The Soldier's Dark Secret

‘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.

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.