Lucien scrubbed a hand over his eyes, the empty arm socket, cut off at the elbow itched with the memory of movement as he longed to scrub both hands over his eyes and then dig his fingers into his temples until he drove back the dream, h.e.l.l, or reality this happened to be. Perhaps it was all three rolled into one.

She was here.

What was she doing here?

He lowered his arm to his side and frowned. And who the h.e.l.l had she wed? Lady Sherborne. Before his father had purchased his d.a.m.ned commission for the infantry, Lucien hadn't spent much time in London. He'd been so thoroughly bewitched, mind, body and soul by the mild-mannered, serenely beautiful Sara to have ever dashed off to take part in the ton's inane amus.e.m.e.nts. And as the third son, he'd been afforded certain luxuries, such as remaining in the country, while his elder brother, the heir to the Viscount Hereford had been expected to dance attendance at ton events.

His lip peeled back in an involuntary sneer. Certain luxuries. What a b.l.o.o.d.y joke. And with Eloise's reentrance into his life, she'd ushered in all the darkest memories he'd sought to bury. His aspirations for himself. His father's goals for him. And the d.a.m.ned viscount's ultimate triumph. May the blighter rot in h.e.l.l.

Lucien closed his eyes and drew in several slow, steadying breaths; a calming mechanism he'd adopted over the years when the memories became particularly hard to bear. He dug deep and sought purchase within himself to climb from the pit and back to his present.

Eloise. Lady Sherborne.

The Marchioness of Drake.

Refreshments.

Tea, yes, they required tea.

With wooden steps he strode through the house, focused on the task set out. Refreshments were easy. An ugly, mirthless chuckle worked its way up his throat. Mayhap not easy, per se, with one and a half arms, but something he now accomplished with enough ease to not rely on others for the simple ch.o.r.e.

He marched down the corridor to the kitchens. The kitchen staff looked to him. "Refreshments," he barked, his voice still gruff from ill-use.

A handful of servants hurried to ready a tray for the marchioness and her guest. Guest. Aye, it was far easier to think of the lady with wounded eyes as a mere guest and not the girl who'd fished and swam alongside him and his brother, Richard, in the Kent countryside. To remember her as she'd been, forced him to think of the day he'd accepted that d.a.m.ned commission, capitulating to his father's urgings, leaving his wife, and stepping into the European theatre masterminded by the power-hungry Boney.

A servant rushed toward the door with the tray.

"I'll see to it myself," he snapped.

The dozen or so of the kitchen staff stared at him, wide-eyed.

She hesitated and then handed it over.

They'd learned early on not to question his abilities or capabilities. He easily handled the silver tray in his steady, stable, strong, right arm and the partial left. With sure footsteps, he made his way to the door. A servant discreetly held it open and he exited the kitchens. With each step that carried him closer to Eloise, he steeled his heart, not allowing himself to think about what brought her here.

He remembered the troublesome minx she'd been as a child enough to know this was no serendipitous meeting with the marchioness. Instead, he chose to focus on this unfamiliar stranger who'd replaced the oft blushing, usually tongue-tied Eloise Gage.

She'd wed a n.o.bleman. A Lord Sherborne. He hoped the blighter was possessed of a tolerant, patient spirit. The Eloise Lucien had long known had the frequent tendency to find herself in all manner of difficulties. He strode down the corridor. And by G.o.d he did not intend to allow himself to be her latest manner of difficulty.

He paused outside the open parlor door. A quiet, husky laugh, familiar and all the more aching for that familiarity, washed over him. He clenched his eyes tightly not wanting it to matter that Eloise laughed the way she had as girl and... His mind raced. She must be twenty-seven, nay. She had a birthday two months past, the twenty-fourth of January. She would be twenty-eight now.

And he hated that he remembered that piece of her because it meant he was not as indifferent to Eloise as he cared to believe.

"...I'm so sorry," Lady Drake said softly.

His ears p.r.i.c.ked up.

"It is..." The remainder of Eloise's words escaped him.

G.o.d help him. If any of the staff spied the butler, the most distinguished member of the household staff, hovering at the door, eavesdropping like a chit just from the schoolroom, the marquess would likely sack him with good reason. But for that, he remained rooted to the spot.

"...I cannot imagine the loss..."

His gut clenched. What loss? And for the first time since he'd abandoned the more respectable, honored position as third son to a viscount, he d.a.m.ned the cla.s.s division that obscured the truth and the remainder of that thought. What had happened to Eloise? After he'd returned and discovered the death of his wife, and a child he'd only learned of on the pages of letters handed him on the battlefield, he'd retreated to London, half-dead, emaciated like a stray dog in the streets, content to die. He'd not thought of Eloise. Or...

The tray rattled in his arm. He silently cursed as the silver clattered noisily. The ladies fell silent. A dull flush climbing up his neck, Lucien stepped inside the room. "My lady," he said, his tone harsh.

Except, his employer, the benevolent Lady Emmaline Drake, had known him when he'd first found a place in London Hospital. She'd sat by his side reading to him, ignoring his surliness and had remained devoted. As a result, she gave no outward appearance of being bothered by his coa.r.s.e tone and rough, soldier's speech.

The marchioness smiled. "Thank you, Jones. If you'll set it over here."

"Jones?"

Lucien cursed and nearly upended the tray under Eloise's perplexed question.

Lady Drake motioned in his general direction. "Jones, my..."

Eloise opened her mouth, likely to correct the marchioness' error. He glowered her into silence and the words withered and died on her lips. She frowned, though the slight narrowing of her eyes indicated she had little intention of allowing the matter to rest.

He continued to glare at her. He had little intention of allowing the stubborn young lady an opportunity to ask her questions, in front of his employer no less. "Is there anything else I may get you, my lady?"

His mistress inclined her head. "No, that will be all."

With a grateful silent exhalation of air, he started for the door, when Eloise's words to Lady Drake froze him mid-step.

"I do not suppose Jones," Lucien growled, his unblinking gaze on the b.l.o.o.d.y wall in the hall. Do not say it, "mentioned we were acquainted as children." Of course, he should have known Eloise enough to know she'd never be reticent merely because he willed it. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Eloise angled her chin up. Her words were directed to the marchioness, her stare trained on him. "We were quite the best of friends."

They had been. In this, the lady spoke the truth. As a young boy he'd not really seen the usefulness in girls. Father had demanded he and Richard entertain his friend's lonely daughter, Eloise. Belligerent as any lad of seven would have been with those directives, it had taken little time for Lucien to find she was unlike any girl he'd ever known. She'd loved to spit, fish, and bait her own hooks. She'd been b.l.o.o.d.y perfect to a lad of seven.

Lady Drake looked wide-eyed between them. "Indeed?" A pleased smile lit her brown eyes. She motioned him forward. "Jones, you mustn't rush off! However did you not mention such a thing?"

"Oh, I'm sure because he is so very dedicated to his services that he'd never do something as improper as to rekindle an old friendship if it were to in anyway compromise his obligations to your household, my lady." He'd have to be as deaf as a dowager to fail to hear the stinging rebuke in her words.

He hesitated, eyeing the door with the same longing a man with an addiction to drink surely felt for a tumbler of whiskey.

"Don't you dare leave," Lady Drake admonished, a smile in her gentle command.

Lucien turned fully around. He fixed a black scowl on Eloise with a look that would have withered much taller, stronger men. She angled her chin up another notch.

"It has been so long, Emmaline." She lowered her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Do you know, I believe for a moment Mr. Jonas...Jones didn't remember me?" A forced laugh bubbled past her lips.

He frowned. When had Eloise learned the art of false laughter and brittle smiles? As much as he detested her reappearance in his life, he hated even more that innocent, grinning Eloise with that intriguing birthmark at the corner of her lip had been hardened by life. "I should return to my obligations, my lady," he said. He'd never been one to plead. But from the time the surgeon had made the decision to chop off the lower portion of his left arm, he'd not begged anyone for anything. Mayhap if he'd begged his father, begged for that position with the church instead of a d.a.m.ned commission, Sara would now live. In this moment he wanted to beg off, leave the two ladies here.

"Oh, you simply mustn't, Jones!" The faintest command underlined the marchioness' words and he silently cursed, knowing all hope of escape had been effectively ended by the bits of his past Eloise had dangled before his employer.

Eloise averted her eyes, unwilling to meet his gaze. Good, the lady should be b.l.o.o.d.y terrified. She didn't play with the same lad who'd raced across the hills of Kent. No, Eloise didn't know the man he'd become. She only remembered the man she thought she knew. The one who'd laughed and smiled and loved.

He shifted on his feet, too aware of the station difference between him and these ladies. And he hated that Eloise had reminded him he'd not always been a servant. For there was nothing disrespectful in honest, hard work. Of course, the viscount would never see it that way. He smiled. Oh, that would be the ultimate revenge upon his vile sire. "I have household business to attend to, my lady," he tried again. It was the closest he'd come to begging.

Something reflected in Lady Drake's eyes. Possessed of a kinder heart than most of the empty-headed, vain members of the ton, she saw more. She must have seen something in his expression for she inclined her head and the laughter dimmed in her eyes. "Of course, Jones."

He sketched a bow and, without a backward glance for Eloise, all but sprinted from the room, feeling the same freeing sense of relief he'd felt when he'd fled Kent after learning of Sara's death.

Chapter 4.

Eloise tried to smile. She tried to drum up suitable repartee and dialogue for the kind, warmhearted marchioness who'd been so gracious to invite her to visit when no one in Society really invited Eloise anywhere.

She tried. She really did. But failed miserably. Quite miserably. Eloise accepted the proffered cup of tea, grateful for something to hold in her slightly trembling fingers. She raised the gla.s.s of tepid brew to her lips and sipped, all the while aware of the marchioness' curious stare trained upon her. She took another sip.

"I hope you know," the marchioness began and Eloise froze, the rim of her delicate, porcelain gla.s.s pressed to her lips. "I would never dare press you for details that I don't have a right to."

The muscles of her throat worked spasmodically. She managed a nod but feared if she spoke her grat.i.tude the other woman would detect the tremor in her words.

Emmaline held up the tray of pastries. "I have a shameful weakness for cherry tarts."

Eloise clung to the offered change of discourse and set her teacup down. "Then who doesn't?" She plucked one of the confectionary treats from the tray and the other woman laid the small platter upon the marble top table.

They shared a smile and sat in companionable silence for a long while, nibbling at their respective pastries.

The marchioness was the first to break the silence. "Ours was not necessarily a chance meeting, was it?" There was no rebuke, no outraged shock in that question, sentiments the woman was ent.i.tled to.

The dessert crumbled to ash in Eloise's suddenly too-dry mouth. She choked around the bite and picked up her cup once more. She took a sip.

Emmaline waited patiently. Then, according to what she'd learned of the woman who'd been betrothed as a child and waited nearly twenty years for her intended, the returned war hero Lord Drake, to come up to scratch-she was quite adept at waiting.

Eloise sighed, humbled not for the first time. "No," she admitted, shamed by the woman's discovery. "I'm sorry." How very inadequate that apology was for this woman who'd been nothing but kind, when most members of the ton were usually nothing but coolly polite to Eloise. She flicked her gaze over to the entrance of the room, but, of course, he would not be there. Lucien had responsibilities, of which she'd never been one. At the pain of that, she tightened her fingers around her gla.s.s.

As though sensing her disquiet, Emmaline laid her fingers upon Eloise's hand and she lightened her hold upon the fragile cup. "You needn't apologize," she a.s.sured her. "Truly." She winked. "I imagine you've not coordinated a meeting with me based on nefarious purposes."

"Oh, no, indeed not. I....oh..." Heat splashed her cheeks at the teasing glimmer in Emmaline's eyes. "You are teasing."

"Yes." The other woman sat back in her seat. "As you're likely aware, there are not enough opportunities for a good teasing."

"Oh, I'm aware," she muttered under her breath. The moment she'd entered the glittering world of polite Society, she'd come to appreciate how staid, stiff, and generally unpleasant members of the peerage were, and most especially to young women like Eloise, who did not boast the most distinguished of familial connections.

"Forgive me," the marchioness murmured. "I'd pledged to not press you for answers and yet, here I am doing that very thing."

Eloise shook her head. "No, you aren't." She wrinkled her nose. Or perhaps the woman had inadvertently sought answers to questions of the man named Lucien Jonas, or as she knew him, Jones. "I didn't feel you were," she added, rea.s.suringly.

All the while she wondered with a dry humor what the pompous, always proper Viscount Hereford would say to the knowledge his son had altered his surname. That would likely be the final nail in the failing viscount's steady decline.

Which only reminded Eloise of the desperate search she'd launched for Lucien and the discovery that had led her to London Hospital. She stared down at her palms, transfixed by the crescent scar on the inner portion of the wrist, remembering the day she'd received that particular mark. Reluctantly, she raised her head. "You are correct. I..." Her cheeks burned with embarra.s.sment. "I sought you out under information I'd gleaned from a servant in your employ." She winced. Proud, powerful, n.o.ble Lucien had forsaken the life of comfort he'd known and, by the fury in his eyes at her reentry into his life, embraced this new life.

Emmaline held a hand up. "You needn't say anything more," she said quietly.

She braced for the stiff disapproval...that did not come.

The marchioness trailed a distracted finger halfway around the rim of her cup and then back again. She repeated the movement several times, her gaze directed inward. Then she paused, her index finger on the center of the rim. "Do you know how I met Mr. Jones?"

Her heart stuttered. "I do not," she said between tense lips, both craving a piece of the missing years of his young life and fearing the words the woman might impart. The crisp, clean, yet lonely, London Hospital flashed behind her eyes. The broken, sorrowful men in their beds. The muscles in her stomach tightened with thoughts of Lucien as alone and somber as the Lieutenant-Captain.

"He was a patient at London Hospital," Emmaline finally said.

She battled a momentary twinge of regret at the already known fact. Eloise cleared her throat and glanced guiltily over at the door, detesting gossip, but this was different. Wasn't it? She turned her attention to the marchioness. "What was he like?" her voice emerged a hoa.r.s.e croak. Please, say he was one of the charming, smiling sort like the soldier Emmaline had read to earlier yesterday afternoon.

A sad light lit the woman's pretty, brown eyes and the knot in Eloise's belly grew. "He was...serious. Quiet."

Her heart spasmed. Of course he had been. He'd returned from war to discover his wife and his son, a child he'd never even met, dead and gone. Eloise clenched her eyes tightly. Would he blame her if he knew the truth? Would he see she'd failed Sara and Matthew and, in doing so, failed him? How could he not?

"I do not know if you are aware of the losses he suff-"

"I am aware," she said, her voice rough with emotion. Eloise coughed into her hand. "Forgive me for interrupting."

Emmaline c.o.c.ked her head and studied her. At the marchioness' scrutiny, Eloise shifted in her seat. Only as the long-case clock ticked away the pa.s.sage of silent moments, the resolve that had driven her these past six months stirred to life with a renewed vigor. She'd known when she ultimately found Lucien and presented the truth of his father's circ.u.mstances, he'd likely flatly reject her request to return to Kent, to his family's fold. Yet, she'd believed with every fiber of her being she could ultimately convince Lucien to see his father and brothers and again know a semblance of the peace-a peace they'd had before life had shown them the cruelties of existence.

It was that resolve that allowed her to raise her head and meet Emmaline's patient stare. "It is not my place to discuss the circ.u.mstances of Lucien..." She warmed. "Mr. Jona...Jones', past. However, I have news of his family." News he'd rather likely never care about hearing. "And I would not forgive myself if I somehow failed to bring him and his family together." She knew that because she'd suffered too many losses where words had gone unfinished, pledges incomplete. Lucien might not believe he would ever move in a world with anything but anger and resentment for the father, who'd secured his commission, but the time would come...and he deserved that closure.

Emmaline touched her palm to her mouth. "Oh, my," she said softly.

Yes, the loss of her husband had shown Eloise that there were never adequate words to capture an appropriate level of sympathy for death and impending death. Eloise longed to share the burden she'd carried these many years, but had been alone for so long, she oft forgot how to speak freely, and unfortunately with marriage to Colin, she'd been thrust into a society that did not value or welcome those honest, unfiltered words.

So, the secrets she'd carried, the same ones that haunted her dreams and days, remained firmly buried beneath the surface seen by none, suffered only by her.

"Whatever you or..." Emmaline looked to the door. "Mr. Jones may require, you need but ask."

It was a gracious, sincere offer from an equally sincere woman. "Thank you," she said. Though she could not impose upon the woman's kindness more than she'd already done. Any other n.o.blewoman would have had her tossed out for her clear orchestration of a meeting with their lead servant. Eloise finished her tea and set the cup down on the table. She came to her feet.

Emmaline immediately followed suit. "You must promise to visit again." A mischievous sparkle reflected in her eyes.

Eloise widened her eyes with a sudden understanding. And for a moment, the two practically strangers, forged a bond as two ladies who according to what she'd gleaned from the gossip columns, both had known a similar unrequited regard. She gave a slight nod. "Thank you." She paused. "For everything."

Emmaline inclined her head and with a final smile, Eloise started for the door and then froze. She spun back around.

A question reflected in Emmaline's eyes.

"It...I...my visit to the hospital, it was not solely about..." She flushed. "Arranging a meeting with you." She'd needed to see the place Lucien had called home for too long. She'd needed to know about his life after war and Sara and Matthew. And she'd hated the glimpse she'd had into his world. All those words went unspoken.

"I know," Emmaline said simply. She crossed over and rang the bell. "I could tell that with a single glance of you at London Hospital."

Eloise wrinkled her brow. "How-?" The words on her lips died as Lucien appeared.