LITMIR.BIZ

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chair. Well, Tony, despite the carnage of war, you made it home, he thought. No longer a captain, but once again Viscount Nelthorpe—whoever the hell that is.

      Certainly not the self-absorbed, vain aristocrat so confident of his position in the world who’d left this house one drink-hazed night three years ago. Having lost more gaming than he could borrow to repay, he’d staggered home to ask his father for a loan. When that gentleman consigned him to the devil, with the threat of debtor’s prison hanging over him, he’d had little choice but to leave his debts of honor unpaid and flee England, taking with him only the clothes on his back, his horses, and a commission in Wellington’s Fighting Fifth Infantry—won in a card game.

      Nothing like privation, terror, hunger and pain to give one a fresh perspective, he observed wryly.

      Though he wasn’t sure yet what he was going to do with that hard-won wisdom. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom within the curtain-shrouded room, he noted the library was as dusty and unkempt as the hallway. Lord knows, he thought, puckering his brow in distaste, there was work enough to be done here.

      A knock interrupted his reflections, followed by the entry of Carstairs. The butler carried a tray from which emanated such appealing odors that, for the moment, Tony forgot everything except that he’d not eaten since last night. Fool that he was, he’d thought to reach London before nightfall despite the slower pace necessitated by his recovering knee. Darkness having overtaken him on the road, he’d been forced to engage a room for the night and had not had cash enough to pay for his accommodations, dinner and breakfast, too.

      Grimacing, Carstairs balanced the tray while he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and hastily wiped clean a spot on the desktop. “Begging your pardon for the conditions, Master Tony, but last winter his lordship let go all the servants but me, Betsy and one parlor maid—a good girl, but she can’t manage all alone. Betsy’s as fine a cook as ever, though, so you needn’t be worrying about your dinner. She sends along her welcome, too.”

      As he spoke, Carstairs removed the cover on the dish, sending Tony a drool-inducing waft of beef-scented air. “Tell Betsy that, after what the army ate—or more often, didn’t eat—in the Peninsula, she could give me no finer welcome home than this! As for the estate—I know you have done your best. I mean to do something about…conditions.” Though heaven knew what, as he was nearly as pockets-to-let now as the night he’d run away.

      But instead of returning the skeptical lift of brow a Nelthorpe’s promise of improvement should merit, the old man’s face brightened. “We know if anyone can turn it around, you will, Master Tony. After all, you be one of the Heroes of Waterloo!” After giving him a deep bow, as if he deserved the highest respect, the butler left.

      Hero? he thought as he gazed after Carstairs with a self-mocking curl of his lip. If you only knew.

      But surviving such a battle made one practical as well as philosophic. No sense letting the bleak memories spoil what appeared to be an excellent breakfast and some fine English ale. He’d wait until after he tucked into it to begin pondering his future.

      Somehow he hadn’t thought beyond the driving imperative to return home. After years of giving and taking orders in the army, followed by the day-by-day struggle to recover from his wounds, he found it disconcerting rather than relaxing to admit he had no plans whatever.

      He must talk with Papa and determine just how grim their financial condition was—though judging from what he’d already seen, that looked to be grim indeed. Given the scene he’d happened upon as he arrived, any such conference would have to wait until this afternoon at the earliest.

      With the ease of long practice, he submerged the sense of hurt that, despite having sent a letter informing his sire of his imminent arrival, his father hadn’t bothered to remain sober long enough to personally greet the son he’d not seen in three years. So, what to do next?

      He could write to tell Mama that he was back, but as she’d not corresponded with him in all the months he’d been away, he wasn’t sure at which of Papa’s remaining estates the countess currently resided. Probably the one with the handsomest footmen, he thought sardonically.

      He’d ride to the park, he decided. The exercise of the knee muscles required for riding was beneficial, the doctors had told him, and paradoxically seemed to ease rather than aggravate the aching, as long as he didn’t keep at it too long. And though this late morning hour was still unfashionably early for anyone in the ton to be about, he might spy an acquaintance with whom to share a drink at White’s—where, he presumed, he was still a member.

      His spirits lifted as soon as he’d climbed awkwardly into the saddle. The army must have changed him more than he knew if an excursion into the lingering smoke haze of a chilly London morning had more appeal than remaining in a cozy, if admittedly dusty, library with a snug fire.

      Pax, the gray gelding given him by a grateful fellow officer whose life he’d saved at Quatre Bras, was proving an easy, even-gaited mount, though he lacked the spirit most cavalry officers preferred in a mount. But if God had any mercy to spare for the battered carcass of one Anthony Nelthorpe, he thought with a shudder, he’d never again have need of a good cavalry horse.

      As he rode down Upper Brook Street toward Hyde Park, a tepid sun began to break through the remaining haze. A happy omen for his return, perhaps.

      Then he saw her—a slender lady mounted on a showy chestnut mare. Having watched her on innumerable marches from Badajoz through Toulouse, he recognized her immediately, though he was half a street away.

      For a moment he halted, admiring as always her erect carriage and perfect form. Even on a sidesaddle, she rode as one with her horse, as if she naturally belonged there. Which, having spent the greater part of her life in the saddle, he supposed Jenna Montague did. Lovely Jenna—unattainable, unapproachable, his first colonel’s daughter and the woman he’d once tried to coerce into marriage.

      Except for when she found him on the field after Waterloo, Tony hadn’t seen Jenna, now Lady Fairchild, up close since their ill-fated encounter at the abandoned monastery outside Badajoz. His fingers reached automatically to touch his throat, where beneath his cravat, he still bore the scar from the knife wound she’d inflicted while successfully resisting his misguided attempt at seduction.

      The mark she’d left on his mind and heart had proved just as indelible.

      As always, though he felt immediately drawn to her, he hesitated. Then he remembered that the man she chose to marry instead no longer stood watch, his steely gaze promising dire retribution if Tony dared to so much as approach his wife. Colonel Garrett Fairchild had died of wounds sustained at Mont St. Jean.

      However, given that he’d nearly ruined her reputation, tricking her into meeting him without a chaperone at that deserted rendezvous, should he try to hail her, he’d probably receive at best a cold nod, at worst, the cut direct.

      Which would it be? he wondered. Before he could decide whether or not to try his luck, she pulled up her horse before a handsome townhouse and handed over the reins to a waiting servant. No chance now of reaching her before she slipped inside—once more beyond his reach.

      He watched until she’d ascended the stairs and disappeared into the entry. How differently might his life have turned out, had he secured her hand nearly three years ago? Her hand, the enjoyment of the curves concealed beneath her pelisse—and the rich dowry that would have allowed him to pay off his debts, abandon his nascent army career and return to comfortable decadence in London?

      Instead he’d spent the following two years sleeping on the ground or in vermin-infested billets and foraging for provisions, his mind and heart branded with the searing iron of a dozen successive battles. Nightmarish vistas of smoke-obscured chaos, the smell of hot gun barrels and fresh blood, the screams of dying men and horses amid the din of rifle and artillery, haunted him still.

      But over those years he’d also witnessed countless episodes of selflessness and self-sacrifice. He no longer believed, as his father had preached, that honor was a concept for schoolboys and fools. And he himself was no doubt a better man for having

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