

In an effort to stop herself thinking of that body, Celeste pulled a chair in front of her canvas. The untrimmed topiary had a fantastical look about it. It reminded her of something. She closed her eyes, willing her mind to go blank, a technique she had honed over the last couple of weeks, when memories had begun to pop into her head at the oddest times. Yes, she had it! Another illustration from the storybook her mother used to read to her.

There was no consistency to her memories, save that they were all from before the time she had been sent away to school. A swimming lesson. A description of a gown which made Maman smile at some secret memory. A sampler Celeste had worked on, depicting the English alphabet, which she’d had to hide from Henri. She could no longer deny that her mother had cared for her, but it made her determined efforts to disguise the fact all the more inexplicable. Celeste wondered, not for the first time, what Jack would make of it all. She laughed inwardly, not for the first time, at herself for wanting to tell him. There was, after all, something to be said for being understood, even just a little. It was not something she had reckoned on.

The sound of feet on the stairs outside the room made her heart give a silly little leap. No one ever came up here uninvited. It could not be Jack, because she’d have heard a carriage. Though the driveway was on the other side of the house. She jumped to her feet as the door opened, and her heart jumped again. ‘It’s you,’ she said stupidly.

‘In the flesh. May I come in?’

Celeste took a step back before she could throw herself at that very attractive flesh, trying to remind herself of all the very excellent reasons why she should not. Jack’s hair was ruffled, his clothes were dusty and he was in need of a shave, but still her pulses fluttered at the sight of him as he crossed the room.

He took her hand in his, made to raise it to his lips, then changed his mind. ‘I see you’ve been hard at work,’ he said, nodding at the canvas.

‘What do you think of it?’ His opinion of her was not relevant to the success or failure of the commission, but it mattered all the same.

‘Charlie will be pleased,’ Jack said.

‘Yes, but Sir Charles is easily pleased.’

Jack laughed. ‘You know perfectly well it’s good. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘No. But you do like it, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

Celeste smiled. Jack smiled back at her. Their eyes locked. She lifted her hand, as if to reach out for him, just as he did the same. Their fingers brushed. She turned away to sit on the window seat.

Jack leaned his shoulders against the fireplace. ‘I have news. Rundell and Bridge, the jewellers, have confirmed that your locket was purchased through them. It was a private commission, and the maker’s mark on your necklace belongs to a former senior goldsmith who has unfortunately retired to the country. However, they have written to him, enclosing a sketch of the item, and have promised to inform me as soon as they hear back from him. What they could tell me was that the stones were of the first quality. It’s an extremely valuable piece.’

‘Mon Dieu, then it is true what you said. Maman must have come from a wealthy family?’

‘It seems highly likely.’

‘Would it have been a terrible scandal then that she was enceinte and not married?’ Celeste asked. ‘Shameful enough for her family to disown her? I don’t know, you see, not really. I mean of course, in France it is not any more acceptable than in England for any young woman to have a child without a husband, though it is naturally perfectly acceptable for a man to have a child without a wife.’

‘Acceptable to some men, but we’re not all the same.’

‘You’re right. I beg your pardon. I think you must have seen much of it though? Many women have a weakness for a man in uniform, and a man in a uniform who has been away from home for a long time—bien.’

‘Bien, indeed,’ Jack said wryly. ‘I— Good Lord, why did I not think of that!’ He had pulled a velvet pouch from his pocket. Now he reached inside and took out the signet ring with the military crest on it, and stared down at it as if he had never seen it before. ‘I had a very interesting conversation with my friend Finlay Urquhart regarding this ring. It was most enlightening.’

* * *

By the time he had finished recounting his tale, Celeste’s eyes were wide with wonder. ‘So you think it’s possible that this Arthur Derwent might be my real father? Can it be true?’

‘It would explain why your mother was in possession of his ring. It’s certainly plausible, though at this stage, nothing more.’

‘So now we wait once more, on a letter,’ Celeste said.

‘Actually, there’s something else we need to do first.’

He sounded odd. Nervous? He was staring down at his boots. Definitely nervous. ‘There is?’ Celeste asked.

Jack gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Nothing terrible,’ he said. ‘At least—more tedious, really.’

‘Yes? And what is this not-terrible, tedious thing that is making you so interested in your boots?’

Jack laughed, and joined her on the window seat. ‘There’s one man who can grant me access to information regarding Arthur Derwent,’ he said, ‘and by coincidence, he’s hosting a dinner party at a house not fifty miles from here, on Saturday.’

‘Oh. So you plan to call on him there?’

‘I plan to attend the dinner party.’

‘But you— But the last time you attended a dinner...’

‘I almost fainted, I almost spilled my accounts, then the next day I blew up at my brother and his wife and fled to London,’ Jack said drily. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

But he had managed to mention it without either anger or embarrassment, Celeste noted.

‘It was horrible bad luck,’ Jack continued, ‘the combination of the vegetable stew and the venison at Charlie’s table. I was coping. And when I was in London I decided that I wanted to see just how well I could cope.’

‘So it is another test?’ Celeste pressed his hand. ‘I think that is very brave. And a good thing. And I am very, very grateful too, but I don’t want you to do this for me, if you think...’

‘I’m doing it as much for myself as for you, Celeste. And for Finlay too. My army friend, the Scotsman I told you about. He has other business to attend to, and was eager to find someone to replace him.’

Celeste frowned. ‘So there will be— Will there be other soldiers there?’ Jack nodded. She eyed him suspiciously. ‘This person you have to speak to about the secret file, he must be very important?’ Another nod. It couldn’t be! ‘Jack, please, please don’t tell me that you are going to dinner with the Duke of Wellington.’

He grinned. ‘I’m not.’

‘Thank God,’ Celeste said, ‘I could not...’

‘I’m not,’ Jack said, ‘but we are.’

Celeste jumped to her feet. ‘Non!’ She lapsed into a stream of incoherent French. ‘No, Jack. You cannot mean it. Wellington! And this dinner— Will all the guests be soldiers?’

‘Officers and their wives.’

‘Jack, these soldiers—officers—will they be men who fought with you at Waterloo? The very battle which caused your—your...’

‘My condition, for want of a better word,’ Jack said shortly. ‘My condition,’ he repeated firmly. ‘It wasn’t at Waterloo that I— It has nothing to do with Waterloo.’

Celeste’s jaw dropped. ‘But I thought— Your wounds, your arm...’

‘Those injuries have nothing to do with it. The event which—the circumstances which—that happened two years ago.’

‘Two years ago. But how could you— You were still in the army—how did you cope?’

‘With difficulty. I kept it under control because I had no choice.’

His eyes were troubled, but he looked at her unwaveringly. Though he had referred obliquely to what he called his condition, he had never before admitted to it so frankly.

‘Whatever is wrong with me,’ Jack said, pushing back his hair and squaring his shoulders, ‘I’ve decided it’s not going to rule my life. I must confront it, and the first step is this dinner which,’ he said with a small smile, ‘will also further your cause, I hope.’

Celeste felt for his hand. ‘You are pretending it’s not an enormous challenge, but I can’t imagine...’

‘Then don’t. There’s no point in going into battle thinking you’ll die or that you’ll lose—even when the odds suggest that you might,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t want my aide-de-camp standing at my side like a frightened rabbit trying to decide which bullet to dodge, I want her watching my back. Do you understand?’

Celeste swallowed as the implications of what he was proposing began to sink in. ‘Jack, I have never in my life attended such a grand function. I don’t even know how to curtsy properly. I am base-born, my father apparently was some sort of spy, I’m French, and I’m an artist. I have no connections, no breeding...’

‘Celeste, I don’t care a damn about your connections or your parentage or your blood line. You’re not a horse, dammit! I don’t care who your mother was, or your father, and I don’t give a damn about whether you were born on the right side of the blanket or not. You could be from Timbuktu for all I care.’

‘But those other people...’

‘Will see you for what you are, if you let them. A beautiful, clever, talented woman who deserves their respect and admiration for making her own way in life without compromise. I am willing to bet you’ll be the only one of them at the table, what’s more. What have I said to upset you?’

‘Nothing.’ Celeste sniffed. ‘I don’t know where Timbuktu is.’

‘Africa.’ Jack wiped a tear from her lashes with his thumb. ‘Will you come with me?’

She twined her fingers in his. ‘Yes. I won’t let you down, Jack.’

‘I know you won’t.’

His kiss was the merest whisper, the lightest brush of his lips on hers, but it released a torrent of pent-up longing inside her. Celeste sighed. His fingers cupped her jaw. For an unbearable moment, she thought he would pull away. She knew it was what she ought to wish for, but she had only the will to wait, not turn away, because already her body was thrumming with anticipation. And then Jack sighed too.

They kissed deeply, the kiss of a passion too long pent up. Their lips clung, their hands pulled their bodies tight together, as if space, any space between them was too much. Their unbridled kisses made her head spin with delight, made her realise how much restraint they had shown until now. She clutched at him, her desire rocketing, trading kisses with kisses, her breathing ragged, her hands wandering wildly over his body.

‘I want you,’ Jack said hoarsely, kissing her mouth, her throat, her mouth again. ‘I want you so much. I have never, ever wanted—not this much. Never this much.’ His kisses grew deeper. She tilted her head back to deepen them further. Her hands wandered over his back under his coat, to the tight clench of his buttocks. He groaned.

They slid from the window seat on to the floor. ‘You are so lovely,’ Jack said, his hand tightening on her breast, drawing a deep moan from her. ‘So lovely.’ He sucked hard on her nipple through the layers of her gown, her undergarments. His hand cupped her other breast, his thumb stroking her other nipple.

‘Yes,’ Celeste said. ‘Yes.’ She stroked his back, his buttocks, she stroked the firm length of him through his breeches.

‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘Yes.’ He slid his hand under her gown, past the knot of her garter. He reached the slit in her pantaloons and slid his finger into her. Instantly, she tightened around him. He stroked her, his eyes fixed on hers as he did. She flattened her hand on his shaft. He kissed her. Slid his finger farther inside her. Then slowly, tantalisingly, drew it out.

She undid enough of his buttons to slip her hand inside his breeches, and curled her fingers around the silky thickness of his shaft. He moaned. His breathing became ragged like hers. Slide and thrust, inside her. She was teetering on the edge already. Slide and thrust. She tightened in response. Jack was so hard in her hand. She tried to stroke him, but was constrained by the tightness of his breeches.

‘Wait. Just—just hold me,’ he said.

Slide and stroke. Slide and stroke. His gaze holding hers. She had never been so tight. And then he kissed her, and the thrust of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers was too much. She cried out, jerking underneath him, yanked into a hard, fast climax, shuddering as it took her, wave after wave, clinging to Jack, as if he would save her, her hand clutching at his shoulder, her fingers curled around his shaft.

Panting. And tears. Tears? He kissed her again, hard. She closed her eyes. Her lashes were wet. Tears? Her lips clung to his. She wriggled under him, trying to shift sufficiently to free him from his breeches. To give him what he had given her.

Jack shifted, gently removing her hand. ‘Celeste, it’s not—it’s not that I don’t want you.’ His voice was harsh. The effort it took him to stop her was obvious. ‘It’s quite apparent that I do. More than I have ever—ever. But I can’t. No, not can’t. Dare not.’

He sat up, adjusting himself, fastening his buttons, helping her to her feet, taking her hands, sitting down beside her on the window seat, stroking her hair back from her face. Then kissing her, so deeply and with such regret, she could not doubt the depth of his feeling. ‘Dare not?’

Jack stared down at his hands. ‘I haven’t wanted to. Not since— Not for a long time. I told you that, I think. I thought that aspect of my life was over. And then I saw you.’ He kissed her again. ‘This, the way we are together, it is so much more than anything I’ve ever felt before. I’m afraid that I would want so much more from you than I’ve ever wanted from any woman before and I know...’ He kissed her again to stop her speaking. ‘I know you’ve made it very clear that your independence means everything to you, so I’m not presuming—’

He broke off, staring out the window, his jaw working. ‘Even if you did,’ he said finally, turning back to her, his face stricken, ‘it wouldn’t be possible. What happened two years ago makes it impossible for me to even contemplate— I don’t deserve you, Celeste, and I’m afraid that if I gave in, if I allowed myself to—to make love to you, I would find it almost impossible to walk away, whether you wanted me or not. I have enough on my conscience without that.’

His smile was a grimace. His eyes were darkly troubled. ‘There, I had not meant to say as much. You will think me presumptuous...’

‘Jack, I think—I don’t know what to think. It is the same for me—this, between us. You must know that. It frightens me. It makes me think—want—I don’t know what.’ She touched his cheek with her fingers. ‘You seem changed. You seem— I can see a little of the soldier in you, I think,’ she said with a lopsided smile, ‘ready to go into battle.’

‘It’s what I’m doing, I suppose.’

‘Won’t you tell me what happened, Jack?’

He pulled his hands free, his expression set. ‘No,’ he said, ‘absolutely not. No one knows, and I intend to keep it that way.’

She contemplated pressing him, but his tone made it clear it would be pointless, and she couldn’t bear to be at odds with him again after this. He had changed. He was still vulnerable, and he was still in torment but he was, as he said, fighting back, though the cause of his torment remained buried, a festering sore. She shuddered at this stark imagery. She was learning herself that such sores needed to excised.

‘I almost forgot.’ Jack pulled her locket from the velvet pouch. ‘Here. I had the jewellers clean it.’

The stones sparkled. ‘I can’t believe I ever thought it mere trumpery.’ Jack fastened it around her neck. Her fingers closed over it. ‘I have missed it.’

He kissed the nape of her neck. ‘Celeste?’

‘I do understand. I do.’ She got to her feet, blushing. ‘I don’t know what I think, but I understand. And I am—I am very honoured that you have confided in me this much. It must have taken a great deal— We neither of us are very good at it.’

‘We’re both of us getting better, though.’ Jack took her hand again, and kissed the palm. ‘Don’t mention anything about the dinner. I’m going to spring it on Charlie at breakfast so he’ll have no option but to agree. Do you have a gown? I never thought to ask.’

Celeste smiled saucily. ‘I am a Frenchwoman. Of course I have a gown.’

Jack laughed. ‘I missed you,’ he said, then turned away before she could answer. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’

‘And I missed you too,’ Celeste said as the door closed behind him.

* * *

‘So the invite is from the Great Man himself? I thought Wellington was holed up in Paris.’ Charlie pushed his empty breakfast plate to one side. His brother, as Jack had anticipated, looked suitably awestruck.

‘He is only in England on a brief visit.’

‘Ah. Did you hear that, Eleanor?’ Charlie said, turning to his wife. ‘Wellington himself has invited Jack to a dinner.’

‘Jack and a partner,’ Eleanor said, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘It is exceeding short notice to receive such an invitation.’

She was no fool. He forgot that sometimes. Jack buttered some bread and took a contemplative bite. ‘The cards were issued a few weeks ago. My friend Finlay Urquhart has been holding on to this one for me,’ he said. One of the principles of deception, always stick to as near the truth as possible. ‘You remember Finlay, Charlie?’

His brother laughed. ‘The Jock Upstart, isn’t that what Wellington calls him? Indeed, I recall...’

‘So who do you intend to take to this dinner with you?’ Eleanor persisted.

‘I rather thought I’d take Mademoiselle Marmion.’

Eleanor’s breakfast cup clattered into her saucer. ‘A painter. A French painter, moreover. To dinner with Wellington! Jack, you cannot possibly... Oh. Good morning, Mademoiselle. I trust you slept—There is no coffee. They have forgotten to bring— I will just ring the bell.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Jack got to his feet, tugging the cord at the fireplace before holding Celeste’s chair out for her. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, resuming his seat opposite her, ‘we were just talking about you.’

‘Jack, you cannot— There must be someone more—’

‘Eleanor.’ It was the voice he used to cut through the excuses of a trooper who had failed to carry out his orders to the letter. Shouting, Jack had learned to appreciate, was not nearly so effective as this quiet, utterly implacable tone. Eleanor’s jaw dropped. Jack bit back the urge to laugh. ‘I have received a very flattering invitation to a dinner which the Duke of Wellington is hosting,’ he said, turning to Celeste. ‘I would be honoured if you would accompany me.’

Her eyes widened not from wonder, but from the effort she was making not to laugh. ‘Moi?’ She turned to Eleanor, to Charlie, and then back to him with a very creditable attempt at surprised delight. He hadn’t briefed her, and he hadn’t needed to. Jack bit back his own smile. ‘To dinner with the great Duke of Wellington. Moi? It is an honour that I surely do not deserve.’

‘Actually—’ Charlie surprised them all by intervening ‘—I think it’s a capital idea,’ he said, casting his wife an apologetic look. ‘We all know that the Duke has an eye for the ladies, and Mademoiselle, here, is an exceptionally beautiful gal. Come now, Eleanor, you cannot deny it.’

Jack mentally cursed his brother’s ineptness. To ask one woman to praise another’s looks was to dice with disaster at the best of times. To ask one’s wife to do so was to ensure that one slept alone for at least the next week. ‘The Duke of Wellington is still, as far as I am aware, infatuated with Lady Wedderburn-Webster.’

Eleanor’s eyes widened at the mention of the notorious and by all accounts, fatally attractive lady. ‘Is it true, Jack, that the child she bore is his? I believe that she was actually back in the ballroom only days after the birth. I was confined for six weeks after Robert, and a month after Donal.’

‘As to that, I’m afraid I have no idea.’

‘They say that she has not a single thought worth uttering in that flighty head of hers,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘One would have thought that a man of Wellington’s calibre would have chosen a more fitting and intelligent...’ She stuttered to a halt, flushing, seeming to recall only at the last minute that she was talking about Wellington’s mistress, and not his wife.

‘Mademoiselle Marmion, you may recall, lives in Paris,’ Jack said, bringing the conversation back around to the salient point. ‘I thought Wellington would appreciate discussing his adopted city with one of its natives.’

‘Excellent idea,’ Charlie said, rubbing his hands together. ‘The point is, my dear Eleanor, Jack must go to this dinner. There is no doubt that Wellington will be a man of huge influence when he returns to politics, as he surely must. And Jack, you know, must look to his future. He cannot afford to be turning such an invitation down, and it is too short notice to invite another lady to accompany him. Mademoiselle Marmion offers the perfect solution to the problem. It is settled then.’

Charlie beamed. Eleanor smiled frigidly. Celeste looked down at her plate of bread and butter, biting her lip. Mission accomplished! Picking up his fork, Jack cut into an egg and took a bite. It was cold, but surprisingly good. He cut another piece.

Celeste made an excellent accomplice. He’d spent much of the night imagining how it would have been if he had not somehow plucked the willpower to stop yesterday. He almost wished he hadn’t been so strong-minded. When he woke up, his morning swim had been a necessity for a very different reason than on any other day. Jack set down his fork. It hadn’t been that dream. He had not had that dream for—he frowned—more than a week?

‘Is something wrong, Jack?’

He turned to Eleanor, who had posed the question. ‘Not at all. I was merely contemplating having another egg,’ he said.

‘Then let me fetch it for you,’ she said.

She got hurriedly to her feet to do so, rather than summon a servant or allow him to help himself, obviously keen to encourage his returning appetite. Her concern touched him. It struck him that before he went to London, it would merely have irked him. He wondered guiltily how many other such small acts of kindness he’d misconstrued. ‘Thank you,’ he said with a smile as she handed him the plate.

Eleanor blushed. ‘You are most welcome, Jack,’ she said.

He made a point of taking a bite of egg and nodding his appreciation. ‘By the way, I brought Robert back a present from London.’

‘A present? That is exceedingly thoughtful of you. May I ask what it is?’

Eleanor’s face lit up, and Jack felt another twinge of guilt. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled at him like that. ‘It’s a box of soldiers,’ he said. ‘Actually, rather a large box. Models of the armies who fought at Waterloo. I thought he could invite his little friend from the village round later, and I’d set it out for him, just as it was. Explain how the battle unfolded, that sort of thing.’

‘Jack!’ Eleanor clapped her hands together in delight. ‘Jack, that is most—most— I must say, I am quite flabbergasted.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘Did you hear that, my love? Robert will be delighted.’

‘I am sure he will be, but—are you sure about this, Jack? I mean, you’ve been rather keen to avoid the subject, and...’

‘And now I see that it was wrong of me,’ Jack said smoothly. ‘Robert ought to understand both sides of the story. To read some of the accounts in the press, you’d think that we— Wellington had an easy triumph. In fact the victory meant all the more for our—his having such a worthy adversary in Napoleon.’

‘Well then, provided that Wellington still triumphs,’ Charlie said with a rumble of laugher. ‘Indeed, Jack, that is most— You won’t mind if I sit in? I’d be fascinated to hear your thoughts for myself.’

‘Not at all.’

‘I must go and tell Robert at once,’ Eleanor said. ‘Will two o’clock suit you? He will be—Charles, my love, come with me. We should both be there when he hears the exciting news. You will excuse us.’

Jack finished his egg. Celeste poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Mission accomplished?’ she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.

He laughed at her choosing his own words. ‘I think so.’

‘And these toy soldiers, would they happen to be another test?’

Jack pushed his chair back. ‘Sometimes the trouble with a beautiful, clever and talented woman is that she is rather too perceptive. I must go, I have a battleground to prepare.’