The Soldier's Dark Secret

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.

* * *