The Soldier's Dark Secret

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.