The Soldier's Dark Secret

Chapter Ten

Four days later, Celeste gazed out of the window of her guest bedchamber at Hunter’s Reach, the country estate in neighbouring Surrey where Wellington was hosting his dinner—although in actual fact it was Lord and Lady Elmsford, the owners of the house, who were the nominal hosts.

The house had been constructed during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, built in the classic ‘E’ shape which was a common tribute to the Virgin Queen. Celeste’s room was on the third floor on the north wing of the house, facing towards a long sweep of carriageway. Jack had been clearly on edge when they arrived a few hours ago, as much on her behalf as his, but she had managed to reassure him that she was more than capable of playing her part. Though as Celeste watched the stream of carriages arriving, she felt less certain with every passing minute.

Moving restlessly to the mirror, she studied her reflection critically. Her evening dress was of white silk, the overdress gauze woven with sky-blue leaves of flossed silk, trimmed with net and satin. She had had it made in Paris on a whim a month after her mother died, a fruitless attempt to console herself with something utterly frivolous which she would never have the opportunity to wear. She had no idea what impulse had made her bring it with her to England, but she was vastly relieved that she had. Her long evening gloves were also new, as were the sky-blue slippers which matched her gown. Her fingers went automatically to the locket, glittering at her throat. ‘I wish I had you here to advise me, Maman,’ she whispered. ‘You would know all the protocols regarding how deep I should curtsy to each rank of attendee.’

She had refused her host’s offer of a lady’s maid, never having had one, and kept her coiffure simple, in a topknot held by a ribbon to match her gown, with a few artful curls. Now, peering nervously at the result, Celeste worried that it was overly simple for such a grand occasion. She had no shawl, and could only hope that the throng of guests would warm the cavernous rooms downstairs. Another thing she could not understand about the English, the way they made a virtue of the cold. Staring at the empty grate in her bedchamber, she wondered if there was some unwritten rule that fires were not to be lit until the first snowfall.

A discreet tap on the door startled her. ‘Jack. Thank goodness. I was not sure if I was expected to make my way down myself. Sacré bleu!’

He was wearing the tight red military dress uniform with its high, gold-braided collar. His jaw was clean-shaven, tanned against the gleaming white of his starched shirt and neatly tied cravat, just visible beneath the coat. His hair was swept back from his brow. The gold braid ran in a broad line down the front of his uniform, which fitted snuggly at his waist, where a heavy gold sash was tied. More gold braid on his cuffs, and more on the short tails of the coat, made him look quite magnificent. White gloves, white, very tight breeches, and boots polished so highly that they could have acted as a mirror. ‘You look exactly like your portrait!’

‘I seem to remember you thought I looked like a pompous ass.’

‘You said that. I said you looked like a Greek god, peering down on us mere mortals.’ Her smile faded a little as she studied his face. ‘I know as your aide-de-camp I am to be all stiff upper lip, but am I permitted to ask how you feel in uniform?’

‘Damned uncomfortable.’ Jack coloured. ‘Fine. Odd. I feel like an imposter. But fine. This is my dress uniform. I never— The only bad memories it has are of dinners such as this one, with too many egos recounting their own particular tales of bravery, and far too many toasts.’ He bowed low over her hand, brushing his lips to her glove. ‘I have been remiss. Mademoiselle Marmion, may I say that you look utterly radiant.’

‘Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain, may I say in return that you look exceedingly dashing.’

He smiled faintly, tucking her hand into his arm and making for the stairs. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘Not at all.’ Jack raised his brow. ‘Only a little. Mostly of Wellington. Will he look down that famous nose at me because I am French? Then there is your English politics. I can’t tell the difference between a Tory and a Wig.’

‘Whig. Frankly, neither can they,’ Jack said drily. He led her to a first-floor balcony which overlooked the Great Hall. ‘You have nothing to worry about, you know. They are just people.’

Celeste gripped the wooden banister, peering down at the glittering crowd through the huge iron light-fitting, shaped like a carriage wheel, which was suspended from the ceiling. ‘People with titles, dripping in jewels, who talk as if they own the land.’

Jack laughed. ‘That’s because many of them do. Where is your Revolutionary spirit?’

‘Beheaded,’ Celeste said, her eyes fixed on the crowd. Most of the men were in red, a positive battalion of senior British military personnel. If it was daunting for her it would be even more so for Jack, who was doing this for her. She waved her hand at the swarm of Redcoats beneath. ‘Do you know all of these officers?’

‘Most of them.’

She studied his face anxiously, torn between awed admiration at his courage, and concern lest he fail this challenge he had set himself. Was he really prepared for this? No matter, this was not the time for doubts or questions. Jack wanted his aide-de-camp to watch his back, not cower like a frightened rabbit. She stiffened her shoulders, preparing to do battle. ‘Allons, mon colonel,’ she said, tucking her hand into his arm. ‘I won’t let you down. And if I do make some terrible gaffe, you can blame it on the fact that I am French, since I am sure that is what everyone will be thinking in any case.’

* * *

The Duke of Wellington was receiving his guests at the foot of the stairs. He had the aloof carriage and expression of a man who at the same time disdained and expected reverence. He was immaculately dressed, his scarlet coat giving the appearance of having been moulded to his fine shoulders. The famous nose was not nearly so hooked as the caricatures portrayed, Celeste noted, though his eyes were every bit as hooded. And every bit as observant. The mouth was unexpectedly sensual. As he treated the woman in the queue in front of them to a charming smile, Celeste understood why his Grace had his pick of the ladies.

‘Trestain. You are looking well. Regimentals suit you.’

Jack, Celeste noticed, instinctively straightened his shoulders as if he were being inspected which, she supposed, he was. ‘Your Grace. May I introduce Mademoiselle Marmion.’

‘A pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ the great man said, bowing over her hand. ‘I understand that you are an artist. If your paintings are as pretty as you then I am sure you are much in demand.’

Flustered, Celeste nodded, casting an enquiring look at Jack, but he looked just as surprised as she.

‘You must not think that because I no longer have you in my service, that I am entirely bereft of spies to gather the latest intelligence on you, despite the exceedingly short notice the Scots Upstart provided me with,’ Wellington said to Jack with a diffident smile. ‘I confess, I was surprised to hear that you had been tempted out of hibernation. It gives me some hope that we may yet tempt you back into harness.’

Wellington turned to Lord and Lady Elmsford. ‘You will know Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain as my code-breaker,’ he said.

‘It is an honour, sir,’ his lordship said, ‘I believe your work has been invaluable to his Grace. He tells me you are much missed.’

Jack’s smile was tight. ‘No one is irreplaceable,’ he said. ‘His Grace excepted, naturally.’

The Duke of Wellington smiled thinly at this sally, though Celeste suspected he was of the opinion that it was true. The man had an ego the size of France. He was also, she reminded herself, a master strategist, and he clearly wanted Jack to return to his service. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that the Duke, if he did grant Jack access to Arthur Derwent’s file, would expect to be paid in kind. Surely Jack was not contemplating a return to the army?

‘A code-breaker! I am very fond of acrostics myself,’ Lady Elmsford was saying to Jack, ‘though no doubt you find such puzzles embarrassingly simple.’

‘You would be surprised to know how many codes are based on similar principles,’ he replied. ‘Unless you wish his Grace to try to recruit you too, I would keep that talent under your hat.’

* * *

Jack had not expected quite so many of his fellow officers to be here. He ought to have checked the guest list with Finlay, but then, if he had, there was a chance it would have discouraged him. Now, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with familiar faces, he was not precisely glad he was here, but he would be when it was over.

Celeste’s grip on his arm was like a vice. His aide-de-camp was much more nervous than she was letting on. In this rather daunting gathering, she was no seasoned trouper, but more akin to a young ensign bravely carrying the colours. He smiled down at her reassuringly, feeling his own spirits rise. He had not had his nightmare since returning from London. He had worked his way through the entire battle of Waterloo, skirmish by skirmish, in the presence of two small boys and his brother, without faltering once. Now here he was, in his regimentals, engaging in reminiscent chat on that same subject, and his palms were not even sweating.

One of the late Lieutenant-General Picton’s men was recounting, for Celeste’s benefit, the legend of the Frenchman, dressed as a English Hussar officer, who descended on a British-occupied village, pretending to be on an information-gathering mission from Lord Uxbridge. She was hanging on his every word, her eyes wide, like a child being told a fairy story. Jack had heard these stories so often, they had ceased to mean anything to him, but now he listened afresh, it really was amusing, for the French spy had been so convincing, he’d actually managed to order the British soldiers about, though he disappeared in jig time when their commanding officer turned up.

Waterloo made its appearance as he had expected, in several more conversations, but each time Jack tensed a little less. Not even four months ago, the battle had taken place, but it seemed a great deal more distant. Listening to the men who had been his friends and comrades for so many years, he felt a detachment he had not expected. Their world was no longer his.

A wave of sadness for what he had lost threatened to envelop him. He reminded himself that it was not lost but voluntarily surrendered. A sharp nip on his arm made him look down at Celeste. The eloquent look she drew him made it obvious that she was in dire need of rescue. The lascivious look on the face of the guards captain entertaining her with tales of his own heroism made it clear what she needed rescuing from. He was not the first to seem smitten with her. Jack hadn’t exactly forgotten how beautiful she was, but he’d forgotten the impact she made when first encountered. Until now, Celeste herself had seemed oblivious of the admiring glances, raised quizzing glasses and downright leers. Or perhaps she was accustomed to it? Jack slipped his hand around her waist and drew her in to his side. She smiled up at him and slipped her hand back through his arm.

* * *

The dining room at Hunter’s Reach was like a very much larger version of the one in Trestain Manor, with exposed oak timbers and extensive panelling. To Celeste’s relief, Jack was seated next to her at dinner. Aside from that one moment when she’d had to pinch him, he seemed to be handling the occasion effortlessly. It had been strange, seeing him mingle with those other soldiers. There was no doubting that he was one of them. She had learned more in the last two hours about his life in the army than he had told her in— Was it really less than six weeks since they had first met? The respect and admiration he drew from his fellow officers did not surprise her, but the awe in which a number of them held him did. They spoke of him as if he were a magician, recounted some of his successes as if they were achieved by a form of sorcery. She had thought Sir Charles’s claim that Jack was famous had been born from brotherly affection, but it seemed even Sir Charles had no idea of the extent of Jack’s abilities.

It struck her afresh how much he had given up when he resigned his commission. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing? The test, as he called it, began to make more sense now. Despite having insisted that his soldiering days were over, perhaps he was still hankering for them after all. He had sounded completely convincing, but that could be because he was trying very hard to persuade himself.

In the company of these senior militia men gathered round the huge table, Jack was a changed character. More intimidating, in a way. She looked at him, chatting smilingly with the overly forward and overly endowed woman on his right. He certainly looked relaxed and in control but she couldn’t help remembering what he’d said about putting on a front to go into battle.

As the first course was carried in by a small battalion of footmen, Celeste dragged her eyes and her thoughts away from Jack to the man seated on her left, one of the few in the room not wearing a red tunic. He needed little encouragement to talk about himself and the pivotal role he had played in the introduction of something called the Corn Laws which seemed, confusingly, to have very little to do with bread. When Celeste finally managed to complete a sentence without interruption, the man declared he hadn’t realised she was a Frenchie, and embarked upon a description of his recent pilgrimage to the Devon coast to view HMS Bellerophon, in which Napoleon was being conveyed to exile on Elba. He seemed to think that Celeste was personally acquainted with the Emperor, and consequently was inclined to take umbrage on behalf of the entire English nation.

The arrival of the next course was the signal for all heads to turn almost as one. Celeste bit back a smile. All heads save one, that was. The woman on Jack’s right was still talking. She could not see his face, but the woman was quite unmistakably casting lures. That she was beautiful could not be denied, with blue-black hair almost the colour of Jack’s own, huge blue eyes, and an expanse of creamy skin on display. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her hands also. The pink tip of her tongue kept touching the plump indentation in the centre of her upper lip in a brazen gesture of seduction. Even as Celeste watched, she managed to lean over, display her bounteous cleavage, whisper something in Jack’s ear and drop her napkin on to his lap at the same time.

Celeste committed the cardinal sin of leaning across Jack’s arm. ‘You will excuse me, Madam, but I have something most particular to say to Monsieur Trestain.’

‘That was rude,’ Jack said, though he was smiling.

‘No doubt you thought her very beautiful.’

‘No doubt that is what you think I thought.’

Celeste narrowed her eyes. ‘I think her gown is vulgar. The décolleté is indecent.’

‘Only a woman would say so. There is no such thing as a décolleté that is too low, as far as we men are concerned.’

‘Nor a bosom that is too full,’ Celeste replied tartly.

Jack burst out laughing. ‘I cannot believe you said that.’

‘I meant only to think it.’

He grinned. ‘You know, despite the fact that you are not parading your quite delightful bosom about like a—a houri in a sultan’s harem, you must be perfectly well aware that you, Mademoiselle Marmion, have turned every male head in this room.’

‘Though not yours,’ Celeste said before she could stop herself.

‘Oh, mine was turned the moment I first saw you on the banks of the lake.’

He meant it teasingly, but she remembered him then, as she had first seen him, naked, scything at that awkward angle through the water, and heat flooded her. ‘I could not take my eyes off you,’ she said.

‘That,’ Jack said, ‘is a feeling which is entirely mutual.’

His eyes darkened as he leaned towards her, and she moved too, as if drawn by some invisible force, only the clatter of a spoon on a glass making them leap apart, as his Grace the Duke of Wellington got to his feet and announced a toast: To England, Home and Beauty.

* * *

Jack watched impatiently as the port made a slow circuit of the table for the second time. Without Celeste by his side, he was distracted, worrying how she would fare in the company of the ladies. He had always found the endless toasts in the officers’ mess tedious, always found the need to disguise the fact he wasn’t actually emptying his glass each time tiresome, and tonight was no different, although at least when they were toasting the ladies and the king and their host and hostess and this patron and that patron, there was no opportunity for any other topic of conversation.

A final raising of glasses to the king, and to Jack’s intense relief Wellington pushed back his chair. He had managed, in the few moments between the ladies departing and the port arriving, to make his request to be granted access to Alfred Derwent’s file. Wellington had raised his eyebrows, looked as if he was going to ask the nature of Jack’s interest and then thought better of it, before consenting somewhat grudgingly to have it sent to Trestain Manor. He made it clear that the file contained highly confidential information and it was most irregular for Jack to have sight of it. The Duke then reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that having granted such a great favour, he would require Jack to repay it at a time of his choosing. What that might entail, Jack would worry about when it happened, which of a certainty it would, for the Duke always got his pound of flesh.

Celeste was not, as he had feared, sitting alone and neglected when the gentlemen left the dining room, but at the centre of a huddle of the younger wives. He stood on the periphery, listening with some amusement, for she was confiding in these most fashionable well-heeled ladies, where to shop for the best bargains in Paris. All of the places she mentioned were in unfashionable areas with which none of her listeners would be familiar. The ladies were, however, enthralled. One of them was actually writing notes down on the back of a visiting card. ‘And as to undergarments, Mademoiselle Marmion?’ a petite blonde whispered, and Jack decided it would be politic to make himself scarce.

He was standing next to a suit of armour, thinking that men in mediaeval times must have been considerably shorter than they were today, when Celeste rejoined him. ‘How you ladies do love a bargain,’ he said.

‘You were listening!’

‘I left before you shared the secrets of your undergarments.’ Jack looked sheepish. ‘That didn’t sound quite how I intended.’

Celeste blushed. ‘You should not have mentioned it at all. A lady’s undergarments are not a fit topic for a gentleman to discuss at a military dinner.’

‘Actually,’ he retorted, ‘you would be surprised at how often the subject comes up.’

‘Jack!’

‘Celeste.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘You have performed magnificently tonight. Thank you.’

‘It is I who should be thanking you.’

‘As to that, I have spoken to Wellington. He has agreed to send me Arthur Derwent’s file.’

‘Knowing his reputation, and what you have told me of the Duke, I’m sure there was a forfeit to be paid.’

‘Have I told you that you are very astute as well as beautiful?’

‘Yes. Jack, I’m being entirely serious. I would not have you compromise yourself or your principles for me. Are you contemplating going back into the army?’

‘No, but there’s no harm in letting Wellington think I am.’

‘You lied to the Duke of Wellington?’

‘Certainly not! I merely withheld the body of truth. Celeste...’

‘Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain! Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t expect to see you here. Your name wasn’t on the guest list that I saw.’

Jack’s blood ran cold as the man grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘How do you do, Carruthers. I am here in Major Urquhart’s place.’

‘Ah, Urquhart, the Jock Upstart. I do remember seeing his name. I completely missed dinner. Carriage threw a wheel on the way here, but I thought I’d best show face, keep on his Grace’s good side.’

Jack turned to Celeste. ‘May I introduce Colonel John Carruthers,’ he said. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion is— She is an artist. Painting some landscapes of my brother Charlie’s estate.’

‘Delighted,’ Carruthers said, looking at Celeste with indifference, the first man all evening to do so. He had never been much of a ladies’ man, Jack remembered. A bluff, old-school but highly respected soldier, he was the type of man who called women fillies, and no doubt rode them as hard and selfishly as he did his horses. It made him unpopular with some of the men, Jack recalled now, his callous attitude to his mounts—the equine kind, that is. Callous treatment of women now, that was deemed, ironically, to be a less heinous crime by a number of officers. One of the many things Finlay found repugnant about the mess. One of the many things Jack and Finlay agreed on.

‘...don’t you think?’

Jack started. Carruthers was looking at him expectantly.

‘Indeed, Monsieur Trestain was saying to me before dinner that he would not be surprised if the Duke became your Prime Minister,’ Celeste said, drawing him a meaningful look. ‘He will be a Tory, no? And not a Wig? I mean Whig.’

‘I heard you’d resigned,’ Carruthers said to Jack. ‘I must admit, I was surprised. Even in peace time there’s a need for a chap with your skills. Trestain here was a bit of a legend, Mademoiselle Marmion, as I expect you’ve heard a hundred times tonight.’

Sweat broke out on Jack’s back like a squall of summer rain. His hands were clammy. ‘Mademoiselle has had a surfeit of our stories this evening,’ he said. ‘More than enough.’

Carruthers nodded. ‘I’m sure. Difficult to believe though, after all these years, that we’re really at peace. Do you think it will last?’

‘Oh, I think so. Yes.’ Jack nodded furiously, relieved that Carruthers had been diverted. Now if he could just close the whole conversation down and escape. He wiped his brow surreptitiously. The room had become stiflingly hot.

‘You know, it was a bad business, that fiasco in the north of Spain.’ Carruthers’s voice broke into Jack’s thoughts, his tone sombre. ‘I haven’t seen you since that day, but I think of it often. Don’t talk about it of course. Had to be hushed up, as you know only too well.’

Jack’s heart began to race. ‘I don’t think...’

‘A rotten trick, using women and children in that way, like some sort of shield. Not the sort of tactic I could ever imagine an English army indulging in.’ Carruthers shook his head gravely.

He could see them. The huddle of women. The children clinging to their skirts. The silence. The smell. Dear God, the smell. Jack took a deep breath. Another. Another. All he had to do was get away from Carruthers. Or shut him up. ‘I don’t think this is a fit subject for Mademoiselle Marmion’s ears,’ he said. His voice seemed to boom, but either he was mistaken, or Carruthers didn’t notice.

‘No, no, you’re quite right.’

‘Good.’ More deep breaths. He wiped his brow surreptitiously. He caught Celeste eyeing him with concern, and straightened his shoulders. She pinned a smile to her face and turned her attention back to Carruthers, though she also slipped her hand on to Jack’s arm. ‘I think, if you’ll excuse us...’ Jack said.

‘You know, I’ve always wondered,’ Carruthers burst out, ‘where the devil did the enemy forces go? Your intelligence seemed so watertight. And yet they seemed to melt into the landscape. It preys on my mind, keeps me awake at night sometimes, that we didn’t capture them.’

Jack’s jaw dropped, shock abruptly dispersing the fog in his head. ‘That’s what keeps you awake at night? Our failure to capture those men? Not the slaughter of innocents?’

‘Casualties of war, Trestain, that’s what they were. Of course, I wish it hadn’t happened but—as an officer, the fact the mission failed is what pains me most.’

Jack began to tremble violently, not because he was in danger of fainting, but because he wanted to smash his fist into Carruthers’s face. He was icy cold with fury. Sweat trickled down his back. He could still see them, those huddled casualties of war, struck dumb with fear. ‘Innocents,’ he said in a low growl.

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ Carruthers said. His brows snapped together. ‘Dammit, Trestain, that is the kind of loose talk that the British army will not tolerate. That is the very reason why that whole episode was—well, I should not have brought it up. I see that now.’

Jack’s fists clenched. With immense difficulty, he uncurled them. Lights danced before his eyes. He wanted to wipe that pompous, callous look off his senior officer’s face. It took him every inch of willpower to hold out his hand. ‘You will wish to talk to his Grace. He is over there, holding court. Don’t let us detain you.’

Carruthers hesitated only briefly, before giving his hand a brief shake. ‘Your servant, Mademoiselle,’ he said and departed.

* * *

Jack stood rooted to the spot. His eyes were glazed. Sweat glistened on his brow. Here, Celeste had no doubt, was the story at the root of his condition. He was glowering at Colonel Carruthers, as if he wanted to run him through with his sword. Though he was not wearing one, his hand was hovering over where, she presumed, the hilt would lie.

‘Jack.’ He stared at her as if he didn’t recognise her. ‘Jack!’ She yanked hard on his arm. ‘We should leave. Now. I am no expert on etiquette but I am sure it is poor form to attack a man—a superior officer—in the middle of a regimental dinner.’

He blinked, but her words seemed to penetrate. Celeste began to walk, keeping a firm hold on his arm, towards the first door she could find, slamming it closed behind her. Jack slumped against the wall. She gave him a shake. His eyes were blank again. ‘Jack!’ Another shake, to no avail. Muttering an apology, terrified that at any moment someone would open the door, Celeste gave Jack a hard slap across the cheek.

‘What the hell?’

‘Walk. Now.’ Celeste grabbed his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. ‘We have to get you to your room. Do you understand?’

He blinked. He nodded. Then he began to walk, heading down the long corridor at a pace so fast she had to run to keep up with him. Up a set of stairs. Along another corridor, another set of stairs. She had no idea where they were going, but Jack seemed certain. Panting, she followed him until the next set of stairs opened on to a familiar corridor. His bedchamber was directly across from hers.

He threw open the door and dropped on to the bed, his head in his hands. He was shivering violently. Celeste pulled the feather quilt from the bed and wrapped it around him. ‘You had better go. Thank you, but you—you should go.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I cannot leave you like this.’

He clutched the quilt around him. ‘I will be much restored directly—the worst is— I will be fine.’

She touched his brow. It was soaking with sweat and icy cold. She cursed the resolutely empty fire grate. There was a box beside it. Perhaps that contained coals. She opened the box, but it was empty save for a tinderbox, which she used to light the candles on the night table.

His shivering grew more violent. The front of his shirt was soaking with sweat. ‘You need to take your coat off, Jack.’

He stared at her, his expression unnervingly calm while his body shook. ‘I can’t believe it. How can he think like that? Those women and children. So callous. Casualties of war, he called them. As if they were killed on a battlefield. Innocents! I can’t believe it.’

Celeste knelt at his feet to take off his boots and stockings.

‘I wanted to smash his face.’

‘That was very obvious.’ Celeste uncurled his fingers from the quilt and tugged him to his feet, easing him with some difficulty out of his coat with its complex fastenings. He stood motionless, neither helping nor hindering her, racked with sporadic, violent shivers. She quickly undid his cravat. His shirt was soaking with sweat. She struggled, for the fabric clung to his skin, but eventually managed to pull it over his head. Deciding against removing his breeches, she pulled back the bedcovers and ushered him into bed. He lay flat on his back, his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling.

‘The irony is, Carruthers is in the right of it. Casualties of war, that’s how the army sees them. That’s what will be written in the file that no one will ever be permitted to look at. Carruthers is right. What mattered is not the slaughter of innocent civilians, but the failure of the mission.’ He turned his face towards her, his expression pleading. ‘I was a soldier for thirteen years. You’d think it would be easy for me. I’ve told myself it was my duty to see it their way, Celeste, that I’m letting them down, that I’m not the man I thought I was, for failing in that duty, but it makes no difference. I can’t. I can’t. And if Carruthers knew the full story—but he doesn’t. No one does. No one except me.’

He struggled to sit up. Celeste pushed him back, holding him down, his torment racking her with guilt and compassion. She spoke soothingly, as one would to a child. ‘You must rest, Jack. You must try not to torment yourself like this.’

‘God knows, I’ve tried, but it refuses to go away. I dream. And I see them. Like ghosts. Living in my head.’ His fingers closed like a vice around her wrist. ‘It was my fault. The village. The women and children. I didn’t double-check my information. I didn’t validate it, cross-reference it as I always did. But they said they couldn’t wait, there was no time and because Wellington’s code-breaker was infallible they acted. Except I’m not. It was my fault, Celeste. My fault. Oh, God, all mine.’ His grip on her wrist loosened. She thought she had never seen a man look so haunted as he turned away, and a racking sob escaped him.

Overcome with pity, feeling utterly helpless, Celeste sank on to the bed beside him and curled into his back, wrapping her arms around him. His shoulders heaved. She could feel his muscles clenched tight in his efforts to control himself. She wanted to tell him it would be all right, but how on earth could she? She could not imagine what horrific images he had in his head, but the ones that Carruthers and Jack had between them managed to instil in hers were bad enough. Here was the dark secret which had scarred Jack for life. Here, laid bare for the first time were the results of that pain, the silent agonies he had kept hidden from everyone. She pressed herself closer against him, wrapped her arms more tightly around him, as if she could somehow stop him from shattering into a thousand pieces.

She pressed her mouth against the nape of his neck. His skin was burning now, where it had been icy only a few moments before. The sobs were quieting now. He was no longer shaking. She kissed him again, closing her eyes, wishing that she could give him something, anything, to ease his suffering.

He pushed the quilt back, putting his arm over hers. The muscles in his back rippled when he moved. His skin was still hot, but dry. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry.’ Jack’s voice was muffled, but it was Jack’s voice.

‘Don’t be. Please, don’t be.’ Relief brought tears to her eyes. Stupid. She had nothing to cry about. Her heart ached for him.

He pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘You saved me.’

‘No. You saved yourself.’ She gave him a little shake. ‘You were lost for a moment, Jack, but then you saved yourself. You were angry.’

‘I wanted to kill him.’

‘But you didn’t run away. You were not sick. You were in no danger of fainting. I didn’t save you, Jack, you saved yourself.’

‘But you were there. My aide-de-camp. You didn’t let me down.’

‘No, but if it were not for me, you would not have been here, Jack.’

‘I would have. I told you. For me, as well as for you. Don’t you feel guilty about that. We’ve already enough guilt between us to sink a ship.’ He kissed her fingers again. His mouth was warm. Soft. ‘Thank you.’

‘It was nothing. Please don’t. Oh, Jack, I was so—and you did it. You did it. You passed your test. Such a test. I had no idea. None. I can’t imagine— I was so worried about you—and I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You watched my back, just as I asked you to. You got me out of there in one piece. Thank you,’ he said, stroking her hair.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said as he tilted her chin up. She said absolutely nothing as his mouth descended hungrily on to hers.